One fresh beef tamale, please

My sex life has, of late, become eclipsed by the difficulty of the situation in which I have been embroiled, involving my middle-aged lover and his frisky wife. My musings as to how to extricate myself gracefully were, however, abruptly rendered redundant by a phone call from said aging lothario. It would seem I was not alone in finding the whole sordid situation more than I was willing to handle. I’d been dumped.

Now, break-ups are not something I’m unfamiliar with. What I’m certainly not accustomed to is being on the receiving end. I felt none of the usual triumph of having freed myself from the oppressive attentions a love interest. Had my charms been weighed against those of Mike’s wife and found wanting? Having recently witnessed the spectacle of her wrinkled wobblers in a leather corset, this was not an idea I was happy to entertain for long.
Never having been one for indulging in chocolates and weepy films to allay my sorrows, I opted for the obvious alternative: alcohol. I roped in a more-than-willing housemate and we took ourselves off to one of York’s finest two-for-one cocktail establishments. The following hours passed in a blur of misanthropic ramblings, punctuated by raucous commentary on the male clientele.

We eventually engaged in conversation with the least objectionable members of this group and I soon got back into my stride, relishing the prospect of a serving of beef tamale untouched by the ravages of age. Then I realised I’d been abandoned by my partner-in-crime. Scouring the bar, I spotted her atop a rickety-looking table, entangled in a young man I recognised from my seminar group.

I was struggling to conceal my amusement when, before my slightly unfocused eyes, the table collapsed beneath the weight of their passion. Not easily deterred, my housemate waited patiently on the floor while her pull-partner fixed the table. They repeated the charade several times while the man I’d been flirting with became increasingly perplexed by my inability to appreciate his witticisms.

When next I looked, that hapless pairing had vanished, presumably to continue the endeavour on a more stable surface. Having exhausted the free drinks on offer, I too made my way home. I had just lulled myself to sleep (with the help of my bunny-shaped companion), when a scream, and not of the good kind, rang through the corridor. It transpired that, in the thrashes and throes of orgasm, my luckless housemate had done herself a mischief in the groin area. She and her gentleman friend, deciding that their relationship was frowned upon by the fates, parted ways. I, after offering my sympathy and an ice pack, was left in a yet deeper state of confusion. Was I really satisfied to return to the farce of student sexuality? But hadn’t my relationship with Mike become just as frustrating? Just what is a sexually liberated young thing to do?

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