Thursday, October 6, 2011

Whither the Lemon Meringue?


If not the donkey, then whither the lemon meringue?”* I'm sure the very same thought must have crossed all our minds at some point as we all inspect our collection of fetish gear and check we have enough fresh batteries to last an entire weekend orgy (with buffet) in the village hall.

Sometimes, it all looks pristine and ready for action, much like Strom Thighhammer striding manfully into the village hall with his chopper already firmly in his grasp. Other times, though, everything looks a little like Old Feebletrousers after a long night's heavy philosophising in the snug of The Pervert's Appendage, a little worse for wear, frayed around the edges, strangely damp and smelling of something we know not the wot of.

Maybe your latex quantity surveyor outfit has seen better days, lost its lustre, or your once-mighty Donkey Trembler 78000B intimate massage device now splutters along like an unserviced East European people's car from before the fall of the Berlin Wall, or you donkey jacket has more peep holes than when you first wore it, or your bargepole looks more akin to a toothpick.

However, do not be downcast, for even the thought of spending several intimate hours with say, the ladies from the cake shop, our very own Postmistress, Labia Entanglements, or a brace of dairymaids should be enough to have you standing proud once more. As long as you are there at the village hall in time for the orgy and throw yourself into it with all the abandon of a vicar at at Parish Bring and Buy Fetish Gear jumble sale then I'm sure your coming will be appreciated by everyone there.


*Also Spake the Lemon Meringue - Friedrich Nietzsche (1844-1900)

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