Sunday, 7 February 2010

The one where he takes the baton from Marley and runs with it...

The latest blog from Marley Delarose - you can find the link down the right hand side - no the other right - got me thinking...

Imagine this: it’s Valentine’s Day. You are with your loved one. You’ve gone for the works –long-stemmed roses, a beautifully wrapped gift (you got the girl in the shop to do it because you’re handless), champagne, romantic meal – heck, you’ve even flossed AND you’re wearing clean underwear.

You’re girlie is looking HOT, HOT, HOT and she’s wearing that perfume you like – the perfume that made you realise you are actually attracted to nice smells. You’re holding hands across the table and you’re enjoying the skin on skin thing. A little too much. With your index finger you trace a circle on her palm. You draw a line from her palm to the inside of her wrist. She gives you that smile. The blood starts to leave your brain...

...the waiter arrived with your starters. With a wry grin your girle strokes your ankle with her foot. You bite your lip and spoon at the soup. Well, the dishwater masquerading as soup. You make a mental note that going for a posh-sounding starter doesn’t really impress anyone.

The conversation moves on while you both eat. You make fake appreciative noises. So does she, but her noises sound a lot more interesting. Erotic even. (Who knew a man could read “sex” into so much?)

As soon as the plates are cleared you move back to the wrist-stroking thing. It was clearly working. For you at least.

You remember the last time you ate in here and how long they took between courses. You are not a complete philistine and you realise this is because they are cooking your meal from scratch and BONUS it won’t come covered in breadcrumbs.

You have time. What could you do with this time? You spot a couple walking back to their seats from the back of the restaurant. The toilet area. You think; that’s sweet. They’re so close they even time their pee breaks together. Then you notice the smile on his face and the way she strokes her hair and smoothes her dress over her hips as she walks. The penny drops.

You lick your lips. Your brain is losing its blood supply. You look at your girlie's cleavage. You have a thought in your mind that’s going to take a hippo in a thong to dislodge.

Before your meat and two veg arrives you HAVE to play hide the sausage.

You look at your girlfriend. You raise your eyebrows. Hers bunch together in a question.

You’re thinking (never a good thing) that because it’s Valentine’s Day you should be romantic. You should frame the suggestion in a way that’s going to melt her heart. Particularly as the last time you went for a public affair the rash from the sand-rub took a month to go away.

So you raise one eyebrow and say...I love the way we can talk for hours. Maybe it’s time to take our communication to another level.

She says, “Eh?”

You raise both eyebrows this time and as you do it you jerk your head forward as if adding a shout to the gesture. She has a half-smile as if to say, WTF dude?

By now there is no blood in your brain whatsoever and you’ve just noticed the table is a couple of inches higher at your end. (Actually you’d be amazed if this was the case because it would take like a shitload of money and a drastic medical procedure to gain this effect.)

You loosen your collar and say, how about it, babe? Except it comes out from between clenched teeth and it sounds like – howahbohtitbahybbh.

Now she’s leaning back in her chair, her arms are crossed and she’s wearing a different look. The one she wears when she’s about to phone emergency services.

You realise that you and Subtlety are such distant relatives that you are at least second-cousins three times removed and you’ve only heard about cousin Jean’s daughter’s son because he auditioned on X-Factor. You give up and go for the direct approach.

You say. "You and me. The toilet. Now."

You realise that you may have spoken too loudly and turn your head from side to side afraid that someone nearby overheard.

And THAT’S when you see the sign. It reads thus –

“Have you given any thought to moving beyond the bedroom? Our toilet cubicles are available between courses. Enjoy”

Your chin is resting on the table. It’s allowed? It’s acceptable? Pubic fornication has been given approval?

Your libido is like a balloon that’s been pushed against a lit cigarette. You don’t want to do it now. Acceptable public shagging! Where’s the fun in that? You’re now sitting with your arms and legs crossed and wearing a petted lip the size of a lilo.

Time to fess up. This is not a wee fantasy of mine. There is a restaurant in Toronto, Canada called Mildred’s Temple Kitchen and their advertising pitch for Valentine’s Day this year is just as you read it above.

“Have you given any thought to moving beyond the bedroom?” And according to the manager there will also be a French maid service to make sure everything is “going smoothly and kept clean”.

This is me wondering what their version of “clean” is. But that’s a whole other blog.


  1. And there you have it. I knew I didn't have to point out the obvious question, you'd get to it. Wow, what you can do with a wee prompt. I'm thinking this might make a good addition to my He Said, She Said Chronicles. ;)

  2. Mad Dog, you make me laugh like a drain (and that's not very delicate & romantic either but you do). Whit a picture.

  3. this doesn't work for me. maybe too early in the day to contemplate fornication with my fettucini. what if when the check came he wanted to go dutch? nah

  4. Marley, go for it.
    Gillian, the picture of you laughing like a drain is a good un.
    Thea, I wish I'd used that line...fettucini!

  5. Eeek! And no!

    Michael, I hope you won't mind, but I've nominated you for an 'Over the Top' blog award; see my latest Daily Improvements post for details...

    Rather apt, really!

    Cat x

  6. Cheers, Cat. And you're right - Over The Top is such an apt comment. Thank you.