You people are so very, very mucky and freaky, and I do love it so. I really should have just asked for those super tips months earlier.
Of course, as you all gave slightly varying tales of the methods you used for conceptual success, it would be impossible to try them all in one lifetime. I have therefore had to mould them into one foolproof method.
Baring that in mind, here is our plan of attack for this month, based solely on your input.
Firstly we need a head to toe lace body suit, I'm not sure if this was intended for the me or her, so two are on order.
ET needs to nag me, this may require intensive training. She must nag me something woeful until I freak out and offer to shag her out of the goodness of my heart.
We then need to have sex on the stairs, doggy style.
The problem there is that it is essential we try to not to get caught. I really should post a picture of our stairs to illustrate that we certainly would get caught, by the fire brigade who would have to come and cut us free from the sweaty semen dripping spiral mangled mess that would surely ensue.
All the while my shoes should be under ET's side of the bed.
Of course we would need refreshments, with the beverages of choice seemingly being 8 bottles of red wine and a bucket of margarita, preferably provided by the in-laws. Hers or mine, I'm not certain.
For an extra push to send the boys that extra mile, or inch, ET should have her pelvis realigned, go on the pill, go off the pill, sign up for adoption seminars, and smoke some dope. All this and the subsequent über shagging should be done under the watchful gaze of some Jehovah's witnesses, with my in-law's ears pressed up against the key hole trying to decipher our grunts over Jay and Silent Bob on the telly.
I do question the use of a movie featuring a mute to drown out sex noises though.
We'll have to make sure our passports are valid as this marathon knobbing festival will be like 'Live Aid', taking place all over the planet in Turkey, Eastbourne, some random lighthouse keeper's lodge, and in the in-law's basement.
They don't actually have a basement, but they do have a garage where they keep the beer, which would do nicely. Killing two birds, with one bone.
All of this, every last bit of it it seems, can be ignored under one circumstance, and one alone. Sex in the teenage single bed.
Unfortunately, as both our teenage beds are in another country, my alternative plan is to redecorate our spare room to be an exact clone of my childhood bedroom.
From the torn Elmer Fudd wallpaper, to the wardrobe whose door never shut, to the Kylie Minogue posters, to the New kids on the block albums, to the tattered underwear section of the 1989 'Family Album' catalog, to the teddy bears who witnessed sights no stuffed animal should ever have to.
I will get the theme tunes of Dallas, Dynasty, and Falcon Crest to waft up the stairs, to warn us we have 30 minutes more. The theme tune to the late evening news will mean it's time to zip up.
The bed will of course, have to have an amplified creak upon every movement, and a plentiful supply of questionable tissues shoved between pillows and mattresses.
All this, will certainly deliver Spencer to the holy grail on this, the twenty fourth time of asking.
P.S. I did have to chuckle at the notion of aiding and abetting 'extra' orgasms, you mean one at Christmas and on her birthday?