The Spouse Sparrow has given me an itchy minge. I don't think he meant to; it was just one of those things.
I cannot remember ever having an itchy minge before I met him. I'm sure I must have, I just don't remember it. And truly, it's not all that itchy now. It's more like he has given me a complex about scratching my snatch.
The Spouse Sparrow told me a story about his ex-wife, who would be watching "East Enders" (which apparently gave her her itchy minge), and suddenly, she would have a good root around in the ol' stench trench, and then, rather inelegantly, proclaim "Itchy minge!" and go back to watching her program. I know, I know, you are wondering why he ever left this charming gem of womanhood. Divorce has its reasons, whereof reason knows nothing.
So, thanks to "East Enders," and the Spouse Sparrow's dirty foreigner cock, I now have an itchy minge, and I can never, ever scratch it, because the story he told me about his ex-wife has made me too self-conscious.
Sometimes, at night, while the Spouse Sparrow is lying asleep in bed beside me, and he is contentedly farting away, I think, "Ah, now is my chance -- if that last ripper didn't wake him up, me scratching my muff certainly won't." But no, I cannot risk it; my delicate, maidenly psyche is scarred. I will wait until I am in the shower, and then I will take a wire brush to it.