Oven Gloves and Sex

ERWA has a Writers list where we discuss all kinds of writerly things - anything from the technical side of writing through to aspects of publishing and being publsihed.

Recently one of the writers posted this link to what she described as a totallyembarassing ad: Harlequin Spice Link

Once the issue of oven gloves and sex was on the table we just couldn't
let is go and the whole thing spilled over into Parlor (ERWA's discuss-anything-and-everything list) like a pub
crawl with attitude.

But I'm afraid that the only emotion I could summon at the image of a
woman reading a romance book while wearing oven gloves was amusement -
apologies to those more able than I to summon a sense of outrage at the
continuation of the media's tendency to promote patronising images of
women - coy, guilty about sex but still wanting it, domesticated but
also sensual etc etc.

So then I started to think about the story possiblities (ok I was stuck
in yet another hotel room with nothing else to do - I should get a
life).

This piece of froth is my way of working the amusement out of my
system. I hope I manage to pass on a smile or two to you.

Enjoy.

"The G is silent" by Mike Kimera

© Mike Kimera 2006, all rights reserved.

Do not reproduce without written permission from mikekimera@yahoo.co.uk

It’s not really a fetish or anything. Anyway, I was so innocent back then that I thought that a fetish was some kind of Mediterranean cheese.

No, it was just that oven gloves seemed quite a sensible solution at the time.

I mean, I wanted to make Kevin happy but I also wanted to wait until we got married so using my hands to erm... “help him relax” seemed like a good compromise.

The thing was, when it came right down to it, I wasn't sure I actually wanted to touch him there. I mean I knew he washed it and everything, but I also knew that he peed out of it.

Kevin had sort of suggested, well actually pleaded is more like it, that I might want to kiss him there. He’d said lots of girls used their mouths like that. I told him straight out that I wasn’t going to let something he used to go to the toilet with anywhere near my mouth and that put an end to that.

Except I could feel his growing frustration - actually anyone who got close enough could see his growing frustration – and I knew I’d have to do something about it or he’d find a girl with lower standards of oral hygiene.

I decided to fix it during one of our Saturday night pizza and DVD sessions. My parents always went out to the movies on Saturday nights and Kevin would come round; I’d put a pizza in the oven and we’d eat it curled up on the couch watching a video.

I knew that what was about to happen would be embarrassing, so I waited until Kevin had a slice of pizza in his mouth (he always tries to push a whole slice in in one go –which was a good thing for once as it meant that he couldn’t talk) and then I put my hand on his crotch and said: “I know that things have been getting harder and I want to help…”

I had to stop for a moment and pat Kevin on the back until he stopped choking, “But I don’t want you to get any wild ideas, Kevin Crouch. I’m just going to give you a helping hand.”

I knew if I didn’t keep moving I’d lose my nerve, so I grabbed hold of the Kevin’s zip and pulled it down. I’d half expected a sort of jack-in-the-box effect but nothing sprang out. It took me a few seconds of fumbling and a little help from Kevin before I could negotiate the Y fronts and see his thing.

That was when the doubt started to form. Kevin’s penis (the word felt strange even said silently in my head) was soft and a little sleepy when we started and looked completely alien resting there against his testicles. Did everyone have testicles that big? What was all that hair for and wouldn’t it stick in the teeth? Why was the skin of the penis darker than the rest of him and was the foreskin supposed to fold over the end like an ugly, mutated bluebell? I bent closer to look at it, it got harder and looked even worse, what with all those swollen veins and the odd bruised-purple colour of the tip and little dew-drop of sticky stuff that appear at the slit.

What finally put me off was the heat. I hadn’t expected the skin to be so hot. It just felt wrong in my hand.

The oven-glove I’d used to bring the pizza tray over with was still on the coffee table. Probably I was a little panicked but I wanted to continue helping Kevin and I knew the heat would freak me out so I it seemed natural to put on the glove to help me cope.

“What are you doing?” Kevin said. His tone suggested that he hadn’t followed my logic and thought I’d gone insane.

“Do you want me to stop?” I snapped. I loved Kevin a lot but that didn’t mean I was going to put up with criticism.

“No. Don’t stop. Please.”

I liked the “please”. It made me feel warm inside.

With the oven glove on, it all seemed more manageable somehow. It was harder work than I expected. It took so long that I had to swap hands – it was a good job the glove was ambidextrous – but it was quite exciting at the end. Kevin had his eyes closed and his face scrunched up like I was hurting him but I knew that I wasn’t. I knew he was excited and a little desperate and that I had his complete attention. I decided I liked that. I liked that a lot.

Kevin finished with a stifled groan and four or five spurts of thick messy smelly goo that meant that the oven glove would have to go straight in the washer – still, at least I didn’t get any on my fingers.

When I came back from the washer, Kevin kissed me and told me how happy I’d made him and what a good girl I was and how lucky he was and then he kissed me some more and the next thing I knew I needed to use the other oven glove.

We’ve been married for eighteen months now and I’ve learned a lot more about how to make Kevin happy and how to make myself happy in the process, but once in a while, on a Saturday night, we’ll still use the oven gloves. Kevin made me a pair of paper oven gloves for our first anniversary. He couldn’t have come up with a better gift. After all, we both know the G is silent.