Article first published as Buddies In The Bedroom, Fantasy Football, Guys Named Nick on Technorati.
Madame Floretta "Fern" De Villiers, a.k.a. "Amanda Fox" is an author or erotic fiction and commentary. This is her weekly advice column.
My boyfriend and I have been together for six years. When I met him in college, I knew he’d be someone special in my life. Now that we have been out in the working world for a while and saved up some money, we are planning on getting married. Here’s the problem. I feel like we are more roommates than lovers. For the first year or so of our relationship, we couldn’t get enough of each other. Now, it seems that we’d both rather be knitting socks the color of Easter eggs than having sex. Do you think there is anything wrong with this? Personally, I like to think that Ben and I have moved past all that primal humping stuff to where we now we have the best friendship ever.
Subdued In Saarbruecken
Do you know what would happen if a beaver got locked in a cage with only a blanket and a bag of Junior Mints? Its teeth would grow around its head (no thanks to the mints); they’d poke into its brain and it would die. Moral: Beavers need to gnaw on wood in order to survive.
Do you know what would happen if you put Sarah Richardson (from Sarah 101) in a room where the drapes clashed with the furniture clashed with the throw pillows clashed with the wall treatments? She would slowly go insane, pulling hair-by-hair out of her head until she looked like Mike Holmes and/or Bryan Bauemler. Moral: Sarah Richardson needs things to match. Her mental wellbeing depends on it.
Do you know what would happen if you took away Paris Hilton’s credit cards? She would probably shrivel up on the sidewalk outside of Selfridges and die, sort of like the Wicked Witch of the West did in The Wizard Of Oz. Moral: Paris Hilton needs to spend money on stuff she doesn’t need.
Do you know what would happen if a man tried to abstain from having sexual relations for the express purpose of getting closer to God? After trying to hold back for a while, he would then go out and get sex from the closest available source – altar boys usually fit the bill. Moral: men of the cloth are still human and forcing them to abstain just makes them hornier and more likely to do something stupid.
Do you know what would happen if two people were in a relationship where there was NO sex? The minute someone half decent came sniffing around, one or both of them would succumb to having an affair faster than you can say ‘Knick knack paddy whack, give a dog a bone’.” Thus, methinks you need to do something about your relationship or risk it exploding in your face.
Any thoughts on that new lingerie football league?
I’d Sure Like To See You In A Sweaty White Wife-Beater [Snicker, Snicker]
Dear I Only Do Lace Thanks,
Can you say gang tackle? Bring it on, baby!!!
What is it with guys named Nick? I’ve met four of them now and they’ve all turned out to be complete duds. Take Nick F. for example. I met him online about five years ago and for our first date, he took me for what he called a “scenic drive in the country”. It was scenic, all right. After picking me up, he proceeded to drive out to a nearby nature reserve where he parked his truck alongside the road, changed into a camouflage jumpsuit, pulled out a shotgun, and told me to “Watch for the cops.”
After sitting there for about two hours, he finally returned dragging a deer behind him. Proceeding to skin and chop the poor thing up, he put the hunks of meat in large, plastic Ziploc bags and threw them into the back of his truck before then driving me home. I swear, I’ll never mention “liking the outdoors” in my online profiles ever again.
The second Nick – Nick M. – I met at a fairly high-class restaurant where I’d taken my grandmother for her eightieth birthday. Nick was our waiter and he flirted with me the whole evening. Thinking he was really cute, I left my phone number on the napkin with the tip. When he called me the next night and asked me out, of course I said yes. Heading over to his place for “drinks”, I was shocked when he began snorting line after line of cocaine until he passed out on the couch. Needless to say, that didn’t work out either.
Then there was Nick R. who initially seemed great, but as soon as we started getting intimate, I discovered that “he” was really a “she” – a girl named Nicole who had taped her chest and stuffed a sock in her pants. As I am not really into other females, I said goodbye to her too.
So what’s my problem? I should simply stay away from guys named Nick, right? Oh, how I wish it were that simple. You see, a couple of weeks ago, I met this new guy – a friend of a friend who’d just moved into town. Here’s the issue. Sure, the guy’s name is Nick, but he is incredible. He is super good-looking, smart, funny, everything I’d ever want in a potential boyfriend or husband. I can’t find anything wrong with him – yet. But as my track record with guys named Nick has been so bad, I feel like I should just tell him to get lost now before wasting any more time. What if I’m wrong though? What if Nick P. and I are perfect for one another and judging him based on something as trivial as a few letters strung together causes me to miss out on the love of my life? Do you think it’s possible that all guys named Nick are bad? Any advice?
“Nick” Knack Paddy Whack, Give A Dog A Bone
Dear This Old Man Came Rolling Home
OMG, I have the same problem with guys named Damien, though for me, it only took meeting one to realize that this was the name of the devil himself. From the first moment we met, I knew Damien was bad news. And maybe it had something to do with the fact that we met at the Lusty Lady Peepshow Emporium, but whatever.
You should’ve seen him though. He was unbelievably gorgeous, looking all otherworldly and hot in a long, pink robe and matching cape. (I know, and here you thought the devil would be wearing black – nope.) His hair was also styled perfectly, like Dean Cain’s, and his skin was unmarred and creamy, again, a lot like Dean Cain’s. He was so charming, so wonderful and witty, that no woman could resist talking to him, which is why I immediately said yes when he asked, “Hey, can I share your booth? You pay.”
When we started kissing after only knowing each other for two minutes (and yes, that’s how powerful the devil really is), I discovered the numbers “616” – the original number of the beast – tattooed behind his left ear. (And here you thought it would be “666”. Again, you’d be wrong.) When I touched him, it was like touching a warm baby rabbit with one hand and a Chinchilla fur coat with the other. And that Damien, he was such a bad boy. Right there in our stall, he did all kinds of things to me and I gladly let him. Too bad he left me naked and writhing in my own wantonness the very second HIS lust was satisfied. OK, so I’ve spent the past ten years trying to find another Damien, but I’ll admit, it’s for all the wrong reasons.
I will say however that what sometimes SEEMS like the universe trying to warn you against something can often turn out to be just a series of false alarms. Sometimes things are simply coincidences, like the other day when I was on my way to have my bikini waxed, which is not something I normally do but I had this photo shoot for the “2011 Writers of America Calendar” coming up and I needed to look “tidy”, if you get my meaning.
Anyway, as I was heading out the door, I tripped and fell over a newspaper that someone had left in the middle of the front stoop – obstacle number one. “No worries,” I said to myself. Having smashed my head into the railing, I went back in the house to get a band-aid for my face. In my haste, I fell going up the steps, banging my knee and causing it to bleed as well – obstacle number two. “It’s OK,” I chortled while rummaging around in the bathroom for some gauze. Reaching to the very back of the cabinet, amidst the old bottles of cleaner and used cleaning rags, I felt something strange jab on my hand. It was like a pinch or a bee sting or something else sharp and hurtful. Yanking out my arm with a loud, “What the heck?” I was stunned to see a very large, brown spider, his fangs penetrating my flesh. Trying not to panic as I knew it was the potentially deadly Brown Recluse Spider (otherwise known as the fiddleback or violin spider), I rushed back outside and shook him off into the garden. “There you go, you little dickens,” I chided.
With ten minutes still to go before my bikini wax, I washed up and hurried to my destination. A whopping $200 speeding ticket and a broken toe from somehow stomping on my own foot later, my pelvic region was as clean and smooth as a baby’s bottom. And it didn’t matter that by the end, my hand had swollen to the size of a football and I had to go on intravenous antibiotics for three days and receive two rounds of electric shock treatment to prevent necrosis from setting in. “These things happen,” I proclaimed to the world.
So you see, meeting all of these “bad” Nicks probably means absolutely nothing. Accept your dream man into your life and be happy.
BTW, I think that Robert Pattinson is an example of “baryonic dark matter”.
I keep catching my husband in lies. Like the other day, I went to the bank to check on some money I had coming to me from work. As I leave most of the financial matters in our house to Volker, I know very little about the daily input and output of our funds. I just trust that he knows what he is doing – he IS an accountant, after all. Wasn’t I surprised to find out that every week for the past year, a mysterious four hundred dollars gets withdrawn from our account? When I confronted him about it, he denied that it was even happening, but then I showed him the bank statements. Holding the papers, he shuffled from side to side and his cheeks got really red. “Oh, well…” he stammered. “I donate that money to a charity for heart disease. After my dad died last year, I just needed to do something.”
“What is the name of the organization?” I needed further clarification. “Is it ‘The Heart And Stroke Foundation’?”
“No. It’s more of a private group. But don’t worry about it.” He turned to leave the room.
I stepped in front of him. “I AM worried about it. This is OUR money we are talking about here. Why didn’t you mention this to me before?”
“I meant to, but then the day I set it up with the bank, you were having one of your migraines, and then the next day you were out of town again for work. And after that, I just forgot.”
After twenty minutes of “I honestly don’t give a crap if the neighbors hear us” badgering, I found out that he gives the money to this woman in his office. “She really needs it,” he said. “She has nothing and no one and without the money, she may end up on the street.” OK, so the woman only works part-time as a janitor and she is a single mom with four kids to feed. But Lola also has DD sized breasts and she looks identical to Jessica Alba.
Fern, do you think I am being ridiculous here? Our two incomes combined, we DO make a lot of money and we live quite comfortably. Maybe I’m just being selfish.
Also though, I asked Volker the other day who ate the last slice of pumpkin pie that I was saving for myself and he said that it was Frantz, our dog. Clearly, HE ate it. He had whipped cream in the corners of his mouth. What should I do?
(He’s) Dishonest In Dusseldorf
Let me get this straight. Your husband is an accountant. His father died of a heart attack. You get migraines quite frequently and you have a dog named Frantz. You are out of town a lot on business. Thus, your husband is probably cheating on you with the office cleaning lady. It’s sounding like a pretty normal life to me.
As for the “Lola” thing, I’ll bet I can guess how it happened. Your husband was probably working late one night feeling lonely and sexually deprived when Lola came along with her mop and bucket. “Hi Mr. Jones (or whatever your last name happens to be),” she cooed, sashaying past his desk, her skirt hemmed a little shorter than it was when she bought it. “I see that you’re working late tonight.”
Volker leaned back in his chair, folding his hands contemplatively across his protruding “inactive man” belly. “Oh, hi Lola. Yes, I am working late tonight.” He checked out her legs – the toned, brown length of them.
“Well, I’ll just be a few minutes in here cleaning, if that’s OK with you? I wouldn’t want to disturb your work.”
“My goodness, Lola. You could never disturb me. You just do whatever it is you need to do.” He watched her move and wondered what her skin felt like. She always looked so supple and smooth.
“Great.” Lola cleaned and dusted away, gradually moving closer and closer to Volker’s desk. “If you don’t mind, I’ll just wipe this off for you…” She bent over with her rag, exposing her ample and inviting cleavage.
Volker knew he was in trouble. “Ummm, Lola…” His pants suddenly felt very tight.
“Yes, Mr. Jones?” Her eyes were big and brown like those of a baby deer.
“I think you missed a spot.” He looked down at his swelling pelvic region.
“Oh Mr. Jones. Are you a dirty boy? Do you need some cleaning too?”
“Yes, Lola. Yes, I do…”
And the rest is history. Volker is now doing his best to support the love child that he and Lola made that night, or some night in the weeks and months that followed.
But as I said before, this whole situation sounds very normal to me. Besides, can you really expect your husband to tell you the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth ALL THE TIME? I think not. You would hate each other if he did.
And you can’t always be worrying about IF he’s lying and if he’s not. You can’t live your life asking, “Is this a lie? Is that a lie? Is that no good husband of mine sleeping with the office cleaning lady behind my back?” You will drive yourself absolutely insane. So if everything else in your life is going well, then I say leave things the way they are. And yes, Lola probably does need the money more than you do, so give the poor woman a break.
As for your husband, look on the bright side – he isn’t shirking his responsibility when it comes to the baby. Give him props for that, at least.
Causes Amanda Raynor Supports
The Ottawa Humane Society, The National Capital Region YMCA/YWCA, Harvest House in Ottawa,