Dearest Pierre,
I’ve had it. I’ve really had it. Up to here (). And it’s all your fault. Well, partially…
It’s my wife. Yes, Mr. Voges. My wife. Admittedly, things were never totally socially conventional between us, but at least in the past it was manageable. Now she’s absolutely lost it. Batty. Cuckoo. Deranged. Bonkers. Coherent. No, wait…not that last one.
She’s been into fetishes for as long as I’ve known her. When we began dating 45 years ago, it took three evenings for her to put out. “Not too shabby, Rick me old pal!”, I hear you think-say. The weird thing was; she asked me to leave my socks on during our lovemaking…inside out! Things soon got weirder.
Before long she was asking me to moisturise my eyelids, wear strings of sausages around my neck, boot polish my face and do Madiba impressions (I refused her requests to go into confinement for several years) and other such eccentricities too numerous to mention. It became so bad I eventually decided something needed to be done. We moved to PE.
PE – the town that loves to call itself a city. PE – where the locals believe tourists will travel the globe to visit two, now absent, dolphins. PE – where the most exciting thing to do at night is get held up by street kids wielding corkscrew openers. “Perfect!”, I thought to myself. “This place should suck the creativity out of her!”
And it did. For a while.
She went one night to listen to some councillor or other moan about something or other on a stage. Not expecting more than a fogey-fest, I naively let her go. Big mistake. I later came to curse the name ‘Herbst’.
Everything was normal for a few days. Lovemaking was standard and fetish-free. We spent our evenings laughing at the couloureds on 7 de Laan and my wife continued with her knitting and sewing. A week later, however, she entered the living room as I was enjoying watching that minx on Carte Blanche. There was a chilling glint to her eye as she brandished what looked like a black leather sack in her hands and demanded that I strip.
“Put this on!”, she commanded.
“Elaine, honey, I don’t feel comfortable about this…”, I stuttered.
“Put this on!”, she commanded. (It’s not that I’m struggling to find an alternative verb, it’s just it was said in pretty much exactly the same way as the first quote)
I put it on and looked in the mirror. I was a prune. She had dressed me as a dried fruit, Mr. Voges. A fucking prune. Christ.
I exited the bathroom and found a geriatric man standing in my bedroom, wholly unabashed.
“You will call me Donald”, the geriatric, who sounded incredibly like my Elaine, informed me. “And now we will make love like gentlemen lovers”.
I needn’t tell you, Pierre, that this was not a pleasant evening. Not at all. I don’t know where all the props came from but I suspect she cleaned out an entire Oxfam store. Let me tell you – there’s a very good reason people don’t shop for sex toys in Oxfam.
It took a long time to rid her of this councillor obsession – she had even managed to change our joint bank account name to T.Herbst/D.Prosser, which was difficult to explain away. I took her to Bayworld. I took her on the Apple Express. I took her for the most offensively mundane meal in the Beach Hotel. Eventually, I successfully allowed the city to once more dry up her innovative spirit. Then you and your bloody SRA meeting.
She broke out through the bathroom window (ironically using my Beatles LP to jimmy the hinge) and skidaddled along to Richmond Hill with her lady-friends. I had only recently heard about this heart-throb CEO who planned to sex up the city but again my naivety was exposed as I presumed Elaine more desirous of the older generation.
Within days our entire yard, front and back, was torn up and paved with red bricks. We had metal barns and street traders sprawling all over our garden and Elaine had paid an architecture firm a million rands to design our letterbox (which was to be located a convenient three metres above ground level). Super. Bloody Super. Bedroom antics became disturbing. She began applying and licking spray cream from my ‘Special Rates Areas’ (armpits and other, equally non-erogenous zones). She demanded I wear a toupee that made me look like Chewbacca and before long, began referring to herself as Dorelle.
When I got home from work one day and found my Porsche 911 painted in zebra stripes, I decided I’d had enough. There was only one thing for this: a very strongly worded letter.
So here you have it, Mr. Voges. I am a very cross man. How do you suggest remedying the situation? How do you plan to put to rights what you so callously caused to fall asunder? How do you get your hair so lush and full of body?!
I await your urgent response with a now self-conscious hairline.
I remain, sir, yours in disturbance
R. Dagless (MD)
Alan Straton
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Sorry, I don’t get it…