"Frank Sinatra had a massive johnson."

Sarah looked up from her copy of Marie-Claire at her husband nestled in his armchair reading the Daily Telegraph. She furrowed her brow quizzically.

"It says so here. He was incredibly well-endowed in the trouser department. His crowning glory was a real whopper!"

"Was it, Phil dear?" Sarah remarked, lifting herself up slightly but not able to disguise the smile that flickered across her face. Nor, she was sure, a flash of excitement at the thought of a well-endowed Frank Sinatra.

"These singers have pretty big john thomases. Except Elvis, of course. Tight foreskin. All he could do was dry-hump. Not a whole lot of shaking going on there. No wonder he had such tight trousers!"

"Frank's trousers weren't tight," Sarah mused.

"They couldn't be, could they?" Phil agreed, standing up and letting his newspaper fall to the floor. "It wouldn't do, if you had a trouser snake of his dimensions!"

Sarah felt Phil's hands land on her shoulder. She looked up at his face.

"Just imagine it, eh?" Phil continued, a lustful smile breaking the contours of his face. "Frank Sinatra. No wonder Ava Gardner went for him! And she knew a thing or two about lurve!"

Sarah smiled. Not that Phil was such an expert really.

Her husband tightened his grip on Sarah's shoulders and brought his mouth down to peck little dry kisses on her cheeks, on her forehead and on her lips.

"That man! The bobby-soxers! If they knew!"

Phil swivelled round and loomed above his wife. Sarah looked up at him, studying with interest the excitement that illuminated his eyes.

"Perhaps they did know, dear," Sarah agreed, her lips slightly pouting and a slight heave escaping from her breast.

"That'd explain a lot, wouldn't it?" Phil agreed, leaning over Sarah, his legs between hers and a foolish grin on his face.

"I'm sure it does, dear," Sarah agreed, placing an open palm on his trouser front. Phil was clearly no Frank Sinatra, but there was an undeniable stirring inside his Gap chinos.

"So he really did it his way! What it would be to be a stranger meeting him on a night!"

Sarah mused momentarily about Frank. She enjoyed those CDs they'd bought cheap at Woolworth's, especially In the Wee Small Hours and Only the Lonely. What she wouldn't have done for Frank to ask her to fly with him. Or to call her his funny valentine. Or to take her round his kind of town.

But there was a more pressing need to address.

Sarah squeezed the hard rod in Phil's boxers.

"Yes," she said softly.

"Yes?" pleaded Phil.

"Yes!" she assented.

And then the fumbling, as gallantly (for a change) Phil undid one by one the buttons on Sarah's blouse while she pressed her hand hard on Phil's throbbing manhood, keen that it shouldn't lose that proof of love and affection which she had once enjoyed so frequently and so regularly,

And then the disinvestment, as shirt followed blouse, chinos followed culottes, trainers slipped and espadrilles kicked off. Until the moment that widened Phil's pupils to nearly obscure all trace of the green-grey cornea, as the bra and vest accompanied the boxers and knickers in that final inelegant fumble that meant that every last obstacle was gone and there was only one thing left to do.