As I get older I find that I am unable to have sex with my wife for a full 24 hours after she has eaten cottage cheese. This wouldn’t have stopped me in my younger days. Back then I was sexually adventurous; back then I would even have sex during the afternoon.
For me, it’s the texture and smell; I have developed a real phobia about it. I have to wait until the cottage cheese is completely flushed out of her system before I can pathetically rub my body against her; lucky lady. I don’t like shiny buttons either, or Quavers. In fact, for me to have sex nowadays my wife has to be in a wetsuit eating crackers during an eclipse. This isn’t a one way street of course, there are certain things that I ingest that puts my wife off sex, such as onions and oxygen.
With this in mind, my wife and I started planning our next spontaneous sex session. I looked across the kitchen table at her; she was eating cottage cheese so that ruled out Monday and Tuesday. I moved onto Wednesday and noticed that I had a moderate workload scheduled, so Wednesday was out too.
My son shuffled in.
“Guess what?” he said. My son is twelve years old and all of his conversations start in this cryptic fashion. Being the parent of a pre-teen is like being a contestant on 3-2-1.
My wife ignored our son, looked at me and asked, “What about Thursday?”
“Not sure,” I replied “What’s for tea on Thursday?”
“Gammon,” she replied. I turned up my nose. I don’t think gammon is classed as an aphrodisiac. I very much doubt that they give porn stars gammon and peas before they shoot a scene.
My son slammed the fridge door shut, and a couple of the fridge magnets lost their will to grab onto kid’s party invites, releasing them onto the floor. “Is nobody listening to me?” he shouted from the centre of a party invite dust cloud.
“OK, sorry,” I replied. “What happened?”
My son became enthused, a trait you see less and less as they get older, so I savoured it and mentally locked the image away so I could refer to it the next time he is being unlikeable, “A girl at school got caught with a bottle of vodka in her locker.”
My wife and I both stopped trying to schedule sex, and listened to our son’s vodka in a locker anecdote.
“Has she been expelled?” I asked.
“I don’t know, what are you asking me for?” he replied sulkily, flounced out of the room and slammed the door, wafting all the invites across the room.
My wife munched on some more cottage cheese. “Friday?” she said rather hopefully.
“Salad?” I asked; she nodded. “OK, let’s do Friday.”
My wife’s expression slowly changed from resignation to concern, “Do you think we should have asked him a bit more about the vodka in the locker?”
“Yes,” I replied, “but let’s wait until he’s sobered up a bit first.”