Valentine's Day is Over

Our feline temptress had continued in her cyberquest and on balance, she was doing well.

The long list, despite some initial outliers causing minor fluctuations in her averages, was more or less stable with ten hits per day - the selection process was now second nature to Miss PG and she had to admit she rather enjoyed surveying the analyses posted by those men in search of love.

She noted with interest that many of the potential suitors were keen to describe their fondness for all things romantic:

"Looking for a woman, just one, to share intimate moments, red wine and sunsets with..."

" I am funny, articulate and can be romantic with the right woman...."

"This is a genuine endeavour.....seeking a woman who is elegant, funny and romantic for fun nights out and sweet nights in......"

It reminded her of one of the more memorable moments with EunuchMan, or rather his attempts at injecting some romance into their often lacklustre union.

Shortly after their marriage, two months to be precise, he announced he wished to do something genuinely romantic for his new wife:

"I have been thinking, it's Valentine's Day next week and I would like to cook you dinner, PussyWife. What do you think?"

"Ooooh, that would be nice, but you know, I am not one for pandering to the whims of calendar commercialism, so really, you don't have to. Make it any evening you like and I will be just as appreciative."

"No, it will be Valentine's Day. I want to do something romantic. Errrrm, by the way, what can I cook?"

PussyWife thought for a while and suggested the simplest of menus - EM was not exactly competent in the kitchen having been mollycoddled by an assortment of female relations during his formative years and indeed now by PG - "How about steak, salad and red wine? Easy!"

And so the date and menu were set.

On that fateful evening, PussyGirl arrived home in upbeat mood. She was delighted that even though EunuchMan did not always make the grade regarding conjugal obligations that he was indeed aware of the need for seduction and hoped that this was a sign; perhaps the barren landscape of their bedroom endeavours would receive a much needed rain shower post prandially, and normal service might be resumed?

She pondered this as she set the table and awaited the arrival of her chef consort.

Sadly, things did not go according to plan. EM called at eight, to announce that he had been held up at work. They had continued on to the pub and he would be leaving shortly. Knowing his fondness for barley wine and whisky chasers, PG assured him that another night would be fine. The steak and wine could keep, and anyway, she was getting hungry. Why not stay on and cook the meal tomorrow? But he insisted, he would be on his way forthwith.

And so time passed, text messages were exchanged and further assurances were made. PG knew it was time to get the toaster on when he managed to slur his words in the last text. Why could he not just settle for tomorrow? She was no harridan nor harpie and simply wanted to eat something. Pussies need sustenance and she was running out of patience.

As she wrapped the cheese and returned it back to the fridge, she heard the drunken gait of EM on the stairs, the scratching of the key at the door and neatly sidestepped him as he fell through the doorway.

"Am gonna cook now, promise........."

"You can't, it's gone midnight! Leave it now and do it tomorrow. And I have eaten already."

"No, I shaid am gonnnnnna cooook and I will."

What followed can only be described as a debacle. In his stumbling and mumblings, EM managed to pour oil across the hob, carbonise two perfectly edible sirloin steaks and almost set himself on fire.

With no regard for Health and Safety he sliced open the ciabatta and clumsily stuffed the steaks between the bread.

"Oh, so are you not cooking for two?"

"Shut up! Selfish bitch! You have had your dinner and this is mine. If you couldn't wait it's not my fault......."

With that, he sat down at the neatly prepared table and began to devour the hastily arranged steak sandwich, gave a resonant belch of appreciation and proceeded to collapse on the bed fully clothed.

PussyGirl collected the debris and slowly washed the dishes and she contemplated her Valentine's Day meal.

"This does not bode well," she thought to herself "he didn't even touch the salad. Nor me for that matter."

When she reflected on this unromantic romantic dinner, PG admitted to herself that all was not well with her union.

Years later, embarking upon her Internet escapades, she drew on this experience and vowed that any man who wanted to show her his romantic side could do so - only not in her kitchen.