Colin had not felt this way for a long time, but then again it had been a while since he had drunk tea.
Tea, he associated with Aunts. And Aunts with knitwear. And knitwear with cheek pinching. And Colin had a skin allergy brought on by any pressure greater than 15 psi and which drew blood to the surface of the impacted spot in substantial and damaging ways.
But Rosebud (who didn’t blame her parents for her name but rather a deaf birth registrar) had a tea addiction which manifested itself in the form of a pre- and post-coital aphrodisiac.
Colin tried to protest but desire can ruin common sense and his coupling with Rosebud had been accompanied by in excess of a litre of Ceylon silvertip first pickings and a penis the size and colour of a boiled beet.
As Colin sat in bed, applying vaseline to his be-hived scrotum, Rosebud withdrew to the bathroom to refill the kettle. What, he pondered, was he to do? Could he attempt round two? How would he hide the damage already inflicted on his member and make another go an attractive proposition? He looked at his thighs, deeply embedded with Rosebud’s whorls where her fingers had pressed. He needed a plan.
What Colin hadn’t appreciated, having abstemed from Assam for several years, was the intestinal infarction that imbibing had induced. As the kettle began to bubble so did Colin’s stomach; a tumult was beginning to develop somewhere between his pancreas and prostate.
Colin shook out a cigarette to calm his nerves. He needed inspiration. Distractedly he applied more of the soothing ointment; his fingers toyed with the lighter as he sought the words to overcome his shame. And all the time a flagrantly unfragrant fissile fusillade of flatulence built to a crescendo.
Timing in love as in life is everything. Just as Rosebud lost her grip on the pot and scalded her left pinky, releasing a high pitched squeal, so Colin’s pelvic resistance gave up the struggle in surprise. He gripped everything that could be gripped, as best he could but it was no use. A simple if dramatic chemical reaction ensued: methane (CH4) with an auto ignition of 580C and moving at 95 metres per second as it left his anus when subjected to a Butane flame circa 880C that shot from the squeezed lighter at the same moment will inevitably combust. Apply that combustion to the petroleum jelly that was gently marinading Colin’s encouragingly erect dongle and the effect was impressive if short-lived.
When Rosebud emerged from the bathroom at that moment, sucking her burnt fingertip and seeking sympathy she did not expect to be greeted by what they later came to consider as Colin’s autobiographical flaming spit-roast. It was mad and it was self defeating but she knew in that moment of flambéed flaccidity that, at last, here was a man with the red hot passion she had been seeking all her life.