We’ve all been there. The so-called Honeymoon Period. Back when we were naïve – last Thursday, for some of us – and we thought that the fairer sex was a soft, gentle, loving species who would promote us mere men from satiating our rapacious sexual appetites with pumping, sweaty hand jobs in front of salacious movies or magazines to balls-deep passionate arse-clenching boner-fide fucking machines that could go all night long.
Well, that’s how it happens in the movies. Some movies, anyway,. The type you have to pay a subscription for and appears as “Gardening Movie Channel” on your credit card statement.
Even if you are lucky enough for the above to be true, as with rainbows, crunchy fresh snow and that twenty-quid bag of smoke, nothing ever lasts.
Buying your girlfriend/hoe/current willy-warmer a classy dinner may be the equivalent of paying for sex and therefore engaging the services of a prostitute – an altogether easier option, in my opinion as you don’t have to suffer the embarrassment of getting food stuck between your teeth or dripping spicy madras sauce down your shirt – but many men, myself included, have often believed that the way to a girl’s pussy is through her digestive tract so where’s the harm? However, after a certain period of time, you cannot fail to notice that pretty soon the conversation will turn from the playful:
You: Don’t be ordering too much meat ‘cos I’ll be giving you plenty of it later, heh-heh-heh!
Her: Pardon?
You: I hear the salmon en croûte is lovely, dear.
And become desultory with more than a hint of the accusatory:
You: Yeah, what d’you want then?
Her: Dunno.
You: Well, for fuck’s sake, just fucking order something.
Her: I’m not even hungry. You should have KNOWN how tired I’d be after being in work all week. All I want to do is slob on the sofa eating chocolate digestives whilst watching TV.
You should have known.
You should have KNOWN.
You. Should. Have. Known.
Ah, yes. Those four words are where every relationship with the opposite sex has withered on the vine and become the same tired old cliché that is your life, along with the BMW, the Rolex and the intention to take up golf.
You SHOULD have known, shouldn’t you?
You see, guys, THIS is where all of a sudden – and it could be days, weeks or even months into a relationship – you have, against your will, been upgraded from caring, loving boyfriend who will put up with all manner of requests and softly whispered, playfully twisted-arm-up-the-back intonations to buy her that bag or this pair of shoes to PSYCHIC BOYFRIEND who is actually a useless, dispassionate twat.
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