Sex at The Dinner Table | Issue 19

Sex at The Dinner Table | Issue 19

Tim’s Big Adventure

The column was due last night, and no one was particularly motivated to write anything. Only four weeks into the ordeal it seemed we had already run out of zucchini, masturbation stories, and blatant VICE rip-offs. Surprisingly, however, this led to us writing said column the way we first imagined it: sitting down to dinner and chatting about sex. Or so we thought.

Louise had made her famous bolognese (there’s always one in the flat) and Tim was nowhere to be seen (presumably late home from his lab). Louise and I sat down at the pre-arranged time (yeah, we’re dorks. Get over it) and started talking while we waited for Tim.

After a few moments of heavy silence, it was Louise who started the pondering with an all-too-clichéd “Where do you think Tim is?”

“He’s probably banging Nina fucking stupid after their disaster weekend,” I speculated. “Half the reason couples fight is for the make-up sex.”

“Bullshit!” ... “True.” ... “Nah.”

“Does that count as a fight?”

“Fuck off.”

You see, Tim and Nina had been away on a debating camp. They fought about anything and everything, and on their return their relationship was a bigger mess than a Vegas hooker’s vagina.

The breaking point? At 3am on Sunday morning, the inflatable mattress they were sleeping on in the car popped, jolting them both out of their innocent synthetic cannabinoid-induced slumber.

“They totally popped it fucking,” Louise speculated.

“For sure, but the question remains: who the fuck inflates a mattress inside a car?”

Car sex seems like a great idea. The only thing that’s stopped me from indulging already is my lack of a driver’s license. But trust Tim to inflate a fucking mattress.

The other reason for the cooling-off of the relationship was the spillage of “something” in the (borrowed) car, which necessitated spending most of the last day cleaning.

“I didn’t think he’d have it in him to make such a mess,” I said.

“Fuck, everyone knows you either take it in the cunt or swallow in those situations,” Louise exclaimed.

“Sounds ideal. If only he knew what he qualified for.”


“I bet you they’re fucking like rabbits right now,” I said.

“I’m sure some labs can finish this late?”

We finished dinner just as the text came through. “Hey! Sorry! I’m going to stay at Nina’s tonight! Sorry for not letting you know sooner!!!”

Yeah. We know what’s up. And for the record, Tim, you brought this upon yourself.
This article first appeared in Issue 19, 2012.
Posted 4:49pm Sunday 5th August 2012 by Checker-out St Flat.