On the Skids

As PussyGirl gazed at the machine, following the cycle of her first wash at the laundromat, she contemplated her current predicament.

She lamented her lack of home laundry facilities - she had installed her pussy posse in a bijou pied a terre in a salubrious leafy suburb of South East London and was quietly congratulating herself on surviving the trials and tribulations of recent years when she was catapaulted out of her soap-filled reverie by a shocking memory.

She remembered with some horror the very reason she had opted for the path of singular and not plural and recalled with a certain amount of relief the definitive separation from EunuchMan some years previously.

Theirs had been an unhappy, sexless and largely loveless union and at her behest the parting of the ways had come to pass sooner than she could have ever imagined.

There had been many moments of angst and anguish, engendered by foolish acts and rash gestures, but one in particular stood out.

Prone as EunuchMan was to his Friday night blotto sessions, PussyGirl had been more than understanding and ordinarily had no objections to the archetypal pseudo male pastime of getting royally leathered to the point of oblivion. Truth be told, she had enjoyed her fair share of electric lemonade filled evenings with EM and his macho workmates.

She had tolerated the incoherent speech, the falling upstairs and the random accusations of gross ugliness proffered by said consort in his various states of inebriation, but this particular evening had shocked her to the core - and left her with no option.

On that balmy summer's night, she was woken by a very pissed Eunuch in a state of partial undress. She wondered "blimey, per chance he will break the duck and we will finally consumate this union after all this time, " she speculated to herself:- "So this is what they mean by Dutch courage!"

Alas, her ardour was soon quashed when she saw his skinny white arse, pantless looming in front of her face.

"Dear God! This man is just an extreme sexual fetishist and he hasn't been able to tell me. He wants some kind of depraved arse action and his catholic leanings have rendered him unable to share it with me. No matter, I am his wife and will accommodate his desires whilst hopefully fulfilling some of mine"

And then, the cloud of flies. This was a moment she would never forget. As he mumbled about Guinness and lack of toilet facilities, he proceeded to expose the contents of his soiled man-bottom to her and she thought she might be sick.

EunuchMan had literally crapped himself, incapacitated by the booze. Several pints of stout had worked their magic and the fruits of his duodenal labours were laid bare before her.

Mindful that any discussion was pointless, PG instructed Cartman to visit the bathroom and never darken her side of the bed again with his crap encrusted faeces ridden arse.

She was, quite frankly, disappointed and disgusted; she knew for certain their union was quite literally on the skids.

This served as a vital lesson for PussyGirl. There would be no more shit in her life and no more shitty men.

She gathered her smalls from the tumble dryer and headed back to Pussy Mansions to contiune in her quest for the unblemished man she so thoroughly deserved.