Women make life complicated………. (But don’t tell them we love kinda them for it) :o)

I wrote this a while ago………. Took it out of an email I was writing at the time, and made it stand up on it’s own. Go on……… tell me I’m wrong. :o)

Women make it complicated

That’s the one thing that worries me about getting the love of my life………. women have a gift for making things real complicated……… for example, you fancy something to eat, and they start insisting you heat your beans in a saucepan, transfer them to a clean plate, add lettuce, cabbage, cucumber and stuff like that, and lord knows what else. Most of it has to be bloody opened / peeled / washed/ cracked / prised / sliced / diced / grated / mashed / tossed / whipped / stirred / folded / buttered / oiled/ fried/ boiled/ blanched/ grilled and heated in many other weird ways, and in several other saucepans, casserole dishes, you-name-it, too.

Then you gotta make up some gravy / sauces / dressings and things called ‘garnishes’; I ask you, what’s a bleddy garnish? All this makes a helluva mess, and so then you’ve gotta wipe up all the clutter, clean the damn chopping board(s) (just the one will never do!), and all the stuff you used to mutilate, sorry ‘prepare’ the food.

Even though you’ve been up to your elbows in soap and water for half the day, you have to wash your hands for the tenth time, get out knives / forks / spoons / chopsticks and other things you never knew existed before you met her, and lay the damn table, using a nice white Irish linen cloth. That’s the one that has to be washed every time you as much as look at it, and not to mention ironed as well afterwards.

I mean…… IRONING a table cloth??? Jees!

Then, because it’s now fast becoming a ‘romantic’ meal, when you thought it was just ‘fancy something to eat’ you gotta turn the telly off, find the candles, fix them in the holder, and light the soddin’ things. Bugger, burnt your fingers. Now you gotta run your hand under the cold tap, and suffer the indignity of being told you’re “such a baby” into the bargain, and not to make a fuss ‘cos it can’t hurt THAT much, (It bleddy well DID!) as she holds your hand under the tap with all the grip of a hairy-assed Sumo wrestler. Strength mysteriously absent when she didn’t have the strength to carry the four-tons of shopping she made you bloody buy yesterday, and on your day off too.

Then you gotta dry your hand in a clean towel, get told off for getting garage grease and stuff under your nails, then get a real bollicking for being vulgar, when you nuzzle up close to her scented long neck and suggest to her that dipping them in some fresh, warm, Pussy Juice would get it off it real easy. Her sensitivity is pretty rich considering she spent half of last night with her legs over your shoulders, shouting “FUCK ME!! FUCK ME!!” to the neighbours.

There were you, thinking that it was what you were doing all along, surprised and dismayed that she hadn’t noticed you were doing your bloody best! She shouted “DON’T STOP, DON’T STOP!”, so you’d tried to get a few more revs up, without falling out and missing a stroke, despite the cramp in your left calf and splitting a couple of toenails scrabbling for some grip with the other leg on the damn slippery black silk sheets. The ones she suggestively mentioned would be soooo sexy. The ones you knew bloody well were going to be trouble the second you looked at the price tag, as you coolly flourished the plastic to impress her with your New Man Spares No Expense style.

Anyway, by the time she’s got the Burneeze cream out, and struggled with the plasters that won’t stick because of the overzealous application of the cream plastered on your fingers, everything has gone all to pot, quite literally. The gravy’s gone all weird, the stuff you opened / peeled / washed/ cracked / prised / sliced / diced / grated / mashed / tossed / whipped / stirred / folded / buttered / oiled/ fried/ boiled/ blanched/ grilled and heated in many other weird ways, and in several other saucepans/ casserole dishes/ you-name-it, has gone all to hell too, and the candles have dripped wax all over the bloody Irish linen white thing you’d been forced to spread on the table.

She’s started to knock up something else, to replace the burnt stuff, and for sure-certain you can feel a good few more laps of kitchen-based domesticity coming up. You resign yourself, and start to scrape the burnt pans, after being told not to “just-stand-there-looking-at-it-if-you-hadn’t-made-all-that-fuss-and-been-more-careful-in-the-first-place-it-wouldn’t-have-burnt”. Your helpful suggestion that maybe if you could “sort-of-just-stir-it-all-together-and-see-what-it-tastes-like, babe”, meets with a disgusted “Don’t be stupid; you can’t do that!”.

“Actually you can”, you think to yourself, but know full well that such thoughts won’t overwhelm her powerful Girl-Logic software systems, and so you strategically keep the thought secreted well away from the Brain-to-Mouth short circuit, that has dropped you right in it so often before.
At long last, after a repeat of the whole performance, you finally sit down to eat. You find yourself thinking “What a bleddy price to pay for a regular shag”, and just in time shut the thought down in blind panic, only too aware of her sensitive telepathic and intuitive skills. The ones have seen right into your thoughts so many times in the past. HOW does she do that?
Then there’s trying to see what you’re doing in the soft, dimpsy candlelight, whilst attempting to look into her eyes romantically, and not spoil it by being a wuss, and wincing at the pain of the damn fork pressing into your burnt fingers. When you see how she is looking back at you, you realise, with the fixed grin that you desperately try to warm up, that lovemaking that night is going to call on every ounce of proficiency you have at your disposal.

Too late, she’s triggered your simple and hair-triggered Primary Man Circuits. The Member for Bathpool is stirring, albeit pretty half heartedly like mortally wounded old soldier making one last effort to rise up and salute the distant call of the Bugle; loyal to a fault, and willing to fling himself into the breech one last time for Honour and Valour. You find yourself wishing, not for the first time, that you’d avoided introducing the Ferret again that morning, close thing though it was, after climbing aboard twice last night. Doesn’t she realise the damn Well isn’t bottomless? “Not really” is the obvious answer, by that look of “You’re going to be a Lucky Boy tonight!” in her Make-Sure-He-Notices furtive glances at you.

Then she goes and reaches up and does that thing with her hair. The thing she does without knowing how it leaves you helpless, and at her mercy every single time. With an inward sigh of contented resignation you smile at her, knowing she’s always going to have her way without even trying.

Still, you remembered dreaming of one day meeting a gorgeous nymphomaniac just like her, but sometimes realise it’s resulted in life being much more complicated, and an awfully long way off the simple life you once enjoyed. For instance; Getting up out of the armchair when the adverts start, opening a tin of beans, shoving a spoon into the tin, and back to sit down again before the film kicks in again.

Food.

Done in a jiffy,………..and if you lick the spoon clean, absolutely no washing up.

Simple.

Quick.

No Wucking Forries! 🙂

© Kevin Udy.

Falling for a face……………….. :o)

Man, what a Chick.

No, not a New Chick………. She was way too young for a start-off, a generation behind……… maybe thirty or so, maybe a bit younger even, I guess. Hard to say. Way too feisty for another reason, should I have needed it; but, ………oh God, ………..what a Chick.

Y’see, ……….within minutes, I’d fallen in love with her face.

(In a harmless, ‘if only’ kinda way, …..so don’t go reaching for the quill and papyrus to chastise me for being a grubby old man, ok? The day I stop appreciating beauty will be a good day to cash in my chips.)

Last night I went, very reluctantly, to a housewarming party being held by a friend. If she hadn’t convinced me she’d have been disappointed if I didn’t show up, I’d have stayed in. Staying In being the default setting for a hermit, especially one who’d already spent some of the afternoon out with his mate at a model flying club ‘airfield’.

I arrived to find she’d put a lot of effort into it, and it was in good flow by the time I arrived. She welcomed me warmly, and, as expected, I could see I was amongst many familiar faces. I switched straight into Entertain Mode, and soon had worked up to an good rap, helped by everyone bouncing the humour right back. An easy ‘audience’; all in good humour, already warmed up, mostly people I knew, and so all knowing exactly how the patter goes. How to keep me rolling once I’m moving and kind enough not to trip me up.

Anyway, someone I know there, we’ll call her Kylie….. (that’d make her laugh), had brought a friend of here along. I’ll call her Shelly……… for no good reason but that it just came to me then. Kylie soon introduced me to Shelly during my usual start-up banter with her, ………..and then Shelly started hammering her own humour up against mine, ……..and ‘hammering’ is a pretty good description.

At first I unconsciously upped my game, but soon became entertained myself by her energy and watched a natural performer work her particular slant of the art of making people laugh. She was brilliant, and bouncing all over the place with her chatter, ‘feeding’ on conversation with those around her in a way I recognised. I tangled with her, let my humour fit around her, every now and then slamming it into her, and giving her the slack to hurtle it back way harder than I ever could.

Animated, physical, using her whole body to back up her banter, and the performance she spread wide around her. I had an overwhelming impression of her being attractively feisty, impossible to tame, wild, and still running free with the energy of the youth she still held precious.

I started to notice her face, the way you do when you kinda start to ‘fall’ for someone; when you find yourself mesmerised by all that makes them attractive to you. The little movements that flashed like sparkles, gone before you know you’ve seen them, then suddenly surprised to find them held unexpectedly still for moments, as if in a pose just for you to be able to grasp and hold an image your mind.

I saw more and more of her gorgeous detail, the small bits that held her beauty, and she really was a beauty. The way her teeth shone, and moved with her mouth as she nibbled and savoured words, then suddenly threw them out on a wave of laughter. Her constant expressions rarely stopping, unless she listened to the next morsel, thoughts of how to ‘work’ them flashing behind eyes full of expression. Quiet for a time, but sifting and feeding on what was being given to her as a gift.

Her eyes, gazing into mine for moments that stopped time, and I struggled to keep that gaze from her by talking for just that bit longer. Trying ever harder and harder to make her laugh, but finding myself stumbling over the timing, the words losing their rhythm, the ‘feel’ of it sliding awy, all of which usually comes so naturally to me. Trying to watch her watching me as I was also trying to amuse all around us, and her in particular, made me dry up all the time; ……… I couldn’t watch her and perform at the same time, so I found myself choosing to just watch instead, and give her centre court.

She was going to take it anyway. God, was she ever impressive. :o)

She did that rare thing to me. She sucked the natural pace right out of me, but without intention, spite, nastiness, or trying to shut me down as some do occasionally, but just because she was so stunning and entertaining.

I just started to give way to her, letting her run with it alone, and loving every moment of being entertained. I just watched her beautiful face, the flow of her moving mouth, those beautiful teeth flashing joy at me in her constantly changing smiles, and just wondered at her pure energy.

I fell in love with her face, and I knew it was happening. I just let myself secretly revel in it, loving watching it happening to me, sensing the deceit of her youth and energy filling my aging soul…………..

Thank God for moments in life like that………..

Thankyou, …………… whoever you were.

You were magic.
K.xxx :o)