Michael raised his hands in surrender and said: 'We'll cross that bridge when we come to it-though I wouldn't be surprised if Gwendolen and I never actually go any further. Our snogging was spur-of-the-moment stuff and tonight when I'm playing Vincentio, as although Arthur's making a swift recovery he won't be able to resume his role until Friday's performance, I don't expect Gwendolen and I will do anything more than kiss each other on the stage.' Frank called over the waiter and asked whether anyone would care to help him finish a second bottle of port. 'Not for me, thank you. I've really enjoyed listening to Michael's saga, but I must retire to my room as I've an essay to finish for tomorrow,' I said, rising to my feet.
'Oh come on, my friend, all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy, you know,' protested Barry. 'I was looking forward to a few rubbers of bridge this evening.' 'Get thee behind me, Satan,' I warned him with a smile. 'You know how much I enjoy a game of bridge, but please don't tempt me any further. I've a hellish day tomorrow though I'm quite looking forward to Professor Webb's party in the evening.' 'Have you also been invited to old Beaver's get-together?' drawled Frank. 'He asked me to come too but I didn't want to mention it before in case you hadn't been favoured with an offer to attend, what does he call it, his conversazione. It could be fun and I've been told that he owns the best cellar in the whole University.' 'Jolly good, Frank, I'm sure we'll have a fine time.
Knock on my door at eight o'clock tomorrow night and we'll go to the bunfight together.' And before anything else could draw my attention, I waved a goodbye to my friends and made my way up to my room, resolving to burn the midnight oil until I had finished my essay.
CHAPTER THREE. A Test Of Endurance
It was nearly two o'clock in the morning when with a sigh of relief I put down my pen and shuffled together the papers upon which I had written my essay which was about the tiresome political situation in Ireland. As I yawned and stretched my arms I thought to myself that this might not be the most elegant essay I had ever composed but though on the short side it was competent enough and would have to suffice. Indeed, I had been sorely tempted simply to write that there were no solutions to the Irish problem except build a border fence like the Great Wall of China between Ulster and the rest of the country though it would be hard to decide on which side lay the barbarians, but aphorisms of this kind would not please my tutor, Professor Cuthbert Cumberland, who was a man of acerbic wit and well-known to be merciless to students who sent in below standard work for his perusal. He was also somewhat of a snob, a characteristic I abhor, although I still smile at the story about his involvement in a planned visit to the University by the Crown Prince of Japan. An official from the Japanese Embassy visited Professor Cumberland to make the necessary arrangements and the Professor, who was a stickler for protocol, asked how the young man should be addressed. 'At home we refer to him as the Son of God,' said the diplomat, to which Professor Cumberland is supposed to have rejoined: That will present no problem.
We are used to entertaining the sons of distinguished men at Oxford.'
He had a perverse sense of humour too as shown by this probably apocryphal anecdote. It is said that a colleague rushed up to him one morning with the news that a member of the philosophy department had committed suicide. Professor Cumberland is said to have raised his hand and said: 'Please, don't tell me who. Allow me to guess!'
But I would just have to hope that my essay pleased the Professor for I was so sleepy that I could not have written another sentence. I fell asleep as soon as my head touched the pillow and would have missed breakfast and perhaps my first lecture if Nancy had not have woken me up in time. It was not part of her duties to rouse undergraduates from their slumber but the jolly girl wanted to apologise for slipping under the table and sucking me off during dinner the previous night. She had knocked on my door but when I had failed to reply she quietly entered as she had correctly guessed that I was still in bed. I must say that I preferred Nancy's way of waking me up to that of any alarm dock! I felt my shoulder being shaken and as I came to my senses I felt soft fingers snake their way around my stiff cock (since the age of thirteen I have always woken up with a boner) and I heard Nancy whisper: 'Wake up. Master Rupert, it's getting on for eight o'clock.' My head cleared quickly as her words seeped through and I slowly came to my senses, though for a few seconds I was puzzled by the fact that my tool was throbbing with pleasure even though I was not frigging myself. Then I quickly realised that Nancy was playing with my prick, rubbing her hand up and down the hot shaft, capping and uncapping my helmet as she said: Would you like me to finish you off. Master Rupert, or shall I run you a bath instead?' Time enough for both I dunk, Nancy, if you don't mind,' I said, now fully aware of what was going on. She grinned and increased the pace of motion, her hand flashing up and down my swollen shaft as I lay back and enjoyed the very pleasant sensation of being woken up by what is vulgarly known as 'a hand job'. Nancy's sensual rubbing soon brought the inevitable result and I spunked copiously, the sticky froth shooting out from my knob all over her hand and over my curly pubic hair. This sight so excited her that she whispered: 'Oh dear, now we can't let all that luscious spunk go to waste,' and she bent down and sucked up as much of my emission as possible, licking my cock clean until my prick began to lose some of its stiffness. 'I do love sucking your cock, your sperm has just the salty tang that I like to swallow. Just the thought of taking your pole in my mouth makes me ever so randy,' she added, massaging me.
'I'd love to fuck you, Nancy, but it will have to be at another time as I'm already late for breakfast. Please run my bath now whilst I shave, there's a good girl,' I said, heaving myself out of bed.
She sighed and said: 'Well, how about this evening before dinner?' I shook my head and said regretfully: 'Nancy, this must sound awfully conceited, but I'm afraid that I don't have the time.
I'm only going to have half an hour or so to change before dinner and then I'm going to a reception at Professor Webb's house. Believe me, it's not that I don't want to fuck you but I'm not really free till after dinner tomorrow evening at the earliest and then only briefly because I'm going out again to an art class.' 'I can't meet you till Friday then because I'm going out myself tomorrow night,' she complained crossly. 'My friend Rosa and I have been given tickets to see The Taming Of The Shrew at the New Theatre.' 'Really? I do hope you enjoy it-who was the kind gentleman who provided your tickets?' This question put her back into a good humour for she giggled and replied: 'Mike Beattie, of course. Why do you think I gobbled his cock under the table last night? Actually, I came in this morning to apologise if what I did during dinner upset you.' 'No, of course it didn't,' I hastened to assure her, 'although I must say I was very worried in case you were discovered.' It wouldn't have mattered too much, I would have just said that I was cleaning up some spilt food,' she said coolly, 'and I'm sure that none of you would have given me away! I had only planned to suck off Michael but I'm particularly fond of your prick, Rupert, and I couldn't resist it.'
Thank you, Nancy, I'm always very pleased to hear a girl say nice things about my prick because at school we were all a little jealous of Frank Folkestone's gigantic tool.' Her remark at hearing this confession well illustrates why, as I have just written when recounting the anecdote about Professor Cumberland's snobbery, I detest this particular vice. More often that not, I was to discover that several college servants like Nancy possessed far more common sense than many of the fellows of the college including those who sat at the High Table. She laughed openly at this confession and exclaimed: 'For heaven's sake, don't disappoint me now, Master Rupert.
Surely you're not one of those silly boys who measure themselves against what they see in the changing rooms and worry that their own pricks seem smaller than those dangling around them.' I coloured slightly at her well chosen words which you may well recall, dear reader, gave further credence to Chrissie Nayland-Hunt's rebuke to Gillian Headleigh when the latter made an appreciative remark about the size of Salman Marrari's
member. Nancy continued:*My last boyfriend, Billy Bucknall, who still works down the road in Blackwell's bookshop, had such a tremendous tadger that at school his form-mates used to whistle and cheer whenever they saw him take a shower. And of course he enjoyed basking in their approval and admiration, but this proud self-confidence soon vanished when he first had the opportunity to spoon seriously with the maid-of-all-work back in his parents' house. 'At first all was well and she allowed him to caress her breasts through her blouse and she rubbed her hand against the huge bulge in his lap-but when she unbuttoned his trousers and took out his prick she was so startled that she began to giggle.
Now you can imagine what effect this had on a shy boy who had never even gone further than a furtive kiss before. His cock shrivelled down in double quick time and he couldn't coax it back up again for love or money. Still, I helped him to forget about his problem by explaining to him that a girl's cunney expands or contracts to take in whatever size cock is being placed inside it.' 'You must have had great fun giving Mr. Bucknall a practical lesson,' I said dryly.
“Yes, I taught Billy all he knows about fucking,' said Nancy with justifiable pride in her voice. 'We went out together for almost a year but neither of us want to settle down yet so we have agreed to go our separate ways for now, although you never know how things might turn out, do you?'
I gave Nancy a kiss as I stripped off and as I marched into the bathroom I called out: 'Nancy, thank you once again for waking me up this morning. Look, there's half a crown on my bedside table.
Please take it and buy yourself and Rosa a nice box of chocolates for the theatre tomorrow night.' That's not necessary, Master Rupert, really it isn't,' she protested as she followed me inside the bathroom and turned on the bath-taps while I rummaged around in the cupboard for my razor and shaving cream. 'I know it's not necessary but I'd like to show my gratitude to you, so please accept my gift as a sincere token of appreciation not as a fee for a service,' I said grandly and this pompous little speech made us both smile. Anyhow, Nancy finally accepted my little present and I just managed to get downstairs before the kitchen closed. After breakfast I left my essay in Professor Cumberland's pigeon-hole and spent the rest of the day hard at work. Nevertheless, I made sure to post two notes, one to the gorgeous Chrissie telling her that I would attend her art class the next night when she could give me further details about when and where we would meet my old pal Salman Marrari, and the other to the equally lovely Beth Randall, apologising for not having contacted her before but that I hoped she would be free to see me one day next week.
My crowded social calendar would certainly keep me busy, I thought, as I changed for dinner and Professor Webb's evening party.
Still, we work to live, not live to work as our wealthy village squire and family friend Mr. Buckingham was fond of saying when he called round in the morning to pick up my father for a day's fishing. Mind, my mother, who holds radical views upon what she calls the shockingly unfair distribution of wealth in our society, once asked the squire with some irritability how he would know this to be true as he had never done a day's work in his life! 'It's becoming quite difficult to fit everything in-as the maidservant said to the chauffeur!' I said to Frank Folkestone as we met as arranged after dinner. 'Don't complain.' advised Frank as we walked briskly out of the college gates. 'Despite the many opportunities to enjoy oneself here, there are very many first year students who are still lonely and homesick.' 'Very true, I have no right at all to grumble,' I sighed. 'And you seem to be getting on nicely, Frank. I can't believe that you really miss our life at St Lionel's.' 'Good God, I should say not, although I must admit that occasionally I do miss the friendship you and I shared with Prince Salman. We had some great times together, didn't we?' This reminded me to tell Frank the good news about Salman coming to Oxford for the weekend. 'I'm sure you could join us for dinner tomorrow night,' I said but Frank shook his head. 'Damn, I've already arranged to dine with the Matthew Arnold Society, but try and bring him over for coffee on Saturday morning,' he said, a sensible suggestion with which I was happy to comply, though I speculated that Salman had planned to spend the morning in bed with the delectable Chrissie! Professor Simon Webb's party turned out to be a fine affair- frankly, I had expected to mix in a small, exclusive gathering but there must have been at least fifty young people present. Frank and I were delighted to see that like Doctor Blayers, the good Professor believed in letting young people of both sexes engage in social intercourse and as I scanned the room looking to see if I knew any of the other guests besides Frank, I wondered whether Gillian Headleigh might be present. 'Are you looking for someone?' said a sweet feminine voice and I turned round and saw a truly ravishing girl standing beside me. She was a most beautiful creature, rather above medium height with shining bright brown hair, a fresh complexion and a pretty face which was set off by a merry smile that played upon her rich, red lips. Furthermore, this exquisite young lady was wearing a low cut crimson dress which revealed a goodly amount of her firmly-rounded breasts. “Yes, I was looking to see whether Gillian Headleigh or her chum Chrissie Nayland-Hunt were here. Would you happen to know these girls by any chance?' She looked at me closely and then with a lilting laugh in her voice she said with a fine theatrical flourish. I am acquainted with both of them and your question leads me to believe that your name la Rupert Mountjoy from Balliol College. Am I right or wrong, my dear sir?' With a chuckle I raised my hands in surrender. 'The prisoner pleads guilty as charged. But we have not been introduced, so I can't imagine how on earth you come to know my name.'
'Elementary, my dear Watson,' she replied, wagging a finger at me. 'Indeed so elementary that we hardly need employ the services of Sherlock Holmes or Sexton Blake. I am sharing lodgings with Gillian in Pusey Street whilst we are in Oxford and she has told me all about you, you naughty fellow.' 'Goodness me, I hope you don't believe everything that you are told.' 'It depends upon who is doing the telling and as you would-be lawyers might say, cui bono? As far as Gillian is concerned, I am sure that I can believe every word she has said about you, especially about your abilities to please members of the female sex.' I blushed at the thought of what Gillian had told this gorgeous girl about our escapades. 'Of course you can, I didn't mean to even hint that Gillian would ever deliberately utter an untruth.' 'Of course you didn't,' she agreed.*But alas, neither she nor Chrissie are here to defend themselves even if you did.
They've gone to see the Dramatic Society's production of The Taming Of The Shrew at the New Theatre this evening.' Well, dear reader, this led me on to mention my friend Michael Beanie's involvement in the play, though naturally I did not breathe a word about the truth of just how he came to take over the part except to say that Arthur Cuthbertson had suddenly taken ill during a performance and that at very short notice, Michael had bravely stepped into the breach.
'Anyhow, whilst I am sorry that Gillian and Chrissie aren't here, I'm delighted that their absence has brought us together. Miss, ah, now you have the advantage of me as you know my name but I don't know yours!' 'I'm Marianne Dawson and I'm pleased to meet you, Rupert, and please don't worry, Gillian said only the nicest things about you!' This chance meeting was indeed fortuitous for me. Marianne and I chatted animatedly especially when I discovered that we shared an interest in photography. I told her of how Frederick Nolan, the American cinematographer, had come to my family's home and I was saying how popular moving pictures had become with the general public, when Professor Webb himself joined in the conversation. 'Moving pictures, young Mountjoy?' he snorted. 'Can't abide them, to be frank with you-all that jerky flickering gives me a headache after a time but I suppose they'll form an interesting library of material for future historians to complement the newspapers and official records. I grant you that now people are flocking to see cinematograph shows but these only have novelty value and won't pose any threat against the music halls and the theatre.' Marianne took issue immediately with this view. 'I can't agree with you, sir. The film offers a new
entertainment to an international audience. A film-maker such as Frederick Nolan makes his film and can have copies shown all over the world. All Frenchmen, Spaniards, Italians or what have you need do is to insert title slides in their own language where needed. I grant you that the actors cannot be heard but against this, the action is more realistic, being able to switch at will from inside to outdoors and from the past to the present and if necessary even to the future. Of course, whilst the film remains without the power of speech, the theatre remains unchallenged but I would wager that sooner rather than later, some clever inventor will marry sound and colour to film and there will be machines available that we can buy so that we can view these films in the comfort of our own homes.' 'Oh, I think you are now entering the realms of fantasy, my dear,' said the Professor doubtfully although I strongly backed up Marianne's prophecy.
'Well, one matter upon which we can surely all agree is that the moving picture will never replace the art of painting, although like the majority of my friends, I was most disappointed at this summer's Royal Academy Exhibition,' I declared roundly. Professor Webb beamed and said: I am pleased to hear you say so, young Mountjoy. I looked in vain for evidence of new genius coming to the fore but was castigated for my criticism by my young brother who sits on the Hanging Committee. He had the cheek to call me an old fogey! Well, he could hardly level the same charge at you and your chums!' 'I was not able to see this year's Exhibition as I spent the summer with my family in America,' confessed Marianne, 'but I don't think we should judge the newer artists too hastily. The language of art varies -what may have been expressive yesterday may be regarded as merely commonplace today. But from what I've seen at previous exhibitions, I would say that the danger comes in that once an artist is admitted into the Academy, he often becomes too contented with himself to care to do anything that he had not done before.' There we are most certainly in agreement,' said the Professor, running a hand through his bushy red beard. 'I've been collecting landscapes by Stanley Brendah for the last ten years and I would have to agree with you that since he was given the imprimateur of an Academician, his work has suffered. The bold, dashing style seems to have become muted, as if he were afraid of experimentation in case his admirers might turn away, just as I must turn away from this interesting debate, dear Miss Marianne, for I must circulate amongst my guests and make some introductions where necessary. Many young people are terribly shy and stand around all by themselves, lonely in the thronging crowd, and I consider it my bounden duty as host to help them break into a friendly circle.' As Professor Webb plunged through the crowd, I said to Marianne: 'What a decent old stick! It's very thoughtful of him to make sure that his more reticent guests enjoy themselves. Mind, I never knew he was a connoisseur of landscape pictures.' 'Ah, there's probably quite a lot you don't know about our host,' said Marianne brightly. Tie specialises in other artistic fields too.'
The Intimate Memoirs of an Edwardian Dandy, vol.II Page 12
