It’s apparent to me, through experience, (and,of course, various partner-initiated Cosmopolitan surveys over the decades) that foreplay can range from subtle stimulation of the erogenous zones to more vigorous ministrations of these regions accompanied by tender cooing of verbal romanticisms to downright rude, crude “I’m gonna take my..........and ram it...........you filthy.......” and every iteration in between. And in our case, very often, there will be an obscure observation made, usually by my wife (and this will have nothing to do with the impending act or the equipment involved, organic or otherwise) resulting in infectious, howling, tearful, rib-aching laughter. Only Billy Connolly and my wife can induce such intense amusement, however, in the case of the former, it has never led to us engaging in the horizontal bop - as far as I can recall, in any event.
But seldom have I heard, as is the case in a well-weathered relationship such as ours, foreplay comprising pre-coitus pillowtalk ranging from such diverse topics as domestic building renovations to mechanical servicing options on one’s spouse’s car and, inevitably, (in my case) vignettes from TV and film productions that may (and in many cases) may not have any relevance on the impending carnal activity.
It was just such an occasion that almost ruined my marriage - the advent of a total misconstruance (is there such a word? Well there is now and you know what I mean.)
The scene had been set and, once the six-pack of cats had been conspiratorially removed from the bed to provide a libidinously more conducive landscape, the conversation assumed its usual mundane tone and weather, shopping, the potential rescue of a reportedly traumatised parakeet (the wife still does animal rescue volunteering) was discussed and naturally, our sexual juices were flowing with this ribald and raunchy discourse.
Somewhere in the throes of conversational convolution (I think it may have been associated with sexual promiscuity) I had occasion to recall something from the inceptual Batman TV series where the nylon-clad caped-crusader in his oversized bat mask hove into view. I could picture the actor’s face but unusually for me, I couldn’t for the life of me remember his name. Burt Ward played Dick Grayson aka Robin, Boy Wonder, Cesar Romero was the pantomime Joker but who the fuck had played Batman? He was reputedly a Casanova of some standing, or so it was claimed by the surviving Burt Ward, who’d been party to some of the shared escapades but - nah, it still wasn’t coming and neither was I, by now having assumed the position and merrily thrusting away like a good ‘un and judging by the reciprocal sensual utterings from my partner, it was having the desired effect.
It ran on in its usual manner, escalating toward the inevitable climax and that infernal eyebrow-painted bat-mask was all I could see in my mind’s eye at this point, my eyes screwed tight, sweat beading my brow as I tried to maintain rhythm and unsuccessfully suppress the looming vision of the caricature comic book hero from my formative years.
And then it happened - yes, the orgasm of course - synchronised (which is always the most satisfying) but no, not that - I remembered - just as I was hitting the ultimate stroke - I remembered the actor’s name. And that was when my marriage almost ended. As I was peaking in orgasmic ecstasy, I cried out at the point of no return “Ah yes - ADAM WEST! ADAM WEST!” which, as you may imagine, did not have the effect on a mid-coital partner, no less, one’s wife of two decades that one might expect as she is twitching in sexual climax herself.
“Huh, say what? Adam who? Huh? Who the fuck is Adam West?”
There’s really no coming back from that, if you’ll pardon the pun.
Suffice to say, this required a degree of explanation when our dignity had been restored and normal marital service had been resumed.
When I did eventually explain myself and the comedic nature of the situation unfolded, oh how we laughed.
We are going shopping later as well - there’s a very good costume store not too far away that specialises in superhero outfits, I’m told. They may have an original Batman rig. I just want to see the shop assistant’s face when I ask if it can be adjusted to accommodate a crotchless modification as we now officially like to role play. I haven’t revealed this idea to my wife and never will because, after twenty years of getting to know each other, I fear the bat signal I fantasise setting up, will end up displaying the message: GET BREAD AND CHEESE and the sight of me leaping off a wardrobe in cut-away Batman tights will most decidedly end up with some 1960’s put downs and a lot of SMACK, KRAKAPOW, SPLOOT and BIFF sound-effects in the Bat Cave - er - bedroom.
Namaste, mothersuckers. Keep those utility belts handy- you never know when you may have to punch a rubber shark in the snoot!
