As a man about town. Ok, I'll rephrase that. As a bloke working in the female dominated world of PR, I end up at various launches and in bars a few nights a week and I get more offers now than I ever did before I was married. I'm no Adonis, but I'm no Quasimodo, and, without trying, I know that, should I wish, I could fuck like a rutting stag every night of the week. The does are well up for it. And I think I know why.
Let's take last night. I was working at a product launch in the heart of the city. I’d be lying if I said I enjoyed these occasions and often drink heavily through them to make the people see more interesting. I was knocking back the vodka with the abandon of a Russian Sailor recently released from a Siberian Gulag. I got talking to a colleague and her mate at the bar, after about five minutes, as my colleague leant over to talk to someone else, her mate whispered in my ear. “Why don't you take me home…" "I can't, I'm afraid," I replied, "I'm married.” "I don't care if you're Abraham Lincoln, " she said, " I just want you to fuck me." And therein lies the rub.
Apparently, my wedding band throbs on my finger like fluoro a cock ring
Apparently, my wedding band throbs on my finger like a fluoro cock ring. If she'd been relaxed about her intentions before then, with a bit of casual eye-fucking thrown in to the usual PR-flirt, the moment I said I was happily married, I could pretty much feel her gusset moisten.
I don't refuse these offers because I'm a good bloke, or maybe I do, I'm not sure. I don't, and have never, cheated on women because I know I couldn’t deal with the guilt. It’s far easier to chuck these possible conquests in the wank bank and have a guilt free tug at the next available opportunity.
So why don’t they feel the same? Why was she wetter than April when she was found out I was married? Well, put simply, it's because women hate each other. It's an old adage that the 'female of the species is more deadly than the male' and I believe it. Let's face it, men are filthy dogs, whose cock often leads them into trouble, but I don't think it’s calculating, it’s primal. This bird, this harlot with an ass that could launch a thousand wanks, would have let me screw her senseless without a thought for my betrothed.
There’s probably some psychological research on this, but I haven’t got time to look for it. I’m too busy worrying about what Sheila from accounts will try and do at the Christmas bash.
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