of course it wasn't all bad...

Now, before you all jump to the conclusion that my marriage to Lady Fingers (LF) was one long, urine-soaked orgy of discontent, I’d like to introduce some balance into the equation by way of a little story about our sex-life.


Soon after I got my first digital video camera I was overcome with a terrible urge to make home- porn!
Having already cut my directorial teeth on the mandatory beginner films, which consisted mostly of interviews with LF, during which I asked penetrating questions such as, ‘So do you have any idea where flies go when it’s raining ?’, while she screamed, ‘Take that fucking camera out of my face !!!’, I then completed a series of fascinating documentaries about our apartment before finally committing the ultimate cinematic indignity and filming our dog licking its own ass.
With no other compelling screenplays on my drawing board, it was an easy leap into the world of Indie Porn.
Deep down I really believe most guys want to try making their own blue movie because let’s face it; we’re clueless dirt bags. I believe that the average male will try to find porn within twelve minutes of logging onto the internet for the first time: though my research is predicated entirely on personal experience.
For most men it’s natural to watch it, so why not try and make it?
And I’m not talking about a grubby, unauthorized peepshow; luring your unsuspecting partner into the bedroom and secretly taping her undressing or performing a series of gymnastically improbable acts, oblivious to the camera whirring unseen in the closet. And certainly not one of those graphically medical, up close and personal ‘twiddle-the-diddle’ clips filmed with vadge-cam and incorporating surround-sound squelching noises.
I’m talking about something artistic; and for mine there’s nothing that showcases that artistry more than a nice, long, slow blowjob. Plus, it’s just about the most thoughtful thing a chick can do for her man! So, I mentioned this to my wife, who enthusiastically (???) agreed to let me film her rendering unto Caesar the comfort of her lips. In truth, we both thought it might be a rather exciting experience; one that would enhance our sex life immeasurably (er...not that it needed it).
So, after some hasty brainstorming with regard to set-location we chose a classic scenario; I would be seated on a chair and she would assume the position on her knees in front of me. We opted for a side-on camera angle, rather than the trendy point-of-view (POV) routine. I knew POV was a trap for young players; you never, ever, ever use POV unless you're hung like a moose. POV fore-shortens things terribly through the lens; the side angle is much kinder. It's why the guy peeing next to you always seems to have a bigger dick than yours. YEAH IT’S TRUE !!! I mean I can accept that some guys have a bigger dick than I do…BUT NOT EVERY FUCKING ONE OF THEM.
Anyway, I set the recording equipment on a tripod, optimized the lighting conditions, grabbed the remote control and took my seat in the director/star’s chair. LF took up her position on the floor, some preliminary adjustments were made to ensure ‘Mr Wibbly-Wobbly’ was looking his finest and the action began…
I won’t go into details regarding the actual length of the scene; suffice to say that duration was the least of my eventual worries. Throughout the entire performance I felt I was managing admirably, whilst LF ran expertly through her extensive oral repertoire with the sort of uninhibited grace I’d come to expect over the years. The finale was predictably spectacular as far as I was concerned; the usual panoply of epileptic spasms and ‘come-face’ grimaces from me, (which incidentally look remarkably similar to my ‘rubber-spider-in-the-lunchbox-face’ grimaces) and some dreamy licking of the lips from her. We could barely contain our mutual excitement at such a great ‘take’ and hurriedly raced over to the camera, hooked it up to the PC and downloaded our first-ever home-porn-movie…
Now, ever the realist I knew in my heart that I wasn’t a genuine porn star but unfortunately, like most young men I’d been brought up on a steady diet of professional work; you know the stuff I’m talking about…

The girl, suitably sweet-looking with just a hint of naughtiness, suddenly dislocates her jaw like a reticulated python preparing to swallow a giraffe whole and clamps her lips around her partner’s dick; a preposterously monumental example of penile super-abundance, seamlessly and somehow impossibly grafted onto the body of a normal male. This is followed by the obligatory bulging of the eyes, the puffing of the cheeks, whereupon the girl commences the act in earnest, a look of sheer terror gradually replaced by one of pure contentment. This is accompanied by an exaggerated, trombone-playing-like flailing of both hands, much lizardly tongue action and the depositing of several litres of saliva in the crotch region, before the salami-sized appendage is magically removed just in time to erupt all over the happy girl’s face.

Well, I wasn’t expecting to see anything on that grand a scale, but neither was I prepared for what unfolded on the screen before me.
There was my wife and there was I…in all our glory, re-enacting what I can only describe as the bit in the pre-flight safety demonstration where the hostess shows you how to manually inflate a life-jacket by blowing through the little valve. She was playing the hostess and I was playing the safety-jacket…

a golden (shower) oldie...but a goodie...

Apologies for the re-hashed post here...but some people haven't read it...and it needed updating and including in this important body of work...so bite me...


Now, while we’re at it, I may as well get all the urinary skeletons out of the water-closet…
My wife, whom I shall call ‘Lady Fingers’ (LF) and I preferred to sleep in our birthday suits.
Just as in our waking lives, for the majority of the night I was restless, disturbed and burned like the coals in a furnace; she was for the most part motionless, content and colder than polar bear shit. And by cold I don’t mean her general demeanor; she had poor circulation and a core body-temperature of about 75 degrees Fahrenheit. One of her favourite nocturnal moves was to plunge an icy hand between my thighs to warm it up, which for a sleeping man, generates a surprise-coefficient similar to that of having your prostate examined with a Popsicle.
Also, a few months into our marriage, LF developed a habit of going to the toilet for a tinkle in the middle of the night. A quick 4am pit-stop, no flushing (in consideration of my light sleeping habits no doubt) after which she would return to the bed, apparently un-wiped, throw a leg over my thigh and re-attach herself to my body like a heat-seeking oyster. At first I thought it was cute; the tiny wet spot created during the docking manoeuvre didn’t bother me. After all, what’s a little bit of wee between friends…
Then it happened again.
And again.
And again and again and again…
Finally I’d had enough; after yet another dabbing I casually inquired, ‘Is there any fucking danger of wiping your cunt, you filthy animal ??’
LF looked at me a little stunned, eyes defocused, claiming ‘There was no toilet paper.’
‘What the fuck are you talking about; there are mountains of the stuff in there.’
‘Well I didn’t see any.’
At this point I should mention that we had two toilets. One was in the main bathroom down the hallway and the other, substantially smaller was situated just off our bedroom; a 1.5-metre by 1-metre micro-bathroom with just a toilet and micro-basin inside.
The next night, as had become her wont, LF rose from the bed at precisely 4 am, waking me in the process and trotted off to do her thing. That afternoon, I’d purchased six-dozen rolls of toilet paper, half of which I’d stacked along one wall of the micro-bathroom, the other half of which I’d placed in the bathtub next to the toilet in the main bathroom.
Meanwhile, I sat in bed and waited for LF’s return, mentally daring her to come back with a set of wet beef-curtains and drape them across my thigh. After ten minutes there was still no sign of her…
Now feeling like a wee myself, I slid out of bed and headed off down the hallway to the micro-bathroom, which I found to be unoccupied. On completion of my urinal duties, I decided to visit the main bathroom and see whether LF was alright. Amazingly, she wasn’t in there either; the rest of the apartment appeared to be in darkness too.
Puzzled, I went into the lounge room; more darkness.
It was then I noticed a faint glow coming from the kitchen…
Figuring LF was making herself a something to drink and feeling like a bit of a snack myself, I crossed the lounge-room floor and entered the kitchen, where to my utter disbelief I found my wife having a pee in the fridge. There before me was the love of my life, stark naked, semi-squatting, her gorgeous ass thrust through the wide-open fridge door…taking a piss on the vegetable draws.
‘What the fuck are you doing, darling ??’ I asked…more than a little shocked.
‘What does it look like ??’ she replied, completely unfazed.
‘It looks like you’re pissing in the fridge,’ I continued, trying to remain calm.
‘There’s no toilet paper again,’ she informed me, glassy-eyed, unmoved.
‘I see…I’ll just go and get some then.’
‘Thanks…and can you please NOT close the door.’
‘What door…there is no door on the kitchen, darling.’
‘Well just don’t close it or the light will go off.’
‘OK, I’ll just get you that toilet paper now.’
‘Thank you’…
At this point three things became clear: firstly my wife was apparently a sleep-walker, secondly the slightly discoloured liquid I had been removing from the drip-tray under the vegetable drawers with a ‘Wettex’ for the past two weeks was not quite as harmless as I’d previously thought and lastly…I was not going to make myself a salad sandwich that evening.
I’ve always wanted to get this story off my chest; if only to provide an answer to the age-old question, ‘Fingers…why is there toilet paper next to the milk on your fridge door’…

you won't see this in the ads...

Now, as to the straw that broke our marital camel’s back and led us to this point…
Sadly, the bed-action was a major concern in more ways than one; I could deal with the sex drought we had been experiencing…even though it was threatening to become full-blown climate change.
Ironically it was the increasingly regular Great Floods that threatened to tear us apart; my wife used to pee in the bed…
Specifically, she used to come home after a big night out, full of pills and vodka, then fall asleep and wet the bed. Now, I loved her dearly…and the bed-wetting was not intentional, nor symptomatic of any deep-rooted emotional condition. She just couldn’t control her bladder after a massive night out !!! At this stage I should point out that there are good wet-spots and bad wet-spots in bed. I don’t much like sleeping on either…but given the choice I would much rather lie in a small pool of my own jizz than a lake of someone else’s pee. I suspect most people other than Germans feel the same way.
My wife would fall into bed and literally pass out with a cocktail of date-rape ingredients steadily fermenting inside her, then some time in the middle of the night she would quietly evacuate her bladder.
I imagine that seen from overhead, without the blankets covering her, she must have looked like a little angel lying there so peacefully; like a Snow-Angel…except surrounded by a halo of her own urine. A Pee-Angel if you like. At some point, when her warm little halo cooled, she’d roll over seeking drier, warmer pastures…and I’d wake up with her clamped to my thigh like a limpet.
The next day she would dutifully scrub the mattress with disinfectant after which I would drag it out on to the balcony and let it dry. The Japanese building owners frowned on even leaving beach towels draped on the balconies, yet strangely the matter of our mattress being out there once a month didn’t seem to draw much attention.
Then one day whilst out shopping for groceries with my wife, I saw a potential solution to our problem; adult disposable nappies…oversized plastic diapers…’Huggies’ for Big People.
My wife totally embraced the idea of wearing one when she was off her face in bed, thought it was marvelous in fact and couldn’t wait to try one out. The problem was that what she agreed to when sober was one thing…getting her to put a nappy on when drunk and stoned was another proposition entirely.
Our first live test came a few days later, when my wife rang me at work to say she was going out with her girlfriends and that they would be clubbing and she would be home quite late. No problem…I encouraged her to go dancing with her friends…since it got me out of having to do it.
So that night I waited for my little Pee Angel to come home; I waited and waited and waited. Then at 1-00am I went to bed after first dead-locking the front door and taping her adult nappy to the exterior of it, along with a lovely note explaining what she needed to do before I let her in. There were only two units on each floor of the building and they were on opposite sides, so privacy was never going to be an issue.
At 4-00am my wife staggered home and woke me with her furious banging on the front door, so I got out of bed and went to greet her.
Looking through the spy-hole I could see she was still fully dressed and also utterly spannered, so I put on my best Little Red Riding Hood voice and asked ‘Who is it ??’
She answered in her best Linda Blair voice, ‘You fucking know damn well fucking who it fucking is so let me in you fucking cunt.’
‘Have you got your ‘Huggy’ on like we agreed ??’
‘No I don’t have my fucking ‘Huggy’ on and I’m not fucking putting it on you fucking cunt.’
‘Why not, baby ??’
‘Coz it’s fucking embarrassing and you fucking know it.’
‘No…embarrassing is hanging the mattress out to dry each month. This is what we agreed we’d try instead.’
‘You open this fucking door now you fucking cunt.’
‘Um…no.’
‘OK…I’ll put the fucking nappy on…there I’m putting it on…are you happy now you fucking asshole ??’
‘Darling I can see you through the peep-thingy…and you’re still fully dressed.’
‘Open this fucking door or I’ll kill you.’
‘Put your ‘Huggy’ on and you can come in.’
After about ten minutes of negotiations she took off her clothes and put her ‘Huggy’ on, leaving her club-wear in a pile outside the door. I then opened the front door and she steamed in…giving me the finger as she walked past then ripping off her nappy and throwing it to the floor as she strode down the hall and promptly fell into bed.
In less than a minute she was asleep, by which time I had collected her discarded clothing plus the unused ‘Huggy’ and joined her in the bedroom, where I lifted up her fabulous ass and lovingly put the nappy on as though she were a child; a fifty-two kilogram, unconscious child.
The next morning we awoke to find her ‘Huggy’ full but the mattress completely dry…
‘Oh Fingers this worked perfectly…I’m so glad I put my ‘Huggy’ on last night before I went to bed.’
‘Yes, baby…you were just adorable about it all…’