Pussy likes cream

I have learnt the lesson, finally, of sending tacky emails to people with the hope that they will become ‘at one’ with their kitsch, bedecked-with-sequin souls. In my circle of email friends, it has become acceptable – if not de rigueur, to plague each other with emails of the crappy variety. Singing penises that emulate Elvis, and kittens saying “I Wuv Woo” in what is excellent English for a cat, bring a touch of Seventies cheer to my mates stuck in office hell.

The thing is though, I’m a bit unsure about sending kitsch cards via my email should I again type in the wrong address, and the recipient mistakes my irony for sincerity. Imagine the shit I had to go through when my kitten card went to a strange man whose in-box contained (at a guess) only porn notification messages. A cat saying “I Wuv Woo” may be less exciting than Sexy Stacey’s message of ‘COME see ALL of me, for just $49.99!’ – but to the old man, sex is simply a substitute for a little bit of love.

“She Wuvs Me!” I imagine the strange dirty old man crying aloud after I spelt the boyfriend’s email address wrong and the kitten ended up in Cardiff instead of Camberwell as planned. After considering the email to be an interactive porn-type thing for valued customers (again, speculation on my part), the man sends me his reply. Half an hour later my inbox becomes the proud recipient of a photo of an OAP without a stitch on (although, with all the creases, I first thought he was wearing a peach shell-suit), and a caption that read: “Does my kitten want some cream?”. Amused (and thinking that The Boyfriend had downloaded some particularly bad porn) I penned my reply- using all the pussy jokes I could muster, because, after all, he is my boyfriend.

“Pussy’s like a bit of cream in them,” I composed, grinning at my rudeness and fiddling with my mouse. “I especially like to lick it up,” I concluded, before pressing the reply button and then getting on with my dissertation. The next email I received came quickly, and I assumed that The Boyfriend was getting excited at the prospect of having email sex with his beloved. “Why don’t you come over and show me what you like to lick?” was the caption above a close-up of an old man’s (the same one, but how was I to know?) todger. I send back a reply that is too crude to repeat.

Now call me slow, or possibly a bit of an amateur with the new version of Outlook Express, but I still hadnĀ¹t caught on at this point that I was indulging in email foreplay with the Welsh equivalent of Gary Glitter. By the time the boyfriend had come home from work and found me in my school uniform, he had changed my email account to Liv4now.com and sent a nasty surprise to the old man. “That’s what you get from having a dodgy email address,” he declared triumphantly, looking me up and down as if noticing for the first time what I was wearing. “But then again, dressed like that,” he said before grinning like, well, the old man probably did, “You could easily get a bit part in Grange Hill.”