Blowies.

Last Friday night some friends and I were sitting in a lovely bar, sipping wine, and talking about the men in our lives and their constant fascination with the blow job.

This Friday night I have a very sore throat, which by the way, has nothing to do with having had anything down it. But it does mean that I will not be sitting in the same bar with the same friends continuing the discussion.

Anyway, lasts week’s conversation took place after S had dropped us at the bar. J’s husband was meant to take us down but he said he’d only do it if J gave him a blow job first. She, understandably, turned him down and S volunteered.

(Actually I think he thought we’d be so grateful that we didn’t have to walk, that one or all 3 of us would offer him one as a thank you).

The waiter overheard quite a lot of our conversation and although he was trying to be discreet, I think he was hopeful that we’d take pity on him for working on a Friday night and offer him one too.

Between the 3 of us we drank 3 bottles so if he wasn’t a ginga named Charles he may have been in luck.

But anyway, none of us can believe how high up the wish list they are for each of our blokes or how they think they can be used as payment for general household chores. At K’s house apparently her husband thinks he should get a blow job just for stacking the dishwasher!

And S can be reading out the shopping list: “honey, weetbix, toothpaste... and a blow job”.

Yep, always on his mind. Like this morning when I asked him to make me a lemon drink for my sore throat and he was insistent that I needed some “protein” down there to make it better.

A huh. If I need protein I’ll poach an egg, buddy.

Or as I am pouring myself a glass of wine and I ask S sweetly “can I get you anything?” He’ll reply, “no but you can blow me”.

Yep, cos that’d be right up there for me with a glass of chardonnay and some cheese and crackers - giving S a blow job.

And he wonders why I have to drink so much.