Week 17: Funeral Sex

Friday 27th April 2018

Reading time 3 minutes 56 seconds

Sausages – The Alsatian from Esther Rantzen’s That’s life!

Last year an old friend of mine died. 

He was a beautiful man and was loved by everyone he knew. We’d been friends since our early twenties and ended up living together for a very short period, although we drank for much much longer.  I hadn’t seen him in some years but we talked now and again and it didn’t matter that we hadn’t communicated often as we could pick up exactly where we left off. He was that kind of bloke, he made me laugh a lot and I miss him.

On the planned date of his funeral I happened to be working at the Edinburgh Fringe Festival and I had that ridiculous cliché in my head “The show must go on”, but sometimes it doesn’t because it can’t. I decided to take the day off and flew back to England in the early morning planning to return later that day. 

My girlfriend picked me up from the Airport. We hadn’t seen each other for over 2 weeks and as sad I was about the occasion she made me smile, as she always does, just by being there for me. I probably should have let her know how much I missed her but I’d created a tension because my first words to her were about the welfare of our cats. One day I will tell her how much she means to me but now wasn’t the time. 

After a small hug we got in the car and set off for the service. We drove off both lost in our own thoughts, I was tired, probably a little bit jet lagged. Who knows what she was thinking, I wasn’t a mind reader. The silence was broken when my other half announced that we should have sex and the boldness of the request took me by surprise.

I’m not sure about you but death makes me want to celebrate life and as I no longer drink, or partake in any form of fun, a bit of (ahem) ‘how’s your father’ can briefly put a smile on my face. 

I enquired as to where? 

Her: The Car!

Me: The Car?

Her: Yes!

I paused while I tried to process her request and then looked for further clarification.

Me: In my beautiful lovely car?

Her: Yes!

Me: With you?

Her: Yes! [she was starting to get fractionally annoyed now]

Me: Have you lost your mind?

Her: Well you’ve never had sex in a car and you once mentioned that you’d like to.

That last statement was true. I had once said that but I didn’t mean in MY car. I was thinking of a different car, as in one that isn’t mine. Car sex to me is naughty, illicit and needs planning. The thing is I don’t want to plan for sex as I can just about plan lunch. 

Being a stereotypical sexually repressed Englishman I don’t like the idea of sex and I certainly don’t like the idea of other people seeing me having sex. I confess that I would like to be good, or even great, at the sex thing but by the time I discovered it I was struggling to move my hips so it’s not something I ever got the chance to excel at. 

Additionally, I’m not an attractive option to the opposite gender. Women, in my limited experience, are typically drawn to tall dark and handsome men and seeing as I’m short, covered in freckles, almost albino and childish looking I find myself on a fairly empty shelf in a niche market.

I’m not sure how my few sexual partners have felt about ‘doing the do’ with me. 

I think they like the chat and I believe I’m good at the end chat. As long as I know I’m not going to have sex I believe I’m good at the chat beforehand as well. 

I can chat to people. I love a chat. What do you think I’m doing now? 

My missus knows I’m repressed about sex. I cringe with embarrassment at the very thought of it and at this point she could see the pain on my face. I did want sex in a car, but I didn’t want sex in a car. The two sides of my brain were colliding into serious conflict. 

As soon as she’d said the word sex I became fractionally randy. 

However I was not a dogger, or doggie, or whatever it is people do in cars when they should be walking dogs. I watched a documentary about it once but I know it’s not for me as it’s not my cup of tea. Probably because I don’t like tea. 

I reluctantly yet excitedly agreed to the naughtiness so we started to look for a location. I started to suggest various places to break the tension and try and get a laugh. 

How about a lay-by? 

Or a back alley? 

Was a country lane out of the question?

Sorry everyone. 

We passed through a quiet village street and I found myself staring into people’s gardens. In one of the gardens they had a Greco-Roman statue and it looked like a man was throwing a discus. He was naked. I was getting sexual anxiety already and that athletic macho statue was not helping. 

We were really going to do this. We were going to have car sex whilst on the way to a funeral. My dear departed friend would approve once he’d stopped laughing. 

Then my brain started asking why would she say this to me knowing how prudish I am. We’ve been together 10 years and it’s only been a few weeks since we last did “it” couldn’t she wait? 

Then it slowly dawned on me, she just likes to see me shamed. Nothing pleases her more than when I’m embarrassed and red faced, this is how she gets her kicks. My other half didn’t want sex, she just wanted to make me uncomfortable and have a laugh. It’s one of the reasons I love her. The look on my soon to be lovers face was similar to the look my cat gets when killing a mouse. She plays with it first and makes it suffer, this continues until she’s bored and then she gives the poor doomed creature a glimmer of hope of beautiful freedom and returning to its family. Then slowly, very slowly, deliberately, meticulously and with absolute skill and ease she strikes a final death blow. Why didn’t she bring the cats? We’d never be in this embarrassing situation if the cats were here.  

I was getting uncomfortable and was squirming in my seat. A wry playful smile spread across her face. Her hand leant over and rested on my knee. I rocked back and screamed “ARGGH”. This was not conducive to sexy talk. 

We then drove past a sign that said “Best Sausages in Suffolk”. 

We looked at each other.

The sign didn’t lie. They were great sausages. 

We didn’t have the sex and instead just had a fry up. 

We both arrived at the funeral feeling sated so whether it’s sex or sausages it obviously amounts to the same thing. I’ve still not had car sex which any future passengers in my beautiful car will no doubt be pleased with and I don’t think I ever will. Best to leave that to people who own dogs.

This week’s picture: Where’s Willsy? 

Me on the BBC’s Football programme. I believe it’s been renamed Man City’s Match of the day.