By Emma Buckley-Hough, who writes letters to Penthouse on parchment with a quill pen
SEX should only take place in two locations: the marital bed, or beneath the very heavens as the rapture approaches. Everyone who chooses to live as a God-fearing housewife knows that.
Where else are people supposed to fornicate? The stairs are impractical and dangerous, and making whoopee in a field risks staining my stout hessian clothing. Plus insects might bite my intimate parts and I must eschew Piriton.
Recently, however, I overheard a conversation beyond the garden fence which was about ‘sex clubs’. As would anyone, my first thought was there’s nothing erotic about a cudgel. But it turns out they’re actually gatherings for social and sexual intercourse.
I nearly choked when I realised. Why would people want anyone except the Lord, and perhaps the Holy Ghost, to watch them while they make the two-backed beast? But like any sexually repressed woman, I had to learn more about something I hated.
My research led me to a nondescript ‘warehouse’ in an ‘industrial estate’ at 2am. Apparently this is where the sordid action takes place. I felt it necessary to wear thigh-high PVC boots and nipple tassels so as not to stand out from the crowd.
Like David Attenborough, who is so venerable even I am permitted to have heard of him, I was here only to observe. I could not intervene in group sex even if was against scripture, though I allowed myself to make loud tutting noises as they rutted away.
I was horrified It was so debauched even the people of Sodom and Gomorrah would’ve blushed. I loudly flicked through the pocket Bible I had stowed in my cleavage to register my disapproval.
This drew attention, because the attendees thought I was initiating some elaborate roleplay. I explained that I was simply a buttoned-down domestic slave, but this only made them more frenzied.
To cries of ‘spank me and bake me pies, tradwife’ I fled this dungeon of depravity and returned to the marital bed with my husband and our normal life of pretending we’re from an earlier time for sexual gratification. We’re the normal ones, not those sick perverts.
