A personal taste of Nelson de Gouveia

Tag archive


Let’s Dry Hump…and see how things go from there.

in Life by
dry hump

I find that my relationships tended to always be one-sided. Either my ex-girlfriends, any of them, would be hormonal, raging lunatics with paranoid schizophrenia and multiple personality disorders ranging from “delightful” to “get me strawberries in winter”.

Or, controversially, very good people that required I look up now and again from my phone.

Thankfully, I’ve grown up now and in the loving embrace of a partner that, a. takes delight in seeing me venture into a debris of silliness and b. encourages myself in all my cheer and melancholy to welcome her along with me.

We’re a fun bunch, especially and specifically with each other, and less importantly with other people who take heart in knowing that we will leave the room a little lighter but vexing in uninformaty. 

“What, you’ve only fought once in a year?” That’s right, yes we have.

This may take you into a mind ethic you didn’t need, but sex between us is not a chore. Not for me, at least. I was expected, even required, to perform both in the art of sex but even in it’s preparation. Foreplay, as you no doubt are aware, is not an addendum in the dating contract, but a requirement blaring at you with sirens and bells. 

And before, it was as extrenuous a duty as putting the kettle on in the morning.

But now, it’s as fun an activity to pursue as hiking. Yes, in both I’m climbing and someone’s grunting, but now you get to stay put and watching Star Trek together in the doggy-style position, a feat no human should die without trying.

And the art of dry humping is so lost today. We take it for granted because it doesn’t sound as romantic or enticing as candles in a bath and aromatherapy pulsating through the air. No, dry humping starts the show and gets the fireworks going, right before the crescendo and the throngs exit left.

I have strived to remain neutral in this world of men and women, my body slowly decompressing into a fested mush of chocolate and coffee (the two staple diets of a procrastinator), unfit to join those that think that visiting Rocque Gym is as important as using a toilet to pee. But now, instead of complying with the multitudes, I’ve found my ideal partner.

A woman that makes sense of the insular world I live in, a companion with her own subtle quirks that make me fall in love with her again, over and over. She’s a blessed angel, a perfect hegemony of form and flavour. Without her, chocolate and coffee might as well be the MTV music channel…with no music.

Drop Dead Awesome – A Christmas Story

in Life by
drop dead awesome

Mark, a 39 year-old plumber from Essex, decides this Christmas he’s going to get his wife, Maddy, a wonderful present. The kids have already been sorted, a stack of fantasy Harry Potter DVDs and violent Call of Duty games, which would worry any Child Services Officer but, for him, it shuts them up.

He first goes into London town, to see what he can find in the big city itself. Surely, in the Big Smoke, he could be inspired to find something, if not anything, that would please his plump but loud life-partner of 12 years who has constantly berated him for not thinking about her feelings throughout their entire marriage, which has he has fervently denied and pleaded mercy for.

He walks into a fancy spa shop, and the lightly-tanned receptionist takes one look at his paunch, smirks and directs him to the service door for any deliveries. “No, love,” he says, shyly, “I want to treat my wife to a spa day. How much?”

Her smirk grows to the point of exasperation, grabs a nearby price-list and shoves it before him. “We do 1 hour, 1 hour 10 minutes, 2 hours or 2 hours 10 minutes, all based on competitive rates. You paying by card or blood?”

Mark, being the down-to-earth plumber he’s been since finishing his apprenticeship at 16, can’t make out the unusual dialogue he’s just been given. “Wait, what’s the 10 minutes for?”

“Listen, buddy,” her Notting Hill accent spewing deadly acid over his humble ego, “we ask if you would like that extra 10 minutes for one of our men to come over and ‘rub you down’, it’s a speciality we offer here at Drop Dead Awesome Spa Shop.”

Although afraid to ask, “And the blood?”

She looks left and right, leans forward and whispers, “It’s for our boss. He’s quite a herbalist, and uses fat boy blood to make potions he sells to our, more, ‘elite’ clientele.” The wink she gives and the emphasis on ‘elite’ with her two fingers in each hand unsettles him.

He looks down at the price-list, which by any standard could feed a third-world country in a single hour. Unsure of whether to proceed, he asks, “Do you do, say, Christmas specials for housewives who have to take care of kids all day?”

Suddenly, out of nowhere, 3 female assistants pop out from underneath the counter, all agasp at the request he had sent like a thunderbolt from Zeus himself, had he been on a bad hair day and wanted to smite someone. Like headless chickens, they flitted around the receptionist trying to understand what this monstrosity of a lower-class demon could walk into their church of Snoot, before collasping in a heap by the corner while a Phillipino boy stands nearby waving a palm fan.

He exclaims, “What the hell?”

She looks down at them, a dishevelled mess of bitchiness, and shrugs. “Oh, they’re just not used to ‘people’,” she makes the emphasis with her fingers yet again, “like you, that come in and asks such a thing. The most extreme we’ve ever had before was Donald Trump’s assistant who came in asking if Donald can buy a candy-bar for 99p. Personally, I know how you feel as I dated a lower-class boyfriend before I had an education, so I’m not so fazed.”

Her mobile rings and she answers. “Hello, Drop Dead Awesome Spa Shop, if you’re important how may I help?”


Days later and Christmas rolls by. Mark and his brood are sitting in the lounge after midnight, the kids ripping at their gifts like hyenas on an antelope, and Maddy walks in with a cake. “So Mark,” she sneers, “what you got me for this time?”

Mark looks up from his belly, all smiles as he hands her over an envelope and says, “My love, my dearest, here you go.”

Wide-eyed, she opens it up and finds a £20 gift voucher for Boots. “OH MARK, YOU SHOULDN’T HAVE!!!”

The End.

Go to Top