Bedroom Olympics

           

Maybe there was a time when I had more ambitious aims in the bedroom. Nowadays, I try to impress my lover in a different way. My good lady wife, my partner of 31 years, typically retires to bed earlier than I do so by the time I enter the bedroom she is sitting up in bed reading her Hello magazine. I stand facing her at the foot of the bed. Slowly, nay tantalisingly, I begin to undress, removing one item of clothing at a time and letting each drop to the floor. My good lady doesn’t look up, pretending to absorb the glossy-page splendour of Kate Middleton and Prince William. When clad only in my grey, partially perished, George underpants, I pause (a deliberate ploy to ratchet up the tension). Teasingly, I slide my briefs down to my knees and let them drop, but before they hit the floor I stick out my cultured left foot and lampoon them under the elastic waistband. Standing on one leg, with my boxers swinging from my outstretched foot, I bend forwards with my eyes closed and hands behind my back (have you got the picture?) and proceed to flip the undies high into the air. Rotating like a boomerang over my bowed head, without moving my hands from the base of my spine, I catch them just above the nick of my clenched arse.

What a lucky, lucky lady my wife is!