I always loved single mothers. Other people would tsk, shake their heads and mutter about tax dollars. I’d smile broadly, head on over and help out with the groceries while checking for a wedding ring or shaving cream. I saw the as the perfect meat market – full of easy women – that commitment-phobes like me dreamed of.
Then I met my wife. She stared me down, and when I asked for her number (getting out my pen, because hey – these women were usually flattered) she told me to stick it where the sun don’t shine.
So I did. I reached down the back of my pants and I stuck that pen. None of the people passing by batted an eyelid – men sticking their hands down their pants is stock standard in this neighbourhood. But she was taken aback. Then she laughed – bingo. I asked her to come back to my place – we’d put the kid in front of the PS3 and head to the bedroom to find out if the pen really were mightier than the sword. She sniggered and agreed.
I’ve been in love with the evil wench ever since. How could I not be? She taught me that not only can I talk out of my arse, I can write with it too.