Not the sort of man
One night we were all in a pub, in some shit-hole little burg in Germany somewhere, when this furious looking woman walked in and started punching Cuddles about the head and chest. She was only small but she was livid and was hitting him with all her might and, although she wasn’t hurting him seriously, you could see him wincing. Cuddles though, was not the sort of man to lay hands on a woman; he’d break your jaw if you spilled his pint, but he wouldn’t hit a woman.
“You know this is giving me a hard-on?” he said, she carried on hitting him.
“Wusstest du, dass du gibst ihm eine erektion?” I translated and she froze, her fists in mid-punch and looked a me, then at Cuddles, indignation, as well as fury, now etched on her face. You could see just how much she wanted to hurt him, her bunched up fists shook with it but she certainly wasn’t there to give him his jollys. She screamed something at him, spat in his face and stormed off.
The look on his face when we all stared quizzicaly at him told us that We would never find out what Cuddles had done to piss her off so.
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