Confessions of a rogue: The appliance of science

...The right ear is better for logic apparently and is therefore pretty useless for the nonsensical business of love. That would explain why my sweet nothings had come to nothing. I was using the wrong ear.

Discovering what and where turns a woman on is the adventure of a lifetime. You can stick your mountain climbing, scuba diving and bungee jumping. Give me the undiscovered skin-scape of girl climbing, girl diving and girl jumping any day.

I remember asking a lady friend if she had any unusual erogenous zones and she replied, “Yes. My washing machine.” But Josie didn’t want me to stroke, lick and fondle her Zanussi. She wanted me sitting on the thing, with my kecks around my ankles (very specific, she was) with the washing machine on a particularly variable cycle, from gentle juddering to really quite aggressive spinning.

She had the good grace to put it on a wash for whites, 95 degrees, so my buns were nice and toasty. That’s a considerate lover. Going that extra mile to ensure the man-woman-domestic appliance threesome is comfortable for all.

With Josie’s legs wrapped around me, the motion of the washing machine passed through me via my little soldier and into her, bringing her to several intense crescendos whilst simultaneously sorting out her linen. Everyone’s a winner.

Basically I became a man-machine super-vibrator hybrid. And I’d only popped round for a stamp.

By the time we went into that final long spin cycle I was already thinking of pimping my own washing machine for the comfort of the seated lover as I had cramp and only had feeling left where it mattered. I’m thinking velvet cushions, shatterproof champagne flutes, back support and possibly internet access.

It seemed to go on forever and to delay my own climax I composed a letter of complaint to the manufacturers in my head. She came so hard and for so long, I added oxygen and a direct link to 999 services to my list.

To this day I consider Persil ads to be some kind of foreplay.