COMPLIMENTS

I stuffed myself silly with sausages today. My friend Nathan threw a barbecue. I invited Jane - my latest squeeze - to come along and gorge with me.

Within a couple of hours the conversation with the other revellers was dead, the food gone and our stomachs bloated. So we went back to her lovingly-tendered flat for a recording of the Apprentice, a fiddle with her giblets and some more sausage-stuffing.

Twice she worked her magic, and not a drop spilt on her grey-green couch or her peachy sheets. She's really rather good. She compliments me all the time - on my tight arse, my fluffiness and, of course, my inordinately large nob. Sometimes I wonder if she just says these things because she feels obliged to.

I, on the other hand, don't. Call me old-fashioned, but I only ever say things if I really mean them. If I don't, my silence is signal enough that the dress, the hair, the figure or that other object of insecurity is not as amazing as they would like it to be.

Nevertheless, in the days leading up to Sunday's fellatathon I had remarked on the striking nature of Jane's cheekbones and her sharpness. Today, she asked for another compliment. I told her my rule, but she insisted. "Okay," I said, "I think you're mouth's really nice...when my cock's in it." Overcome with mirth, I rolled over on the bed, my lungs filled with chuckles and tears streaming down my face at my own wit. Jane found it a mite less amusing. "I'm just too funny," I remarked. She changed the subject. I got dressed, went home and cycled into work.