I’ve recently discovered that strong pain medication makes me both drowsy and horny. I’m like a wanking Frankenstein, or as I like to call my drugged-up alter ego: Wankenstein.
Transforming into Wankenstein is great fun, but it’s a state of being that makes it so much harder to do the household chores. They should put that on the packet. Side effects: wanking, lackadaisical hoovering.
Against all the odds I manage to empty the dishwasher and slowly shuffle across the lino to my wife who is dealing out carrots to the kids. I saucily rub myself up against her as she bends over to pick up the carrots that my 6-year-old has thrown onto the floor.
“Not now. Not now!” screams my wife. “Inappropriate. Inappropriate!”
I shuffle off into the living room and sit down. Bad Wankenstein, I think to myself and doze off.
Some time later my wife enters the room with a walnut whip and snatches the remote off me. To someone high on medication, my wife couldn’t look any sexier than she does right now as she pulls off the walnut topping, scrunches up her face in disgust, throws it on the floor and then angrily flicks through the channels. Maybe it’s not the drugs, maybe I get turned on seeing food thrown onto the floor. I quickly dismiss this notion after recalling an image of my wife wolfing down half a chicken in Nandos. Then I make my move.
In case you’re wondering, I’ve been drugged-up due to a botched dental procedure. It was done so badly that I’ve spent many hours festering, thinking about dentist revenge. Often times I imagine the dentist roaring off in his Audi from his dental practice to a swanky dental orgy where they’re all laughing with perfect teeth. I burst through the door, shuffling slowly and wanking, people flee in panic and then…it all gets a bit hazy but I don’t think it ends well.
The dentist flashback makes me angry. I am now angry, dopey and horny. The perfect storm to have sex with my wife while she is watching, Flog It. A tricky manoeuvre; one of the hardest secret parent shags in the book. I have to initiate proceedings, then deftly tiptoe past the kids to the master bedroom while they are shouting, “What’s for pudding?”
I shuffle past the walnut on the carpet and slump next to my wife.
“Not now, Wancula,” she says.
“It’s Wankenstein. I’m Wankenstein.”
My pre-teen son shuffles in. He flops down next to me on the couch; thankfully he is just dopey and angry. To my wife, my end of the couch must look like a scene from, Dawn of the Dead. I just have to wait for the impending teatime argument to end, then Wankenstein will be regenerated.
“I’m hungry,” he says. “What’s for pudding?”
“You’ve just had tea,” my wife exclaims. “How can you still be hungry?” He shrugs his shoulders and shuffles out in a huff. My wife chases after him. I doze off again. I go back to my apocalyptic End of Days dentist scenario. I am stomping through the room, people are fleeing… food is knocked over. I get horny. Hang on…