“I couldn’t help noticing,” said the amused business-type man in the urinal next to me, “and I promise I wasn’t looking, but…” “No, it’s okay,” I smiled, “people mention it all the time. I’ve got a massive cock, it’s all right. It does,” I continued while desperately thinking of a joke, “cause some problems on buses, though.”
Everyone laughed. I continued to pee through my six-foot-long penis.
This was a difficult endeavour, as my penis was six feet long and incredibly hard, to the point that it was almost touching the ceiling. If I angled my whole body forwards and put the right sort of force into it, I could hit the urinal (or the drain on the floor). I alternated between both while thinking about the Guardians of the Galaxy to pass the time.
I was just thinking about how fortunate I was that the anonymous man hadn’t noticed that I had an erection (or hadn’t mentioned it) when Robinson entered the toilet and pointed.
“Wow, look at that!” he said. “You’ve got to show someone that!” “You haven’t seen my penis before?”
I was genuinely surprised. I’ve known Robinson since I was two. He’s definitely seen my penis, although probably not erect. And probably not that big, either.
“No, I mean show some other people! HEY! COME AND HAVE A LOOK AT THIS!” At which point Mane and my hairy friend came in.
“Very impressive,” said Mane. “I’ll go and get [my friend-who-is-a-teacher] and [the scene girl], so they can see.” And he departed.
Thus I was put in a position of trying to maintain an erection in a penis roughly the same size as my actual height, in order for two friends to see, when I didn’t really want them to see my cock, no matter how huge it may have been. It may not come as a surprise, therefore, that I found this difficult, and before I could summon any dirty thoughts, I was flaccid… and with a penis only a few centimetres long.
Neither scene girl nor the friend-who-is-a-teacher saw anything when they entered the toilet, and left quickly when they realised where they were.
The dream ended at that point, coinciding with my waking up, and while quickly checking that I don’t genuinely have a priapic dick the average height of a White Rhino, I made my way to the bathroom in my house, feeling both grateful and guilty for something that really didn’t happen.
I’ve got a big penis, sure… it’s just not that big!
“Hey, can I tell you about my penis? I mean, my dream?” I asked my wife. “Do you have to?” “No, it’s funny, honestly!” “Can you tell someone else?”
It didn’t seem like the right time – not really. Ten years ago I was still relatively newly single, having broken up with my third girlfriend a month prior (officially, at least; we had sort of been breaking up for a while before that). I hadn’t been ready for that relationship, either, as I was still hurting from being jettisoned from my second without prior warning.
Twitter makes people do strange things.
The one who is now my wife was there for me, though. Neither of us were in a particularly good place – Life had not been too kind to either of us – but, at the end of the day, we were there for each other. We had the same interests, laughed at the same things. Innocent Loverboy and Jillian Boyd may have been vibing for a while, but as we spent more time together, our “offline” personas seemed to click.
Things went from one stage to another, and then another. We ended up in their bed, I almost evolved, and that was the day Sylvia Kristel died. I raised a glass in her honour, and then other things raised. Back to bed for us.
Perhaps predictably (because it’s me), I realised that we were falling in love in the middle of sex. I asked them out, officially, with my UNUSUALLY LARGE PENIS buried deep inside them. Our first real date was to a fried chicken shop. I don’t even eat chicken.
[Pause while ILB takes a sip of 7up, the drink he had on that first date.]
In those years, much has changed. Everything had, and so have we, as people. The fact that I still write a sex blog is one of the very few things that have remained constant throughout the roller-coaster explosion that has been our love. It hasn’t all been good, but then it certainly hasn’t been bad. I fall in love too easily – this is true – but, this time, I’ve learned a lot more about love than I’d ever have thought possible.
A step. The slap of rubber sole against concrete. Another. The same.
Hiss. The bus has arrived. I’m not getting it today, but its presence – the fact that it runs at all – is reassuring. It’s a form of escape, almost.
“Hi, ILB. You all right?” “H… h… h… cough, cough.” I breathe in. “Rachel. He… cough, cough.”
Rachel pauses. I manage a smile, but it hurts too much.
“You… okay? Cough?” “Okay, yes, but you sound really bad, ILB. You should go home and have a hot drink. More than one hot drink. Get some fluids down you. Just…”
Wheeze. That’s my throat making that noise. It’s meant to be a thanks, but there isn’t one forthcoming. There won’t be for a while.
A sidestep. The slap of rubber sole against linoleum. Another. The same.
Hiss. The hot water has boiled. I don’t have long now, but its availability – the fact that it exists it begin with – is reassuring. It’s the blood of life, almost.
“Hi, ILB. You all right?” “H… h… h… cough, cough.” I breathe in. “Sophie. He… cough, cough.”
I pause. Sophie manages a smile. She looks tired.
“You… okay? Cough?” “Okay, yes, but you sound really bad, ILB. You should sit and have a hot drink. More than one hot drink. Get some caffeine. Just…” “No, really. Cough. You okay?”
There is the slight flicker of recognition across Sophie’s face as she realises what I’m asking about. There’s that smile again.
Wheeze. That’s my throat making that noise. It’s meant to be more, but there isn’t more forthcoming. There won’t be for a while.
“I’m okay. Enjoy your tea.” With which she melts away.
As the sounds of our lives echo through my memory, history repeats itself once again.
TEAM AQUA GRUNT sent out POOCHYENA! POOCHYENA used BITE! What will WINGULL do?
I sat on the steps, shielded from the sun’s rays, a couple of metres from the left lion. Nottingham had been good to me for the past few days and, although I had nothing to do and nowhere to go, I could sit partially separated from the hustle and bustle of the Old Market Square and play Pokémon Sapphire.
I could get used to this, I reasoned.
Thinking back on it, I needed something to get used to. I knew Nottingham well, and was used to its intricacies, but I was not used to the activities I’d been partaking in all week. It had been too much effort for too little reward – and, since I’d been staying in hotels and eating in restaurants, too much money as well. I had also recently been called “wanker!” by somebody old and wise enough to know better.
Wiping away a tear, I carefully set aside my GBA and considered heading back to the hotel to see if they had another room. It wouldn’t have been affordable, perhaps, but maybe the pretty girl was still there. Old Market Square was lovely, but (unlike the action-packed morning I’d had the day beforehand, when an old man collapsed and I waited for the ambulance for half an hour…).
Maybe I could go to another restaurant.
My body screamed as I wrenched myself off the marble and started ambling towards The Cornerhouse. I passed a record shop in which a band had once played an intimate gig. A band which a girl I had a crush on liked. I didn’t know the band at all, but I knew she liked them.
And my thoughts ran away with that tiny memory.
What was she doing now? Where was she? Would I see her again? Was she having sex? Had she ever had sex? Would she ever have sex with me? How many people here, on this little street in Nottingham City Centre, have had sex? And how many of them have done so in the last 24 hours?
The last 12? The last 6? The last 3?
How many people on this street are on their way home from, or on their way to, the home (or hotel room) of someone with whom they were having sex? Maybe that confident-looking man on the other side of the street was having sex less than ten minutes ago and is still coming down from the feeling.
Last five minutes. Three.
I wish I’d been having sex two minutes ago and was still coming down from the feeling, although unlike the confident-looking man, I probably wouldn’t be walking down the street. I might be cuddling her instead.
In all honesty, I would really like a cuddle.
By the time I got to The Cornerhouse, I was absolutely convinced that everyone I’d passed had been having beautiful sex for the entire year and, furthermore, I was the only one who had missed out on this. I felt like such an interloper, me being this physically repulsive, scruffy wanker who spent his time playing Pokémon and thinking about pretty girls, all at sea in this shining beacon of sexual energy called Nottingham, where I certainly didn’t belong even though I was living there at the time, because I sure as Hell wasn’t good enough.
Burning with shame, I found a Bella Italia which did sherbet lemons instead of after dinner mints. I took a couple and, to assuage any guilt, took a table and ordered myself some food.
The waitress who served me had definitely had sex in the last twenty-four hours.
I felt better after dinner, and walked out into the dusky city, now looking for somewhere else to spend the night.
“Hey,” I said to my mother. “Some of the girls at my school are saying Berrie fancies me.” “Well, you’re going to have to get used to this,” she answered. “Throughout your life, there are going to be lots of girls that fancy you,” she lied smoothly. “What? Why?” “Because you’re tall and you’re handsome and you’re clever,” she continued to lie, “and girls like all those…” “Mum, I’m not handsome!” I moaned, rolling my eyes. “And everyone at school hates me because I’m clever! And being tall isn’t an advantage; it’s much more difficult to hide from adversaries!” “…” “…” “…so tell me about Berrie?”
But there wasn’t much to tell her. I didn’t know her very well. I knew her name and that she was in a different class from me. If I strained my memory, I could picture her in my head. That was about it.
“And she’s in love with you,” added my mother. “Mum! She’s not in love with me!” I yelped. “So she likes you,” she steamrollered on, “and do you like her?” “What? That’s GROSS! I don’t want a girlfriend! I’m not into that!” (Eleven-year-old ILB was convinced that he was immune to the burgeoning feelings everyone else was talking about. A year or so later, previously asexual ILB started getting unexpected and intense crushes, but that was a bad time for all involved.) “So you’re not even interested a little? Is she pretty?” “Aaaaaaaaargh!”
I put it out of my head, as best I could, for the rest of the year. Every now and again, one of the bolder girls who giggled a lot would sidle up to me in the playground and whisper “Berrie fancies you” before evaporating into the ether before I could respond. I went to the school leavers’ disco (for some reason) and spent the entire time by the buffet table; a gaggle of girls swept over to me and asked me to dance with Berrie, which I politely but firmly declined.
Throughout this whole debacle, however, there was one crucial variable missing from the equation: Berrie. As above, I didn’t know her particularly well, and as far as I was aware at this point, neither of us had ever said a single word to the other. She remained both distant and unclear, and since we had no point of contact, that wasn’t entirely unforeseen. If it was her sending the missives, she wasn’t making too much of an effort.
On the last day of school, out of the corner of my eye, I saw her taking a picture of me. I pretended not to notice.
*
“I had a dream last night about my new school. Berrie was in it and she kept pulling me around corridors by my sleeve.” “Berrie? Is she still madly in love with you?” “Muuuuuuuuuuuuum!”
And just like that, she was a constant presence in my life. Whether in the classroom in a distant corner, sitting near me in the lunch hall (near enough to exchange pleasantries, not right next to me), getting touched up by my bully in year 8 Maths (“yes, I am, and I’m enjoyin’ it”), or eventually appearing in my life four times a week since we went to the same church and Christian youth group, there she was. Four years after hardly being aware of her presence, here we were as friends.
I hugged her once in the swimming pool, which made her turn bright red. At once, the questions started again, although from her best friend this time.
“Why did you want a hug from her?” “I… I like hugs?” “But from her, specifically?” “I hugged Mark too…?” “He doesn’t count. Why her? Do you fancy her?” “No! I don’t! Just because she fancied me when we were in year 6 doesn’t mean that…” “…wait, what?”
Whoops. I wasn’t supposed to know, clearly.
But now we had a line of communication. The best friend made a few inquiries and took great pains to assure me, while not looking me in the eye or speaking particularly loudly, that what had happened in primary school hadn’t happened: Berrie had not fancied me, the five or six girls who all told me the same thing were having a laugh, and that she didn’t have a single picture of me anywhere in her house.
She couldn’t explain the missive asking me to dance. It all seemed a little suspect to me, to be honest. But, due to the fact that I was dying a thousand deaths from the crush I had at the time on the silver girl who bore the same name as Berrie, she was more interested in that.
I thought it best to drop the subject.
*
Lightsinthesky somehow found out that Berrie had recently become single the week after I did. As far as I was aware, this was private information and I had no clue whatsoever how he found out. Of course, he made no secret of the fact that he considered her fair game pretty soon afterwards.
“Hey, do you know if she has another boyfriend yet?” “Well, no,” I admitted, “but from what I’ve heard she goes through boyfriends pretty quickly…” “Right. But, I mean, does she have a crush on anyone? Anyone you know? It’s difficult to tell if a girl fancies you, right?”
Therefore God gave them over in the sinful desires of their hearts to sexual impurity for the degrading of their bodies with one another. They exchanged the truth of God for a lie, and worshipped and served created things rather than the Creator – who is forever praised.
Romans 1:24-27
Admit it, you’ve never heard of Sinful Desires, have you? Maybe you have – it sounds very much like one of those ’90s erotic thrillers you saw on late-night cable as a teen; then again, they’re all called things like Sins of the Night II and Indecent Behaviour IV: The Search for Clothes. This could just as easily be one of them. A reader of this here blog suggested I do this review and it took me a few minutes to identify which one this is.
I think I’ve seen it…
Appearance:Sinful Desires (2001) Characters: Lorena Collins & Jonathan Taylor
The first thing that jumps out at me is the actors involved. Lorena is played by Nikita Cash, of whom I’m actually aware – I’ve seen her in things before – and Jonathan is played by Craig Stepp, who is credited here as “Craig Field”. A steppe is a bit like a field. Please tell me that’s deliberate.
The back story…
Sinful Desires is a standard – but solid – erotic thriller whodunnit thing which is mainly focused around an American-style late-night call-in show hosted by Gia (Jacy Andrews) – real name Angelica. Gia begins to get a caller dropping hints as to her true identity, and slowly comes to realise that she is being stalked.
Hence the name of the film, Intimate Secrets, as that is what the caller is sharing.
And yes, I know the film isn’t called Intimate Secrets. It just… should be called that.
Gia’s boss Jonathan (Craig Shrubland) is mostly interested in making money from her show, and her best friend Lorena (Cash) works in the local bar where Gina drowns her sorrows. Quite why Jonathan and Lorena end up having sex I don’t recall, but hey ho.
The scene itself…
This scene is about three minutes long and doesn’t waste a lot of time getting into the action. It does briefly start with a kiss – a genuine-looking one – but three seconds in there’s a mix fade to both Cash and Savannah naked and already doing a lot more than kissing! Way to economise on screentime, movie!
Stepp down on it…
Something that I’m noticing is that, in the first thirty seconds, nothing is wasted. It’s all very fast – kisses, frottage, breast sucking, stomach licking and “good ol’ soft porn cunnilingus” (you can tell, because Lorena moans a lot) – and it comes at you with such a speed that you genuinely can’t get bored with this. Cash is doing quite a lot with her body, as well – grabbing her boobs and rocking back and forth – rather than just making a face while Grassland’s head is between her legs. It’s more realistic, and I like that.
At around the one-minute mark, sex starts. The scene takes place on a sofa (with exotic fake plants in the background, to make it more porn-y) and leopard print cushions (taaaaaaaasteless!), but it’s a good prop for which bouncy cowgirl sex to happen, and that’s what Lorena is doing.
Can’t stand pat, swear you gotta Stepp it up and go…
In fact, we get Lorena riding Jonathan for a while, from a number of angles – plenty of variety of facial expressions (including some very funny ones from Plateau!), lots of hair action from Cash (she has very good hair in this flick), and some very fast and very hard action that quite closely resembles actual sex. You know that moment during sex when you sort of lose control and just go for it? Yeah, this is that moment.
We also get missionary from about 01:47, which has just as much energy (even if the sofa is too small and Jonathan has to be standing up for some of this: a curious bit of design). Once again, there are a lot of quick cuts between angles, but the few seconds of sex at each angle are long enough to clarify what’s happening, so you don’t lose focus.
Drums bangin’, steel twangin’, two Steppin’, end to end…
In fact, towards the end there’s a “this is an orgasm” moment, where Jonathan pauses and lets out a “hyah!” sound, and then they both kind of ride it out to the end of the scene. Job done.
The verdict…
There’s a lot to unpack in this scene. It’s certainly full of desperate, horny energy (although it lacks the intensity of something like Lisa Boyle in Elke, it’s close) and both Cash/Lorena and TemperateBiome/Jonathan are giving it a lot. There’s a lot of movement, a lack of control – in fact, the whole thing looks messy at points, which sex is – and they both make a good sound.
I also quite like the fact that the character of Jonathan is a little older. Throughout this, Prairie has greying hair, so they haven’t tried to make him a little younger. As someone who’s beginning to feel his age, I appreciate this!
Every time I see you in the world, you always Stepp to my girl…
If the moans are overlaid in post-production, they’ve done a good job. These look live. The music, sadly, is bland and uninspired, but it’s not so intrusive as to be a distraction. Overall, this is a good scene.
Strangely enough, however, if the reviews are to be believed, this is one of the worse scenes in Sinful Desires. Everything I’ve seen suggests that the main draw is the star, Jacy Andrews, and that her scenes are the ones you’re watching this for. I haven’t actually seen anything with Jacy Andrews in before, and since I think this scene is hot, the prospect of something better is an intriguing one.
So let’s get the whole film, then. I mean, I’m not doing anything tomorrow, am I? Why not?
Earlier this week I had two dental appointments, on two different days, with two different dentists at two different practices. I even had to rush out of work in order to make them – either by cajoling my dad into giving me a lift or making creative use of the North London bus network – but make them I did.
As a result, I now have a repaired filling on the top row of teeth, and a still-open wound on the bottom row, which feels okay most of the time but occasionally starts bleeding.
Kiss me if you want; my mouth is fascinating.
The week before last, in preparation for the same, I went to the dentist for a five-minute “sure, come back in a week” conversation that could have really happened via text…
…and bumped into “Chanel”, someone who, I suddenly remembered with a start, everyone had wanted to fuck.
Basically a representation of what the boys at my school were like.
I didn’t really know her at school – apart from her name and what she looked like. Our predefined social circles never crossed over, and the only time I heard her mentioned it was by one of her friends (in a complimentary way) or one of the rowdy boys I never liked (in a horny way). Despite not knowing her, I remember feeling sorry for her; in every conversation, she had been added to the end, as if she were an afterthought.
It was noticeable. There was an illicit party going on around my birthday one year (it wasn’t anything to do with me, but I heard the whispers). Everyone who was anyone who was going, from what I could tell, but Chanel was also mentioned last. Every time one of the popular clique would list her friends, in whatever order, Chanel always came at the end.
And, as I said before, a lot of the boys found Chanel desirable. Not that I ever asked how she felt about this, but after reeling off a list of girls he wanted to have sex with (he used a slightly more taboo word, but I’ll abstain from repeating that here), one boy paused a second before adding, “…oh… and Chanel.”
She was also the last on the register, although she shouldn’t have been.
Which is to say, I noticed that. I don’t know if anyone else did. Mostly what I remember was her being popular, slightly aloof, quiet and reserved, and somebody who a lot of the rowdy boys wanted to fuck.
I didn’t know anything about her otherwise. But I knew the name. And what do you say, exactly, to somebody of whom your overall memory is someone at the end of every list who some rowdy boys were entirely unsavoury about?
She remembered me. But then everyone does.
And, as it turns out, we work for exactly the same company.
I didn’t know, and don’t know still, if I got any sleep at all last night.
I woke up early on Sunday morning – early enough that, had I gotten myself out of bed and towards the vicinity of a cup of coffee or something, I could have gone to church. Instead of doing so, of course, I rolled over and went straight back to sleep.
I don’t remember sleeping – although who does? A more accurate statement would be that I don’t remember dreaming! – and I still don’t know if I got any sleep whatsoever. I also don’t remember being particularly awake; I certainly had periods where I felt so. But then I don’t recall feeling any of my trademark boredom, panic, or dark thoughts that usually accompany my insomnia. The night may as well have never happened.
What I do remember, in vivid flashes, is occasional pangs of discomfort. My entire body teetering on the edge of the bed (in order to give them space), ready to fall off. My semi-hard mattress (a very bad choice on my part; I was too chicken to ask for something softer) being a problem for my back. The neck pain I’ve had since our honeymoon occasionally resurfacing with every repositioning.
And, perhaps the most vividly, me clutching onto the bunched duvet like a koala – the sheets wrapped in me, rather than the other way around.
This morning, when asked, I said I was tired. I’m still not entirely sure if I genuinely was. My colleagues and clients all were – making for a slow, calm day at work – and so I decided that I was. I wasn’t sure exactly how to describe how I was feeling, because I didn’t know myself.
But I had a very odd night, and since I have no idea how to describe that, I’m attempting to do so here.
It’s dark in this corner. I can’t see much. There are people around, but it’s dark. And it’s getting late. I’ve had too much to drink, as usual, but since I don’t drink alcohol, it’s only really sugar that’s holding me up right now. Possibly also caffeine.
And she’s smiling at me.
Just kiss her, ILB.
I know what I could do. I could tell her that, if I did anything she was uncomfortable with, she could just tell me to stop. And besides, I’ve been kissing her for a while and she’s been reciprocating. It’s only a small step from a peck to a smooch, and from there to a snog. If she doesn’t want to kiss me, she wouldn’t be doing so.
My good angel appears on my shoulder and yells through the din into my ear.
Hold on, ILB. Yes, you certainly want to kiss her. But there are people around. You have friends here, and friends talk. There’s somebody over there who has a genuine crush on you. If you kissed someone else, it would hurt.
And if there’s one thing I don’t want to do, it’s hurt someone.
The problem is her. She’s so pretty. And she’s got this beautiful, full-beam smile and she’s shining it straight at me. The look in her eyes is almost playful, almost lustful. Just do it, ILB. Kiss her.
My bad angel pushes his way to the front of the crowd and shouts to anyone who will listen.
You may never see this girl again. And you’ve kissed other people. Your crush is over there. Why don’t you kiss her instead?
I mean, I probably could. But then I’m in a situation here and I’m not sure where this is going. Is it going anywhere? Do I want to know where it’s going? Am I just imagining this?
Oh, look at that smile.
You’re not meant to be kissing anyone, ILB.
And that’s a fair point. I’m really not meant to be kissing anyone. What I’ve been doing so far is playful. Anything more would be deeper – more serious. I can’t do that. I may want to, but I can’t.
Just kiss her, ILB. Don’t do it, ILB.
What if she doesn’t want to kiss me? What if I do, and she doesn’t like it? What if I do, and I don’t like it? What about everyone else? What happens afterwards? What if she doesn’t stay stop? What if she never says stop?
I’m not meant to be kissing anyone. The easiest thing is just… well… not to kiss her.
Just kiss her, ILB.
I don’t kiss her. I never do. I wonder, idly, if I will see her again. This time, I may have made up my mind.
I wonder if there is a checklist somewhere, or a flow chart, that parents have to work their way down when one of their children gets married. Of course, one of those is the egregious “why aren’t you going to have children?” discourse (GOTN has an excellent post about this) – as if that’s the default, or something. I, of course, have already given my family my reasons for this.
In fact, I’m not sure any of the five left in my generation want to have children. The family continues with my one niece and nephew!
So they moved onto the next box.
“Have you talked about what to do with your names yet?”
Strangely enough, it’s not the sort of light conversation that I had thought of having, at least not midway through our cute honeymoon in Stockholm.
I have thought about it, though.
When I was 16, I had started to envision what married life would be like if I ever managed to marry my current crush. (I even built up a sitcom-style introductory sequence in my head, complete with theme tune.) At that point, I was dead set on taking her last name, rather than having her take mine. I quite liked the way it sounded, and if you add the fact that her father (for whom I used to work) did the same thing, it kind of made sense to continue the tradition.
I’m not overly keen on my surname anyway. It’s difficult to spell – since it’s a homophone for another word that already exists and people keep spelling it that way – people have had issues pronouncing it, too. In fact, I have the same first, middle, and surnames of my great-great-grandfather… and his father… and his father… and, you’ll never guess what… his father.
And they were all butchers, apart from Grandad, who made weapons.
I am so pleased my dad became an actor.
I feel, as you may understand, very little connection to this family who were founded on principles which I believe to be ethically wrong, and our coat of arms is particularly stupid (it’s a red cock on a shield and there’s nothing else). My immediate family is very important to me, sure, but historically? No. I don’t really need my surname.
But then of course there’s the issue of my wife’s name, one which is also impossible to spell and pronounce, plus it’s their dad’s surname, and they never had a particularly good relationship with their dad. Their assumed Internet name of “Sleight” suits her much better, and I’ve ever started thinking of them as “Jill Sleight” in my head.
But back to me. I’m keeping my own name for the simple reason that the legal hoops I’d have to jump through would be a massive headache. I’d need to change bank details, passport, work details, qualifications, student loan accounts, Government documents… I’ve claimed benefits for a while so that would be changed, too. Not to mention the subscriptions I have for Nintendo, Cineworld, and Green Party membership. Oh, and my trade union membership and probably about a million other things that I’ve forgotten to list here.
And people refer to me by my last name at work, so I’d need to deal with that somehow.
I’d need to pay to change it, as well.
Just thinking about this makes my head hurt, and I wouldn’t wish to foist this extra amount of stress onto my wife. I’m fairly sure neither of us want to burden the other with a surname which carries an amount of baggage, and seeing as how only one of the married couples I know (Robinson and Lovely) have taken that step (and it took her years, as well), I can very much see the rational behind it.
But then it hit me that I’m married now. I did it. It’s done. We have a life to lead, and as to what my wife’s name is, I genuinely don’t care.
It’s their decision and I’ll go along with whatever they decide, because it really shouldn’t be an issue.
My family can move on to the “so are you going to buy a house?” question whenever they want. I’ll give them time for that one.
