Ma femme, mon amour

The female brain is unexpectedly lewd. Unfortunately, I didn’t find this out until several hours after being married. To be honest, I’m not sure what I would have done even if I’d known earlier. Probably gone ahead and got married anyway. From a distance, everything – problems included – looks rather small and ridicule-able.

 

Now, as I sit here at the kitchen table, pen scratching on crisp white paper, my wife comes in. Wearing jeans and a white sweatshirt. What is one to think of this blatant suggestiveness?

 

She proceeds to talk to me like nothing has happened. As she speaks, she cracks eggs on the rim of the pan and leans suggestively over the table, reaching out for the salt shaker. I straighten my spine to look down her top, and when she sees this, she encourages me by standing up straight herself. To egg me on, she tugs at her sweatshirt and turns back to the breakfast, giving me a clear view of her perfectly rounded backside.

 

It has been the same since our wedding night. Contrary to norm, on our wedding night, it was she who made all the moves. I carried her to the bed, sure, but it was she who quickly leaped up and went off toward the bathroom, obviously inviting me to give chase. When she locked the bathroom door, I knew what she wanted; it took me only a few minutes to break the bolt and bring her out of there. Not that she stayed put even after that. Within a second, she was screaming blue murder, just as though she’d done nothing at all. My parents were right outside the room; thankfully they rescued me in a minute.

 

My folks left the next morning, leaving me alone to deal with this nymphomaniac of a woman. I regret to say that being among civilized people hasn’t improved her mind one bit. She will work and work and work at turning you on…literally, begging for it. This happens on a daily basis. Imagine yourself in my shoes, being tempted and wooed at all hours of the day and night. It can get very tiring indeed.

 

For example, just this morning, I heard her humming along with the radio. Something about ‘waiting for you…’ and so on. I lay in bed, resisting her siren call for the longest time. But when she warbled on and on – through three whole songs, I may add – I saw how desperate she was and I went to her, like any obliging husband would.

 

To my disappointment, the door to her room was ajar. This was a surprise, though not a pleasant one. On Day Two of our marriage, she moved into the guest bedroom and I’ve never known that door to be open while she’s in there, this being yet another one of her tricks meant to tempt my unrelenting self into submission. I tell you it is only my self-control that prevents our life together from degenerating into something resembling a Viagra-fuelled ride into bunnydom.

 

So when I found the door open, I quietly entered the room and found her sitting on the bed, folding the laundry, putting it away to one side. Anyone could see she was making space for me on her miserable, lonely bed. Like I always say, no good husband can afford to ignore such an obvious hint. I was behind her instantly, with my arms around her firm little waist. Of course she pretended to be surprised, but you could see from the way she struggled in my arms that all she wanted was to be held tight.

 

“Let me be!” she yelled, “Can’t you stop being an animal? It’s only till the divorce comes through!”

 

Oh yes, I forgot to tell you. She filed for divorce last week. People go to any lengths to be desired and this wife – no, minx – of mine, is no exception. I know she thinks of divorce as some added spice, a little extra something to entice me to her bed. So juvenile, I know. But who’s to explain to her how serious a thing divorce really is?

 

Anyway, back to the incident. Unfortunately, as I reached up to unbutton her nightshirt, the doorbell rang. Bad timing there! She had to go. But her regret was so obvious and heartbreaking I told her not to worry, that there would definitely be a next time.

 

Which brings us to now, here to the kitchen. She’s almost done with the eggs and breakfast should be ready in a moment. Which explains why she is swaying her hips, walking all around the kitchen counter, inviting me to look, just look, at her glorious body.

 

Now don’t get me wrong. For all her many faults, I do love her so much, this poor, desperate wife of mine. That is why I gotta go now. You see, I have work to do. Can’t have a woman complaining about her husband’s lack of amorous attention. Not within the first month of married life, at least.

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8 thoughts on “Ma femme, mon amour

Add yours

    1. Thanks, Shubham. Btw, checked out your blog. Your account of making the aloo paratha is hilarious! I find humor so difficult to write and you’ve made it look so easy. Good stuff! 🙂

    1. Hi Radhakrishnan, thank you so much for the encouragement! 🙂 I’ve been a tad busy these days, traveling and writing slightly longer stories for publication. I guess they don’t fit in with this blog’s format or I’d have put them up. But I’ll be back very soon. Kind words such as yours keep me going…

      1. If you come out with a book of shortstories like Jeffrey Archer’s “A Quiver Full of Arrows” or “Thereby hangs a tale” i think it will sell like hotcakes.
        All the best to you

        – Radhakrishnan

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