My Terrible Tug Of Love

Oh, woe! That it should come to this! That a delicate creature, such as myself, should be edged, beaten and broomed into the agonising position of having to break a man’s heart!
Two suitors have I, each devoted and true – and yet my aunt is most particular that I do not, as she puts it, “fuck the poor cunts about”. Might I implore your indulgence, dear reader? If I shared with you the story of my triangle, (the details of which have become somewhat hairy), would you help me choose a suitor?

I first met Desmond at the sandwich counter in Boots the Chemist. He glanced down at my egg and cress, and said that he felt like he’d known me all his life. “Sir,” I giggled, knowing a thing or two about seduction. “To know me so quickly and so completely is to make me seem quite shallow!” But I had pulled my T-shirt above my stomach to let him know that I was interested.
For my birthday, Desmond bought me an exquisite pair of sugar tongs. “A girl like you shouldn’t be touching sugar,” he said, plainly oblivious to the fact that I am a 31 year old man with sideburns. I’ve started leaving catalogues open on the pages featuring ornate gravy boats – I do hope he gets the message. That I want a gravy boat. Otherwise I’ll have to resort to wailing “woe, to live without a gravy boat”.
Silly old Desmond will try to dress me in frocks and suchlike, and when I complain it is his delightful habit to put his large hands over my face until I pass out. When I wake, it is always wearing a dress, with a localised ache in my hips, where he has attacked me stupidly with his fundament. It is a fortune that he has not found any of my holes, yet.
Desmond has proposed to me. He has occupier’s rights over an end terrace in Lincoln, so I’m not taking it lightly.
But then there’s Duncan. Sweet, adorable Duncan. Grant me, pray, a few more moments of your time to tell you about Duncan.

Duncan first came to my attention in the queue at the Leicester Square Burger King, where he was facing in the wrong direction. My immediate reaction – apart from a sense that I had been eating celery my whole life, and here was meat – was that the poor creature needed the care of a skilled sponge-maiden. I approached him with my kerchief wrapped around my finger, and sweet Duncan flapped his head around, and tried to bite my hand.
Two weeks later, I had managed to coax Duncan into a seated position, although he would still spring to his feet and salivate wildly if he smelled chips. My goal was clear – I was to take Duncan to the ambassador’s party!
After three months of training, Duncan had come along most encouragingly. He had stopped hunting the furniture, and with the aid of a bespoke contraption wired into his skull, he could no longer bite anyone, although some growling and frothing still occurred. I was greatly excited… word had got around about Duncan, and my handiwork was to be admired by Tony Blair himself!
Duncan spent the first half of the party eating the ice sculpture and looking suspicious, because he could see through it a little. It was quite charming to watch him at play, and I commented to Tony Blair himself that I imagined he was hung like a barn. I also spotted a divine fragrance, and mentioned to Tony Blair himself that I adored his perfume. Tony Blair told me that it was made from expensive oils, and extracts from a rare family of vegetable distantly related to the potato.
“Posh chips!” howled Duncan, launching himself at the Prime Minister’s neck. I’m sorry to report that Duncan chewed poor Tony Blair to death, and were told not to come back until we’d found a new Prime Minister. I gestured at Duncan, but they reacted angrily.
That night, Duncan and I kissed for the first time. Well, I say kiss. He ate some chips out of my palm, which is as good as.
So you see my torture – I love both these men with all my heart, and would simply make a mess on the carpet without either of them. But who should I choose? Any suggestions from you, dear hearts, would be gratefully received, so long as you don’t swear or talk about men’s hot cocks.

14 thoughts on “My Terrible Tug Of Love”

  1. Choose Desmond! He looks like David Hockney, who is the hottest of all the artists. Even hotter than Tracy Emetic. Duncan is a ginger, and nobody could ever fancy a ginger.

  2. Having been endowed at birth with a kebab (which comes with compulsory ketchup once a month) instead of male genitalia I wouldn’t be able to provide a male account on the joys of licking testosterone from ginger hair follicles to that of licking it from graying pubes ….but HEY! Even with my female bias, isn’t it blindingly obvious to take the ‘entrepreneur anal’ opportunity and marry Desmond, give him an organism induced heart attack, so as to make a nesting place for your glorious future of adopting a son with Duncan (who would be kept as your secret flame) at your inherited Lincoln manor. Ahh how well you’ll sleep tonight safe in the knowledge that your pensioner years will be filled by feeding Duncan and the seagulls Skegness’s finest chips!!

  3. Duncan would be a mistake; you might get your hair confused. Imagine setting out for work one morning with Duncan’s tousled mop on your head, instead of your own immaculately coiffured barnet.
    Also, Duncan looks as though he has a rather nasty case of herpes around his chops. Nope, it has to be Desmond, even if his neck is bloated.

  4. which one has the hottest cock? Its probably Duncan by the look of him. I don’t care for the self righteous pout on Desmond, although he’s probably the safe bet if you need someone in forty years time to wipe your seepage up without too much disdain. Perhaps he could use beautiful sugar tongs to grasp the solids!
    Anyway, fancy a fuck and its Duncan all the way. Want to be greeted in a scornful manner but have beautiful dinner parties? Des is your man. And thank CHRIST neither of them are welsh.

  5. Desmond looks very much like a chap called Reg Skirm, who used to own a shop near my nan’s. And he was welsh. I bet Desmond’s surname is Llyll.

  6. And his middle name is Ieuan. Which is one of my favourite names as it uses 4 of the (English) vowels and is 80% vowel!
    Readers: can you think of any names that are more vowelly than that?

  7. why be constrained by the bounds of heterosexual normality – have them both! Just think of the fun you could have in a big sweaty Desmond/Log/Duncan pile…

  8. Call me ‘old mr paranoid homophobe’ (as my therapist insists), but do i detect subtle overtones of bumomania within that last message? If so, forshame…hell in a handbasket, you couldn’t make it up, the very maws of doom…etc
    On a completely unrelated note, I spotted this synopsis on a Welsh channel:
    “Educational animation series for pre-school children featuring a multi-racial family of music-loving sheep”
    Where they stand on buggery is anyones guess. (Do I win £5?)

  9. I think you should make your decision based on what your children would look like. Do you want pudgy yet suave albinos, or primitive uber gingers?
    It would depend on which, in your opinion, would be less cruel. Either way, they shall suffer throughout their miserable lives – if starting a family is on your agenda you may have to look elsewhere.

  10. Eh?
    I dont get it….
    By the way – I too have now jumped on the blog bandwagon. I only have 2 shit posts on it so far, but it would be nice to receive abuse from you all from time to time if you care to visit.
    Just clkick on ma name baby!

  11. I’m not one to judge – each to their own and that! However, Desmond looks to me like the type of man that would handcuff you up, bite your cock off and boil it in a kettle before your very eyes, before torturing you to death! I bet he wouldn’t even break a sweat, he’d probably just check his suit was looking sharp in the mirror as he was waiting for the kettle to boil. Duncan, however, just put me off my dinner. I won’t go into details, but I didn’t know Burger King allowed crack-heads and tramps to join in the great, grilled, fun of ordering a Big whopper?


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