The Trouble with Deliverys

My hands were clamped to what Alex calls my ‘sit-spot’. I absolutely hate that expression.  It’s way too twee - why can’t the man talk properly?  I’m going to forbid him to watch so much TV, smacks of Americanism, oh God; I didn’t really say that, did I? 

Anyway I suppose ‘sit spot’ does just about sum it up, doesn’t it?  What else can you call it - “The bit of bum that you sit on and takes all your body’s weight when doing so” or “The bit of bum that bloody hurts when you’ve just been spanked by an overenthusiastic bully who doesn’t know his own strength”. 

I think they’re a bit too long really, don’t you?  Can’t see myself pleading with Alex “Please, not on the bit of bum that I have to sit on and etc., etc.” while I’m splayed over his lap.   I mean by the time I get through saying it, he will have finished and I would have wasted all that breath that would be better spent howling . . . not to mention crying.

I was suddenly struck by the absurdity of my train of thought, but then what else do you expect other than drivel when I was jumping up and down like a demented hop-scotcher with my crown jewels flapping about.  Talk about totally embarrassing.  I normally like my crown jewels under a bit more protection and tended to get them out only when I was convinced that the audience in question was willing to show them the appropriate amount of due care, appreciation and reverence.  They weren’t for the hoi-polloi you know.  It takes a certain sort of person to appreciate the finer things in life and that includes my manhood.

What I didn’t appreciate very much was them getting yanked out into the open as my pants took a quick trip south and then having them plastered against one very muscular thigh and from then onwards, ignored. 

Mind you, ignored wasn’t bad, better than the sort of attention that Alex seems keen to pay me when my pants are down, not all the time of course, sometimes the pants-down attention is well ... I think mind-blowing is the only phrase that fits.  Yes, definitely something to do with blowing. 

When he gets that gleam in his eye and ogles me with the air of a man in the Sahara Desert being offered an ice cold Heineken, when he then growls ‘Get those trousers off unless you want teeth marks all over them’, well ... you wouldn’t expect me to deny relief to a man with a raging thirst, now would you?  No. 1 Good Samaritan, that’s me!  And No. 2001 Good Samaritan, him!  Way down on the list he is for acts of kindness. 

Well, not really, I suppose, his kindness abounds with other people, it’s just some personal vendetta he’s got against my backside.  As if it’s my backside’s fault that my brain doesn’t always come up to standard!  He says that he can’t always get to my brain, that sometimes he isn’t really sure where to start looking anyway - I’m almost convinced he’s joking when he says this, he certainly laughed at the time - so he’s invented a system that he refers to as Brain’s Mailbox. 

He likens it to my mobile phone; if my brain is not turned on or is out of range then he leaves a message on its Mailbox, namely my bum, and hopes that Brain will pick it up whenever it comes back from wherever it had sneaked off to.   I must admit I think he’s got a point. 

I know that the nerves in the body run all over the place – did you know that if you press on the inside of your big toe, just where the nail parts company with the flesh, you will break out in a sweat and get all warm as though you are in a sauna, you can’t help it apparently – but what I didn’t know was that there is a previously unheard of line running from your bum to your brain.  Trouble is it’s a one way system, north bound traffic only according to Alex, which is a total lie, because whenever he leaves a message, and it’s always a bloody lengthy one, my brain always happens to be further south than my bum. 

I can almost hear you asking what had I done.  Well, the answer is nothing, no, honestly, I did NOTHING, and I told him that.  The minute he walked in the door, went to the kitchen, came back into the living room and said ‘Well?’ 

Yes, I know he could have meant ‘Well, how are you?’ or ‘Well, don’t you look sexy tonight!’ - which I normally do by the way.  It was the sardonic lift of the eyebrow teamed with that one word that set my survival instants on red alert and made me almost scream, 'I haven’t done anything!”  He started muttering about that being the problem, which I must admit I didn’t really understand at first. 

How can doing nothing be a problem? Of course, me, being me, had to go and actually ask that, sarky tone included, which never goes down well now I think about it.  Apparently doing nothing is not a problem, unless it’s as opposed to not doing something.  Oh Shit! - the chicken! 

Yes, I did buy a fresh chicken this morning, as asked, and yes, I did bring it straight home without stopping to pass GO or collect £200, and no, I DID NOT take it off the back seat of the car and put it in the fridge where it would have had a far better time than sitting roasting under the sun all day.  And you can’t possibly know how much restraint it took to not make a comment about it already being roasted, so what was the problem. 

I think he knew though, somehow he saw the thought flash through my brain - I think I shouldn’t have giggled.  Giggling and unspanked bottoms don’t seem to go together in our house. 

I’ve told him that I’m sure I can make a solid case for the European Courts on this; people shouldn’t be spanked for giggling.   He claims that giggling had nothing to do with it, and if I want to take it to court, fine, as evidence for the defense he was going to present our car in which the smell of chicken mingles nicely with the smell of prawns that is still noticeable from when I did exactly the same thing 3 weeks ago.  He thinks he’s so funny at times!

And I didn’t see the humour in his comment about giblets either as he stood watching me flap about, that sort of thing is uncalled for.  So is telling me that we are now going to have fish tonight instead of chicken, he knows I don’t like fish at the best of times, and at this moment in time I need comfort food, preferably preceded by a comfort cuddle and followed by comfort sex. 

What I don’t need is something that is going to look at me glassily; I get enough of that from His Nibs.  Of course, Alex says fish is good for the brain so he’s only trying to help me avoid any more MailBox messages, says sometimes one has to be being cruel to be kind.  Ha Bloody Ha! 

I’m still not moving him up on the Good Samaritan list and, yes, thank you very much, I can hear him laughing; don’t worry, I’ll get him back.