But the penumbra of disappointment o’er shadows us all, even our very pogo sticks - once so resplendent - now grow cold and despondent. Our fetish gear lies discarded and forgotten heaped untidily in the bottom drawer of all our possibilities, while the sex badgers and perversion weasels, their coatings of exotic unguents and lubricants long dried and flaking, grow fat, torpid and unloved in the sex arenas of neglect.
Our sex spatulas rust, corrode or rot, as they lie unused and forgotten in our sex utensil drawers. The various traffic wardens, quantity surveyors and local rugby teams grow tied of waiting, get dressed again and go about their business with lowered eyes and the air of sadness all around them that comes from unfulfilled dreams.
And what of you, my love, who – once upon a time – would think nothing of walking naked, except for stockings, suspenders (with integral watermelon harness and a brace of sex spatulas, into the Little Frigging fire station to challenge all three shifts to see who would tire first; you, or them.
Then, 24 hours later, it would – inevitably – you who would be the one to walk out with your watermelon-stained laddered stockings, Strom Thighhammer’s drooping fireman helmet and the broad grin of victory on your face, whilst the last embers of a burning building smouldered forgotten on the horizon.
Ah, such times… such times.
All things, though, must come to an end, even if only temporarily – otherwise we would not be able to fit them – however untidily – in our sex utensil drawers.
So, this is it. There will be no more of this for a time (or two).
Thank you and Good-bye for now.
Norbert and Maureen Trouser-Quandary.