The sad part of the story is that Mr Khan was later put on trial for “wilful misconduct”, a catch-all charge if ever there was one. The righteous twelve acquitted him, but he still has to face a disciplinary committee for “unprofessional conduct”. He should remind his accusers that the woman he pleasured was two years his senior and had contacted him the day before on an internet dating site. If that isn’t prompt service in response to a call for assistance I don’t know what is. I can’t understand why she wasn’t called as a character witness in his trial.
If he’s dismissed from the police force, I’m going to ask the manager of the safari camp to offer him a job in security. Quite a few of our guests are single women of a certain age, and I’m sure they’ll feel a lot safer with a man of Mr Khan’s calibre keeping his watchful eye over them. He’s clearly the sort of fellow who could cuff a baboon with one hand while massaging a woman’s neck with the other.
The affair reminds me of a joke I once played on my friend Smacker Ramrod, the circus vet. He was a carefree bachelor when I first knew him, regularly returning to his trailer with a buxom wench after a night on the town. I once asked him what he did if the alcohol in his system rendered him incapable of rousing the mamba. Smacker was too honest a chap to deny that this had ever happened.
“It doesn’t matter that much because I’m always up for it after a decent sleep,” he explained. “I never get a hangover and I’m a real broom-handle in the morning.”
I grinned at this revelation. The next time he entertained a woman, I got up at daybreak and sat patiently outside his trailer with my ears wide open. Presently, I heard a stirring and a shuffling, shortly followed by a sighing and a mewing. Without further ado, I rapped firmly on the door.
“Are you awake, Smacker?” I cried.
He grunted and cursed before responding to my inquiry. “What the hell do you want GB?” he barked gruffly.
“I heard some strange noises, Smacker. What ever are you doing in there?”
“Right now, I’m losing my erection!” he snapped, an admission which caused his female companion to titter.
“Well don’t ask me to help you find it!” I quipped.
I strolled away sniggering with his profane reproaches ringing in my ears. Some humans are so tetchy first thing in the morning.
You can’t beat a coitus interruptus gag if it’s done tastefully, without unnecessary voyeurism or actual physical interference. Smacker is now a happily married man and we are separated by thousands of miles, yet thanks to the miracle of modern communications we can talk at the touch of a button. I live in hope of making his mobile phone ring when he’s humping his good lady. I believe the ringtone is Colonel Bogey.
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