A little dinner. Some lively conversation. A trip to the bookstore. All potentially followed—according to that thing Gladys does with her eyebrows—by some “Who knows?” And you know what that means.
Bomchickabambah!
Alas, as Fred’s luck would have it, the promise of two or three minutes of coital bliss were spoiled, sometime during dinner, when Gladys complained of what “just had to be” a urinary tract infection.Fred was crushed.
“I was crushed.” He said.
A visit to the clinic the following morning confirmed Gladys’s self-diagnosis. Fred’s evening of coital bliss would have to wait until a 10-day course of antibiotics could restore Gladys’s innards, making her vagina and whatnot healthy enough to receive him.
Fred was not happy.
“I was not happy.” He said.
But then Fred thought, hey, maybe this is the perfect time to ask for one of those blowjobs he used to receive way back before they got married.
“I thought, hey, maybe this is the perfect time to ask for one of those blowjobs I used to receive way back before we got married.” He said.
Through a split lip he added, “It wasn’t.”
