Fifty shades of Jones

I’ve been reading Fifty Shades of Grey to learn ways to ignite Mrs Jones’ sexual desires. It’s not gone well.

In case there is anyone not familiar with this book, Fifty Shades of Grey is the first part of a trilogy by E.L. James detailing the carnal awakenings of a 21-year-old virgin, Anastatia Steele, in the deft hands of mysterious dominant and millionaire, Christian Grey. An erotic fantasy that seems to be stirring the underbellies of women throughout the planet, I thought it offered a unique opportunity to glimpse the intricate workings of the female psyche.

Mrs Jones and I have been a partnership for over 30 years, sharing joys, challenges and beds. We are each aware of what the other is thinking and feeling. We know whether the other will like, or dislike, another person. We often finish off each other’s sentences. But as I read about the shenanigans of Anastatia and Christian, I wondered whether there was a rich seam of sexual craving deep within Mrs Jones’ loins waiting to be mined.   

I’m an affable sort of bloke. Perhaps this is where I’m falling short; maybe women yearn to be controlled and dominated?

A week last Thursday, around 10 pm, I was in bed pretending to read the latest edition of The Oldie magazine, while peeping at Mrs Jones who was sitting at the dressing table, removing her make-up. I shut my magazine and slapped it down on the bed-side table. “Get your sweet arse into bed now” I said, adopting my most menacing tone.

She glanced towards me, and then back at the mirror, continuing to dab her cheeks with make-up remover.

“Take off your night-gown and get into bed now; now I say!”

Mrs Jones stopped her dabbing, stood and ambled towards the bed.

I dodged the first swipe, but the second blow caught me on the back of my head. That night I learnt that (unlike Anastatia Steele) I don’t like pain.       

For the next few days I sought further guidance from Fifty Shades. On page 193 I read, he pops a fragment of ice in my navel … It burns all the way down to the depths of my belly. Wow! I pondered as to whether the secret code to open a woman’s sexual vault involves exposure to extremes of temperature.

Last night, having loitered to allow Mrs Jones to retire to bed before me, I raided the freezer-box. Climbing the stairs, ice-cubes in my hand, I tingled in anticipation of that raw female sexuality I was about to unleash. I entered the bedroom, undressed (not an easy manoeuvre with blocks of ice clasped in my hand) and slipped into bed next to the luscious, naked body of my beautiful wife. She was lying on her front, denying me access to the target area of her abdomen, and seemed to be asleep. I tried a couple of gentle nudges to encourage her to turn over but to no avail. Meanwhile, the ice was melting in my hand.

I was on the verge of aborting the assignment when she flipped over onto her back, eyes closed, still sleeping. In one swift movement, I leant over and dripped several drops of icy water onto her belly. Her body tensed and her eyes shot open. I braced myself for the sexual explosion. Her hand moved instinctively towards me and lingered, palm down, inches from my midriff. She then screeched the words that will remain etched on my memory for many years.

“Have you pissed the bed?”  

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I am participating in the Dude Write Starting Lineup this week where you can find some excellent posts by bloggers who happen to be dudes: http://dudewrite.blogspot.com)