A Four-Alarm Fire in Your Pants is Nothing to Joke About, Darling

Darling, ever since I got promoted to chief of arson investigation, your penchant for reporting false alarms and purring what can only be described as technically imprecise fire-fighting lingo in my ear has nearly driven me to distraction. Nearly.

First, let me respond to your urgent claim that your pussy Whiskers got tangled up in your panties and needs rescuing. Aside from the obvious fact that we do not own a cat due to the off-hand chance it could overturn a candle when we are not looking, the tangling of a cat within your cotton underwear is unheard of and, if true, is more likely a situation for animal control to handle.

When I pointed this fact out to you the first of many times, you then altered your story considerably and claimed that your pussy Whiskers likes to climb to the top of big wooden poles and then work her way down slowly but has gotten stuck at the top this time and needs my assistance.

Well, contrary to popular belief, firemen (let alone arson investigators, dear) don’t spend a considerable amount of time getting cats out of trees or flagpoles or panties. But we do put out lots of fires, like the one that’s about to rage between your legs if you don’t close them AND the matchbook cover before you strike that match, honey.

But if your third version of this unlikely tale is true and your pussy Whiskers habitually digs her claws into a tree trunk, that is more a matter for a veterinarian and, later, a landscaping crew to remove the problematic tree trunk that does not exist in our front yard. But one thing I’ve learned to be true is that your pussy Whiskers will come much quicker if you just leave the area for a while and let it take matters into its own hands without any pressure from you.

You frequently tell me that you would like to wrestle with my fire hose. I’m delighted that you would say such a thing, but I cannot honestly say it is my fire hose. More precisely, the fire hoses belong to the fire department and all the firefighters within the department.

A more accurate statement would be “I want to wrestle with all the firefighters’ fire hoses.” Ambitious, I’ll give you. Realistic in your assessment of your own strength? Not at all, no matter how much you swear you’ll practice with my co-workers if I don’t give you the opportunity.

Perhaps in the confusion of the amorous feelings I’m detecting in you, when you say you want to watch me handle my engorged fire hose and direct its mighty, gushing stream onto you, you really mean that you would like to wrestle with my often-flaccid, four-and-a-half-inch penis. If that is the case, I fail to see the similarity between the high pressure with which an endless supply of water forcefully exits a fire hose and the weak, brief dribble produced by my orgasms.

Also, you know I have to work early and must get my sleep. Another four-alarm fire in your pants, you say? It is indeed slightly warm to the touch so I’m afraid that’s one area I won’t be venturing into. Instead, I’ll be covering my mouth and nose with a damp cloth and crawling on all fours out of the room. Goodnight, dear.