Impotence - Erectile Dysfunction
Livin Libido Loco!
Dear Granny D
Over the past eight or nine months, my husband, Phil, and I haven’t exactly been scoring heavily in the bedroom stakes, if you know what I mean. I just can’t seem to get him aroused like I used to. It’s not like he comes home drunk or anything, so I’m guessing that it’s not likely to be brewer’s droop. I don’t think it’s to do with stress levels either, as he generally relaxes by going to race meetings, being as we live so close to Fontwell Park. Having said that, this year he has tended to spend more and more time just down the road at Plumpton racecourse, particularly during the summer months of June, July and August. He says that it’s much firmer going, down there, which apparently makes for better riding conditions; though I’m not entirely sure what that means in horse racing terminology. Still, if that’s where his interest lies, then I don’t want to make him feel hen-pecked by insisting that he takes me along.
I have also tried dressing up in uniforms (nurse’s, French maid’s, WPC’s, etc.), there was even one occasion, knowing how much he likes horses, that I dressed up as a fox-hunter in a red riding jacket, jodhpurs, boots, helmet, the lot. It cost a small fortune to rent all that gear, I can tell you. So, when he didn’t even flinch, I gave him a swift flick on the buttocks with my riding crop. How did he respond? He only picked me up, took me outside and launched me head-first into the privet! I don’t think I need repeat the comments that some of the neighbours came out with; and yes, I did get the one about the ‘neigh-bours’ too!
I just don’t know where I’m going wrong. I don’t seem to have changed all that much in my appearance since we got married seven years ago; maybe the odd couple of pounds on the haunches, but that’s to be expected. I still dress to please and keep regular appointments at the hair salon and at the Dentist’s too. Also, as we never had any children, I don’t even have any of those nasty little slug trails that creep above the thong line like a band of silvery flames; you know the ones, those that you see on the Chavs in Poundland when they bend down to get the wet wipes from the bottom rack of their pushchairs. I tell you, Granny D, my life seems to be sorted, but for this one thing! I am beginning to think that my man doesn’t fancy me anymore. Is there anything that I can do to save our ailing marriage?
Dear Lucinda
Or should I say, ‘poor Lucinda’; I’m no horse racing expert, dear, but isn’t Plumpton a course specifically designed for ‘jump meetings’ (e.g. between September and May)? I’m sure, by now, the irony isn’t lost on you. It sounds to me like flaccid Phil has a second mount at Plumpton, and she’s probably carrying less weight than you, sweety. Sorry, but it’s ‘cruel to be kind’ time. My first husband was such a terrible lover, I had to convince him that I was suffering from narcolepsy; and he seemed quite happy to accept that. In fact, he would have died in ignorance had he not have gone out and found himself a bit on the side, the silly old fool. From what I gather, he had asked his mistress to pleasure herself with a carrot, whilst he was to turn up unexpectedly (at 7.00pm on the dot – well, it was supposed to be role-play) pretending to be Alan Titchmarsh returning from his allotment, and would invariably catch her in bed with her lover (presumably, my husband). As things worked out, the following evening he arrived at her house wearing his wellies, a floppy hat bearing the legend, ‘The Lawn Ranger’, and carrying a brand new pair of secateurs. After rushing up the stairs like Frankie Dettori on speed, he caught her lying on the bed frantically strumming her lady harp with a Chantenay. He was absolutely devastated! It put him right off root vegetables for the next six months. But that’s how life is, Lucinda; had she have used a late variety of Bolero, or even a generously sized parsnip, things might have been so different.
But let’s get back to your problem. I did notice that you also said you’d been married for seven years. HELLO! All the pieces are there, put them together and the jig saw will tell you a story. The question is, do you still want the cheating bastard? For arguement's sake, I'm going to assume that your fear of being left for a younger, slimmer, probably more attractive woman than yourself will lead you in that direction. So this is what I want you to do; get on that internet and click on http://buyviagraonlinenow.co.uk/ Then, slip a couple of them into his evening cocoa. In fact, no, make it three. Never mind the instructions, it’s not an exact science and, anyway, those pharmaceutical companies always tend to err on the side of caution. If that doesn’t work, try clicking on http://www.ukdivorcelawyers.co.uk/ And if you follow my advice, Lucinda, I guarantee that at least one of you will end up getting shafted!
Tally-Ho!
Granny D
Dear Granny D
Over the past eight or nine months, my husband, Phil, and I haven’t exactly been scoring heavily in the bedroom stakes, if you know what I mean. I just can’t seem to get him aroused like I used to. It’s not like he comes home drunk or anything, so I’m guessing that it’s not likely to be brewer’s droop. I don’t think it’s to do with stress levels either, as he generally relaxes by going to race meetings, being as we live so close to Fontwell Park. Having said that, this year he has tended to spend more and more time just down the road at Plumpton racecourse, particularly during the summer months of June, July and August. He says that it’s much firmer going, down there, which apparently makes for better riding conditions; though I’m not entirely sure what that means in horse racing terminology. Still, if that’s where his interest lies, then I don’t want to make him feel hen-pecked by insisting that he takes me along.
I have also tried dressing up in uniforms (nurse’s, French maid’s, WPC’s, etc.), there was even one occasion, knowing how much he likes horses, that I dressed up as a fox-hunter in a red riding jacket, jodhpurs, boots, helmet, the lot. It cost a small fortune to rent all that gear, I can tell you. So, when he didn’t even flinch, I gave him a swift flick on the buttocks with my riding crop. How did he respond? He only picked me up, took me outside and launched me head-first into the privet! I don’t think I need repeat the comments that some of the neighbours came out with; and yes, I did get the one about the ‘neigh-bours’ too!
I just don’t know where I’m going wrong. I don’t seem to have changed all that much in my appearance since we got married seven years ago; maybe the odd couple of pounds on the haunches, but that’s to be expected. I still dress to please and keep regular appointments at the hair salon and at the Dentist’s too. Also, as we never had any children, I don’t even have any of those nasty little slug trails that creep above the thong line like a band of silvery flames; you know the ones, those that you see on the Chavs in Poundland when they bend down to get the wet wipes from the bottom rack of their pushchairs. I tell you, Granny D, my life seems to be sorted, but for this one thing! I am beginning to think that my man doesn’t fancy me anymore. Is there anything that I can do to save our ailing marriage?
Dear Lucinda
Or should I say, ‘poor Lucinda’; I’m no horse racing expert, dear, but isn’t Plumpton a course specifically designed for ‘jump meetings’ (e.g. between September and May)? I’m sure, by now, the irony isn’t lost on you. It sounds to me like flaccid Phil has a second mount at Plumpton, and she’s probably carrying less weight than you, sweety. Sorry, but it’s ‘cruel to be kind’ time. My first husband was such a terrible lover, I had to convince him that I was suffering from narcolepsy; and he seemed quite happy to accept that. In fact, he would have died in ignorance had he not have gone out and found himself a bit on the side, the silly old fool. From what I gather, he had asked his mistress to pleasure herself with a carrot, whilst he was to turn up unexpectedly (at 7.00pm on the dot – well, it was supposed to be role-play) pretending to be Alan Titchmarsh returning from his allotment, and would invariably catch her in bed with her lover (presumably, my husband). As things worked out, the following evening he arrived at her house wearing his wellies, a floppy hat bearing the legend, ‘The Lawn Ranger’, and carrying a brand new pair of secateurs. After rushing up the stairs like Frankie Dettori on speed, he caught her lying on the bed frantically strumming her lady harp with a Chantenay. He was absolutely devastated! It put him right off root vegetables for the next six months. But that’s how life is, Lucinda; had she have used a late variety of Bolero, or even a generously sized parsnip, things might have been so different.
But let’s get back to your problem. I did notice that you also said you’d been married for seven years. HELLO! All the pieces are there, put them together and the jig saw will tell you a story. The question is, do you still want the cheating bastard? For arguement's sake, I'm going to assume that your fear of being left for a younger, slimmer, probably more attractive woman than yourself will lead you in that direction. So this is what I want you to do; get on that internet and click on http://buyviagraonlinenow.co.uk/ Then, slip a couple of them into his evening cocoa. In fact, no, make it three. Never mind the instructions, it’s not an exact science and, anyway, those pharmaceutical companies always tend to err on the side of caution. If that doesn’t work, try clicking on http://www.ukdivorcelawyers.co.uk/ And if you follow my advice, Lucinda, I guarantee that at least one of you will end up getting shafted!
Tally-Ho!
Granny D
