How to Kill Your Husband (and other handy household hints) by Kathy Lette (top 10 novels to read TXT) 📗

orgasm during intercourse.’ Bianca’s voice was syrupy with sincerity. ‘And I am going to show you how to fix that. Class, open your eyes.’

We were greeted by the sight of an anatomically correct inflatable woman lying, legs akimbo, on the floor before us. ‘Now, I’d like a volunteer.’

I stifled a laugh. Finally we had a partner for the toupeed man’s imaginary friend. Our ‘therapist’ had at last pushed the boundaries of reality too far. But to my amazement, all the men put their hands up to volunteer. A minute later I watched in a state of dazed disbelief as my husband was instructed on how to stroke his inflatable date to orgasm. He was advised on what pressure and rhythm and digit to use. Having mastered the finger, thumb and palm techniques, Bianca then instructed him on when to apply pressure to the pubic bone, when to pull on the plastic clitoris and when and how to rub her rubber labia. ‘Manual over other forms of stimulation are preferred,’ Bianca advised. ‘You don’t drive a car with your tongue, now do you? Once we’ve mastered manual stimulation, we can move onto cunnilingus. Now, if this doll were me, my genitals would be swelling with blood, my pulse would be racing, my muscles contracting involuntarily. My feet would be arching and shaking. My breasts would heave . . .’ As her voice crescendoed, Bianca’s cleavage, which was levered up near her chin by her lace underwear, jumped up and down. ‘Sweat would be surfacing on my breasts. My heart would pump frantically as my breathing becomes fast and shallow. Oh yes. Faster, harder, faster. Harder!!’

As the doll neared its imaginary orgasm, Bianca helpfully provided the soundtrack and running commentary. ‘Oh yes . . . Yes . . . YES!! Excellent, Rory! Don’t stop! Don’t stop!’

I noted my husband’s flushed cheeks and panting breath. For someone who hated therapy, he sure could put on a brave face.

‘My nostrils flare and now my climax, with contractions at consistent 0.8-second intervals, will put me into an orgasmic spasm. Faster! Faster!! Harder!! HARDER!! FASTERRRR . . .’

Rory’s fingers were flying in and out and up and down the plastic pudenda. And then Bianca moaned so loudly it shook the cheap walnut panelling.

‘Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhooooohhhhohohohohoh . . .”

As Bianca’s purrs subsided into silence, the only sound was the pinging of men’s fly buttons popping across the room.

‘Very good. Note how a warm glow envelops my waist and chest. Even my toes relax. At my sexual summit, a total paroxysm of pleasure was reached. Well done, Rory.’ Then she pulled the plug on her inflatable woman. ‘This week’s revision is for you all to try these techniques at home.’

I looked at the plastic woman who was crumpling in on herself with a sad sigh. But we were amateurs! Wasn’t it dangerous? We didn’t have a licence to operate such heavy machinery.

But at Bianca’s insistence, that was how Rory and I spent the next week, just the two of us, cosied up on the bed – a searchlight trained up my fanny, Karma Sutra open on page 362, studying diagrams and consulting the text. What, you ask, could be better? Well, from my point of view, just about bloody anything.

‘Just about anything’ was also starting to sum up Jazz’s recreational sexual activities. She had dyed her hair blonder, no doubt so that men could find her more easily in the dark. First came her plumber. ‘He really has sorted out my pipes,’ she chirruped gleefully.

‘I need a man who is good at DIY too – so he can fix my pelvic floor.’ I crossed my legs, needing the loo, and glanced around Sotheby’s auction room. Sotheby’s is like an orphanage for heirlooms. Hannah was bidding on a bulging commode, which looked like a chest of drawers that had over-eaten.

‘And he’s such a man. A real man, you know?’ Jazz added dreamily.

‘Man? He’s not a man,’ Hannah scoffed. ‘He’s a marital aid. Getting yourself secretly serviced by a bit of rough is not a fulfilling alternative to a more intellectual relationship.’

‘Maybe not. But by God it’s fun! Look, you can smell him in my hair.’ Jazz leaned towards us. ‘Here, take a whiff.’

‘Ugh! Get away! Can’t you just use hairspray, like any normal woman?’ I asked her, appalled. But had to admit to a twinge of jealousy. Fun? What a long-forgotten F word that was.

Her next conquest was an alternative comic.

‘Alternative to what? Being funny?’ I asked, peering at the ‘windswept and interesting’ photo on his flyer. We were making our monthly sortie up the motorway to Costco, the wholesale warehouse on the North Circular, in Jazz’s Volvo estate.

‘Let me guess. He performs a one-man show . . . and there are more people on the stage than in the audience?’ Hannah chortled, crumpling the pamphlet. ‘What on earth attracted you to a putz like that?’

‘Because his opening line was to ask me did I know which two fingers are the most effective for women to use during masturbation. Then held up his own hand and said, “Mine.”

Hannah barked out another derisive laugh. ‘I cannot believe you fell for that.’

‘Yes, Jazz. If only laughter really were the best medicine, we’d be so healthy now!’ I added. But why did I feel sick with envy?

The next man on her menu was her car mechanic, a biker named Jism. ‘Apparently he changed his name to get back into the pubs which have banned him.’

‘Really?’ I asked, intrigued. ‘Now that’s what I call Alcoholics Anonymous.’

It was a Saturday afternoon and I’d brought my kids around for a swim in Jazz’s basement pool while she waited for a man Studz had organised to evaluate the property for insurance purposes.

‘He’s mad about me,’ Jazz giggled. ‘My bikie.’

‘Must be a condition of his probation,’ Hannah retorted.

‘When he wants sex he says that it’s time to “unleash the meat sabre”. Isn’t that adorable? And he’s not kidding. One night he wore a fluorescent-coloured condom. When I turned off the light, I thought I was going to bed