The manager of the safari camp has been giving me dirty looks, and frankly I don’t blame him. A month ago, I gave his wife a book for her birthday called The Sexy Book of Sexy Sex. I like books with hard-hitting titles that don’t beat around the bush. Hopefully, they’ll follow it up with The Horny Book of Horny Horns and The Fruity Book of Fruity Fruits. Don’t tell me you wouldn’t thumb through them if you saw them in a bookshop.
After his wife tore off the gift wrapping, the manager grinned slyly and gave me the thumbs-up sign. He obviously thought the book was an X-rated sex manual that would encourage his better half to experiment with cutting edge techniques. For the rest of the day, his face had the smirk of a man who expects edible ointments to be licked off his private parts. A grave disappointment awaited him, because that’s not what the book is about.
It was co-written by a couple who believe that having good sex depends on verbal communication – before, after and during the lunging and writhing. Having found their argument persuasive, the manager’s wife now insists on briefing her husband before letting him off the leash, and giving him instructions while he’s chasing and retrieving the bone (so to speak). Worst of all, as far as the manager is concerned, is a section of the book which emphasizes the importance of laughter during love-making. In the words of co-author Rich Blomquist:
“If you’re not laughing when you’re having sex, you’re probably not having sex.”
The manager’s wife has taken this uncompromising doctrine to heart, afflicting her hapless husband with feelings of utter consternation. I know all of this because he has not shirked from updating me on his bedroom misfortunes. Indeed, he holds me personally responsible for them.
“What the hell am I supposed to do?” he complained. “Tell her jokes while I’m sucking her tits?”
“You could always try tickling her,” I suggested.
“She hates that!” he snapped. “I stroked her foot once and she kicked me in the face. It’s all your fault for giving her that stupid book! I ought to sue you for sabotaging my marriage!”
“Now, now,” I replied. “I can’t read every book from cover to cover before giving it as a present. I naturally assumed from the title that it would instruct your good lady in some of the manoeuvres you’ve been watching on the satellite porn channel.”
“Well it hasn’t!” he barked. “She was perfectly happy before she read that crap. Now she thinks our sex life is lousy and I’m no good in bed. What am I supposed to do?”
I had no good answer to this question, but felt I ought to offer some hope.
“Women are fickle and prone to fads,” I said. “Eventually, she will tire of these avant-garde ideas and allow the book to gather dust on your bookshelf. She will then rediscover her appetite for the strong-but-silent style of copulation that is your forte.”
“And what am I supposed to do in the meantime?” he asked.
“Endeavour to persevere, manager.” I declared solemnly. “Endeavour to persevere.”
If worst comes to worst, I’ll find him a good divorce lawyer.
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