Now in the salad bowl of existence that is our multi-cultural, multi-racial, pantheist, pan-sexual world sometimes, it might appear that what divides us is greater than the sum of our shared humanity. So it is more important than ever that we can celebrate and, dare I say it, worship those most divine of creatures that transcend our petty divisions with the universality of their adorable essence. I am, of course, talking about wives. 

As a wife of no little standing and some experience, I can confirm that we wives are the most important people in the entirety of the human experience and deserving of every last teaspoonful of sugary loving, and then possibly a teaspoon or two more. And if you, as a saddo reader can't agree with that then I pity and, dare I say it, despise you and it might be best if you stop reading right here. 

And some of you will be thinking, 'but Cummies, I'm not a wife, I'm a burly, hirsute, truck driver born on the wrong side of the tracks in one of those truly awful Medway towns in North Kent, (Garden of England my arse) are you saying that I am less important than you?' 

Well of course you're less important than me in so many different ways, sweetie, but really the questions you should be asking yourself are: Am I a wife? If not why not? And what do I do to join this most sacred of living states? 

Now for some individuals, there is a simple excuse that they just aren't old enough to be legally recognisable as wives, but for the rest of you, including hirsute truckers from the armpit of England, there really is no excuse because in this day and age anyone can be a wife. And even if you don't have a thing for meringue dresses and trains (not the choo-choo variety) and veils and bridesmaids lapping at your pre-nuptials and playing at bride sandwich with the groom and the best (wo)man to ascertain whether the best (wo)man is really best and then maybe swapping them all around and having another go just to be certain, then none of that precludes you from offering up a finger to have a golden, glittering band placed upon it for perpetuity. 

Perpetuity is a rather long time, it's certainly longer than a dirty weekend of rampant lovemaking in a seedy roadside motel just outside of Nottingham on the A6514, and some readers will have given 'for better or worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health' a bit of a run around the block and discovered themselves riding along in a clapped out Mark II Ford Cortina when they'd thought they'd been promised an Aston Martin. And if that sounds familiar, dear saddo, then all I can say is get yourself down to the used car lot and see what they've got in stock that takes your fancy. Do you for one minute imagine that dear Lizzy Taylor would have been happy thrusting herself up and down pointlessly atop a Robin Reliant when with a few quick and painless adjustments to her wedding ring finger she could ooze her love juices all over a gleaming, rampant Ferrari? I think not! 

Perhaps, despite all my urging and just the sheer overwhelming common sense of my argument, you're still sitting there thinking 'I hear what you're saying, Cummies, and wouldn't for a single minute even think about disagreeing with the hard irrefutable logic of your argument but there's something hidden deep within my inner-self that just won't allow myself to be placed on such an exalted pedestal. What advice do you have for an undeserving worm crawling on its belly and blinded by the magnificence of your presence and aura?'

Which is a question that has been asked by saddos throughout history and finally (and not before time because this introduction has been going on for far too long already) brings us to the whole purpose of this 'not very spectacular, Omnium Spectacular'. You, unworthy worm, can dedicate yourself to being a 'Wife Lover'. 

Now just in case some unsuspecting saddo has wandered in here by mistake in the vain hope that there might be some proper sexy bits hidden somewhere amongst all this interminable wordage it might be best if I introduce myself. My name is Cum Girl and I am an internationally famous agony aunt to the stars and assorted lesser mortals and I write a sometimes infrequent column called 'Dear Cum' where I provide shimmering pearls of advice to undeserving and frequently ungrateful swine. 

Throughout my many years of dedicated, unselfish, empathetic advice-giving I have received mailbags overflowing with heart-rending letters of turmoil from wives and those blessed creatures who have been deemed fortunate enough to call themselves 'wife lovers' and today I am going to give that bottle a good shake, release the stopper, and see what sticky, thick and delicious liquid comes spurting forth. So, without any further 'much ado about nothing', and definitely not pausing to point out the awfulness of the metaphor I've crowbarred into this paragraph, let's go 'to the letters'. 



Dear Cummies

Sex is great, but my husband can't give me the emotional support I need. Sometimes, you just need a hug and he seems incapable of doing such a simple thing. It's one of his few shortcomings.

Please advise,

Mrs Godzilla



Dear Mrs Godzilla

Now, this is one of the problems that bedevil even the most perfect of relationships. Day after day you find yourself upside down hanging from the garden swing, your dress hem fluttering about your burning face as your exposed and gushing lady regions are being brought to endless ecstatic release all in the name of a loving relationship. Yet dare to mention an unsatisfied longing for that most basic of emotional care-giving, a hug, and it's just endless excuses about your fiery, paint-stripper breath and death-ray stare. What I've discovered, Mrs Godzilla, is that if you want a hug you should take a hug and if that requires minor instances of domestic violence then so be it. 

My strategy is to go for the reverse hug. Strappy armed, I sneak up from behind, slide my arms around to grab a tight and twisty grip on any available nipple nuts, ram the strappy deep into any available orifice, and clamp on to the neck with my teeth in a deeply affectionate and caring love bite. Then all you need do is cling on as your selected prey writhes and jerks in a desperate attempt to throw you from its flesh until, eventually, it collapses exhausted on the floor. At which point you are free to enjoy uninterrupted snuggles and huggles.

Hope that helps. 

Yours in the sure knowledge that the combination of stunted upper limb growth coupled with huge muscular growth in the bottom region may make this approach challenging. 

Cum Girl (Mrs) 



Dear Crumbles

I love my wife - I know because she's told me so. But my question is: Why don't I LIKE her? 

Yours truthfully

Bothered and Bewildered, but not Bewitched.



Oh dinkums, what a silly billy letter. I know you mean well and probably in your ditsy, dizzy head it makes sense but of course you've got to lick her. This isn't about you. This is about her. She has done you the honour of pulling you from the scrap heap of rusted, spare parts that is unwedded manhood. Without her you would be carefree with barely a cognisant thought in your head, certainly not a yummily bothered and bewildered little love bunny. 

So let's get you down on your knees, crawling between those enticingly spread thighs, stroking your cheek along that smooth skin, nustling in with your nose as you inhale her divine scent, the sight of her spread flower the most perfect of blooms as it oozes its precious nectar before your salivating mouth. Ogling as you watch it pulse with her every trembling, expectant breath, a living needing, aching creature just desperate for the touch of your salivating tongue. Just lick it sweetie, you know in your heart that you ache to really. 

What? Where does it say that? Look, doesn't that say 'lick'? What is he, a fucking doctor? It's not my fault it's fucking illegible. Well, I'll be buggered if I'm re-writing it and I'll bet a pound of sugar and a handful of rye he isn't giving her enough oral attention so it's not like the advice is going to go to waste. Fucking arsewipe saddos with their stupid 'I can't manage my own paltry life' questions in childlike crayon scrawl. What do they expect? 

And what is his problem with Bewitched? I hope he doesn't have a problem with Samantha because she's my all-time favourite TV witch. All that unassuming conservative exterior hiding a naughty, mischievous inner-child. And such a cutie. People have commented that she looks a bit like me you know and as for that nose twitch, wiggle thingy twitches nose if that's not a panty soaking come on then I don't know what is. 



Beep de beepity beep

Oh, hold on a moment that's my phone with its 'you've got a new dick pic' notification. Let me have a quick look. We'll I'd recognise that slimy, untrustworthy dick anywhere. That's disgraced former President of the United States, Richard Nixon. 

Poor Pat, you've got to feel for her. All that deep throating in underground car parks, the repeated illegal incursions into her safe space and never knowing whether tricky dicky was infecting her with bugs every time he made an entry. Not to mention having to play hostess to random groups of Cuban nationals of dubious provenance treating her personal harbour as a docking bay for insurrectionist pigs. Which just goes to show that married bliss isn't all anniversary gifts, Stepford Wife smiles and secret sojourns at the Watergate Hotel. So let's hope we can find something more appealing in the next letter. 



Dear Plump Clump 

My wife wants to dress up like a cheerleader for me, but I was a nerd in school and I'm afraid she'll get some jock to trap me in a locker. What should I do? 

Dynamic Napoleon 



Dear Nappies

What could possibly be sexier than a bit of maturing, spousal flesh squeezed into a lycra vest and pleated skirt and then having her energetically twerk her posterior and shimmy her jigglesomes for your sexual delight? Throw in a few high kicks, a somersault or two, and a pair of glitter fronded pom-poms thrust vigorously and repeatedly and you're nearing sexualised perfection, assuming the heated, needy bitch is pantiless. So basically, Napo, you're going to have to get with the dance programme, so choose from one of the following options:

What could be better than one cheerleader? Two cheerleaders. It's time for you to sign up to the troupe, Leon, to literally grow a pair (tits that is), tuck your todger and furry love plums away, and embrace an all-new, and so much more appropriate, sexual identity. Should any jocks come visiting then rather than finding yourself folded like a bit of origami and tucked away out of sight you'll be the belle of the ball and before you know it you'll be drooling spittle over a pair of jock socks as your virginal throat finds itself filled and spread by a yummy nerd-hammering, jock-cock. So, it might be a good idea to start practising those dance routines. You know you want to. 

Or, grow yourself a moustache. All the bestest, mostest virile, super-hunks of all time have sported resplendent examples of facial hair on their upper lip. Think Adolf, or Josef, or Fidel, or Mouammar, or Saddam, or Vladamir or Che or Osama; all moustachioed super-hunks. Grow yourself a handlebar, a horseshoe, a chevron and in no time at all her perky cheerleaderness will dissolve into a pool of gooey cunt-juiced expectation and will be flicking up her skirting and ogling your trouser snake with barely a thought to strapping jocks. Probably best to avoid a Salvador or a Charlie or a Groucho though unless you're going for something more effete, mildly amusing or slightly surreal.

Or, you might beat the jock at his own game by pre-caging yourself. I hear they are all the rage nowadays. Obviously, they are a lot smaller than the ones you were used to inhabiting back in High School. Nowadays they tend to be a lot more personal, a lot more specific, dinky little numbers that hug your insubstantial penis and mark you out as the beta-nerd that you are. Then should any jocks come a calling, and you do understand that it is inevitable that they will, you can safely be allowed to remain locked but unlockered as you await your opportunity to feast upon his oozing, cum deposits from your cheery cheerleader's well-fucked cunt. 

Hope that helps. 

Cum Girl (Mrs) 
 

And there we shall have to leave it, but don't forget as Mae West said:

"Save a boyfriend for a rainy day - and another, in case it doesn't rain."

See you next time, dear Saddos.