My readers know that my wife (topless beach dandy that she be) refuses to have sex with me, and this has been the case for many years. Everything was OK before ‘the wars.’

Now I can’t go to the gym anymore. It started last week. I go into convulsions at the sight of aerobic tights. Imagine that in a man who has crossed countless battlefields! As Napoleon said, ‘the battlefield is never a pretty place.’

I start shaking uncontrollably. It first happened when I brushed against an instructor at the health bar. She smiled. I looked down at her tights. My hands shook violently and I dropped a strawberry yoghurt on the floor. Some of it went on her Nikes. Then my arms started quivering and the rest of my body followed.

A health bar worker shook his head. The aerobics instructor looked down at the yoghurt pooled by my feet. By chance the gym doctor happened by. He grabbed me by the shoulder and suggested I may be having a stroke. I tried to speak, but could only mumble, ‘the tights, the tights.’

I’ve not been back, because it’s even worse now. It starts even if I see a window mannequin in tights. I thought about buying a mannequin and dressing her in tights as part of a therapy to overcome all this and become the man I once was. But what would my wife say, me carting around a doll in tights? What if the pensioners on the next farm saw me drive up with it in the backseat?

Word is out at the gym too. My friend told me. The aerobics instructor told the other women that I’d, ‘been mortared.’ ‘I think by 120′s,’ she said, ‘and he may have even been shot.’

My wife is away on business. Last night I opened her ‘bikini drawer’ and took an item out. It was still on my chest when I woke up. There were dried tears on my cheeks.

I know why this is happening. My DNA senses its imminent demise. If I die they go down with me. It one last shot for them. They must transfer to a new organism, and there’s only one way to do that. But they’re trying too hard, overexciting my sex mechanisms in desperation. Detection of aerobic tights or a bikini-ab woman makes them go bananas. They override any intellectual control, because they’re on a sinking ship.

I’m so ill.

Damn war to hell!

‘Dulce bellum inexpertis est,’ as the Ancients said.

‘War is sweet to those who don’t know it.’

photo credit ‘Fake Rears’: Orin Zebest via photopin cc