Women ask all the right questions!

My friend Feline Prophet wrote an article some time ago, with the title “Men Just Don’t Ask the Right Questions!” and I was reminded of it last night, under the following conditions.

I read in the press yesterday that a Polish couple was married for 14 years and that the wife had the same job over that period. The problem was that the wife’s job was in the neighbouring town, which meant daily commuting for her.

Lately, the wife became less and less interested in the sexual part of the relationship. The husband assumed that it was because of the constant travelling and showed the necessary understanding.

However, the pressure and the stress from the lack of sex built up to such an extent that in the end he reluctantly decided to go to the local “house of ill repute” and to make use of their services. The management asked him for his preferred type of woman and after 14 years of marriage to the same woman, he naturally described his own wife, so that he would feel as comfortable as possible during his first act of betrayal of his spouse after 14 years of happy marriage. The manager told him that they had the perfect woman for him and led him to what he promised would be a woman that was sure to give him an unforgettable experience.

Imagine the client’s surprise when he realised on entering the private room he was led to, that the woman who was to give him this unforgettable experience was his own wife. It subsequently became quite clear that instead of traveling to work to the neighbouring town, the man’s wife was instead working at the local “service” station.

I thought of this story late that evening while in the shower before going to bed, and I ended up laughing to myself. When I came out of the bathroom, my wife wanted to know the reason for the laughter and I thought I would amuse her by telling her the story. When I finished telling the story, to my surprise, she began to ask me a number of questions.

“Was the man working as well?”

I am an easy-going man and I was willing to assume that there just might be some logic in her question, though detection of it without a strong microscope might be beyond the ability of the human eye. I tried to think about what the article had said on the subject and though I was not certain, I felt that from the general tone of the story I could take it upon myself to offer the assurance that the man was in employment.

“How much money were they making?” I was ashamed to admit that I did not know and I had to face the look of derision in my wife’s eye for failing to obtain such basic information. The De Greeks are certified as having unquestionable Norman and Spartan blood running through our veins and war and pestilence is as naught to us. However, my wife’s eye has that ‘something’ which seems to accuse me of nameless crimes and to warn me of mysterious consequences which, however, I am unlikely to find pleasant. I don’t mind telling you that in such instances my blood runs cold. I shuttered.

When my wife next spoke, her question was brief, but it had the density of condensed milk.

“Did they have any children?”

To say that I shuttered again would be to express the matter feebly. From freshly and carefully washed toes to my still wet hair, I was now brimming with pure, undiluted terror of facing that ‘look’ from her, but again I had to admit that I did not know.

I could only hope that the memory of the ‘look’ would eventually fade from my mind like a vague dream, but I knew that I was destined to remain with its powerful insistence for years to come, like the memory of a horrible nightmare.

“What car did they drive?” She asked as if she was beyond any hope of getting an intelligent answer. She gave the impression that she felt that Einstein could lie still in his grave knowing that he was not in danger of being put in the shade any time soon by her other half.

My sensitive soul felt every sting and bite of the specious and unsportsmanlike piece of implied accusation, so I lied.

“A Volvo” I said, since that was the first brand name that came to my head.

She looked at me with admiration and asked:

“Did she drive it to work, or did he?”

Now the De Greeks are a gentle and cooperative lot, but we tend to draw the line at absolute insanity and in such instances we arm ourselves and declare unconditional war.

“What the hell does it matter what car they owned? Just tell me that!”

She looked as if she supposed that she had done something to cause Providence to afflict her with a husband like that, but she could not recall any offence of the colossal proportion which would justify the punishment.

“Not that I could hope that you would ever understand, but a Volvo indicates that they were safety conscious and were a careful lot. That in turn means that they must have taken proper precautions during sex, and that is why it took so long for the man to find out.

My friend Feline Prophet could probably give you a detailed justification of this answer, but regrettably I do not have her brains. I suggest that you read her article on the subject.

Dimitris Mita

De Greek