For as long as I can remember men have been depicted as being obsessed with sex, especially any romantic activity other than the missionary position. Men are seen as being predisposed towards wearing brothel-sneakers, grey Macs whilst furtively carrying a taboo book or magazine to somewhere private.
How times have changed. It appears that women, authors and readers are now pushing the boundaries of conventional sex. It gets better, for the men; they are the ones making derisory remarks now. I thoroughly enjoyed this round robin; I hope you will too.
The novel, Fifty Shades of Grey won women’s hearts and loins but its contents leave blokes scratching their heads in bemusement. One enterprising and clever Dick writer is now making cool cash with his skit on it. He has called his novel Fifty Sheds of Grey. Here is a taster.
We tried various positions; round the back, on the side, up against a wall but in the end we came to the conclusion the bottom of the garden was the only place for a good shed.
She stood before me, trembling in my shed. "I'm yours for the night," she gasped, "You can do whatever you want with me." I took her to McDonalds.
She knelt before me on the shed floor and tugged gently at first then harder until finally it came. I moaned with pleasure; now for the other boot.
Ever since she read THAT book, I've had to buy all kinds of ropes, chains and shackles. She still manages to get into the shed, though.
"Put on this rubber suit and mask," I instructed, calmly. "Mmmm, kinky!" she purred.
"Yes," I said, "You can't be too careful with all that asbestos in the shed roof."
"I'm a very naughty girl," she said, biting her lip. "I need to be punished." So I invited my mum to stay for the weekend.
"Harder!" she cried, gripping the workbench tightly. "Harder!"
"Okay," I said. "What's the gross national product of Nicaragua?"
I lay back exhausted, gazing happily out of the shed window. Despite my concerns about my inexperience, my rhubarb had come up a treat.
"Are you sure you can take the pain?" she demanded, brandishing stilettos.
"I think so," I gulped.
"Here we go, then," she said, and showed me the receipt.
"Hurt me!" she begged, raising her skirt as she bent over my workbench.
"Very well," I replied. "You've got fat ankles and no dress sense."
"Are you sure you want this?" I asked. "When I'm done, you won't be able to sit down for weeks." She nodded. "Okay," I said, putting the three-piece suite on eBay.
"Punish me!" she cried. "Make me suffer like only a real man can!"
"Very well," I replied, leaving the toilet seat up.
"Pleasure and pain can be experienced simultaneously," she said, gently massaging my back as we listened to her Coldplay CD.