J.P. Donleavy: An Author and His Image

by J. P. Donleavy

  ‘There he is, philanderer, one of those, I saw, I conquered, I came, guys.’

  Although you are now and again beset by these little legal discouragements that folk like Bob relentlessly harass you with, you need but remind yourself that in merely looking to have fun up ladies’ skirts, most honestly inclined married ladies admit that they are thereby kept thrilled and happier. But alas, you will also be thought a fortune hunter. And although husbands may not mind you taking your frolicsome lucky dip into their wives, boy do they get their dander up when you start munching around in them investment portfolios. Even the unemotional husband who refers to you as a rotter or skunk will seethe as he imagines you having access to minor assets such as silk cravats or scented mahogany trays of socks, not to mention wines, especially the fine ports, brandy and cigars. The slightly more infuriated will call you an unconscionable cunt and after he’s had you checked out by investigators will not hesitate to have a man trap set by his game keepers and entice you by his four day absence to sample his best London made shotguns for a day’s shooting.

  Therefore to live longer plus avoid stymieing your opportunities by looking like a fortune hunter, keep rings off your fingers, jewellery off your wrists and do not under any circumstances wear suede shoes. Such appurtenances as well as any exaggerated matters of tailoring are always a distinct giveaway and particularly bespeak chaps harbouring a financial as well as sexual appetite. To say the least this does give one a rather ignoble demeanour. And although the absence of these trinkets may not automatically put you among the booted and horsed, it helps avoid a husband’s early detection. As you can, with your tie small knotted and precise, and ornament clean of wrist and finger, sidle your way through these knuckle cracking squash and polo players to discreetly present yourself to some tasty morsel. Also, in the clement sunny outdoors, avoid form fitting Adonis type bathing costume and other pudenda flattering coverings. Blazers worn indoors or out are out, as are bright buttons of any sort unless worn foxhunting. Which latter could really break your ass before Bob does.

  The rule is that no natural ugliness will hold you back or need ever permanently deny you from being a real whiz whoremongering philanderer especially with the plainer and neglected sorts of ladies, but blatant indiscretions in dress or the wrong sartorial inflection or toilet water will. But be cautious. Appearances and smells are not everything. And although these womenfolk may be bean brained, beetle witted and nonnie noddled, nevertheless they will still possess sufficient smarts to sense through your attentive charms your greedy lunch hooks curling in the direction of hers or hubby’s wherewithal despite her eagerness to taste and be sated by your own swinging grapefruity balled or avocado bollocked assets. And if you are after their money as, let’s face it, big money is just as exciting as ass to get, anyday. Then choose yourself an occupation to indulge both opportunities when you’re not performing your modest but not insignificant duties fussing about way low down in the massive bowels of some corporation or waiting on table. And as that question is asked that people are always goddamn well asking every bloody place you go these damn days.

  ‘And what do you do.’

  Blast them with it. Snow them. Just smash these bastards and bitches to bits. Have it on your finger tips. Practise it just as you also practise running with your trousers down to be able to get up an Olympic speed over a hasty coverage of short distances which might save a situation some day. A really long title. Get the word international into it. Funds is another nice one. As is industries, securities, banks and bonds. Till you’re ready with it.

  ‘I am an international philanderer, con artist and embezzler of securities and bonds and computer defrauder of banks and money houses. And I’m awfully sorry that I can’t answer further personal questions concerning what I do, as the matter, which concerns several elderly ladies whose assets I am accused of swindling, is currently subjudice in courts of several different countries of which this particular country happens to be one but I can disclose that in general my nefarious schemes are based on the greed and fear factors of the human spirit. With my ill gotten gains I hope to influence the price rises and falls on the world’s stock exchanges.’

  To any nervous laughter accompanying your disclosure laugh along with them till their laughter ceases and then continue chuckling till their laughter resumes. Thus they will think you an investment adviser, which means that with your pocket computer you are gauging the minutiae of market movements in order to get the real mood of market indications, and that under your glacially calm exterior you really are a hot shot money and portfolio manager who has long been a whiz inventor of financial formulae and systems. Now you will be able not only to hang around shooting the shit with hubby on promissory notes, shares, hot market tips, special situations, but also while hubby is instructing brokers to buy on your advice, to discreetly visit Virginia’s most sacred vestibule.

  Quite soon and quickly rumours about you will circulate at dinner parties. Since all folk like to hear of astro profit investment opportunities. And on the terrace as Bob looks to see that his azaleas are not being scorched by the heat of the barbecue, you might approach and come right out with it as if you really were in stocks and bonds just as you are presently incognito. And you will of course, so that you may with impunity enjoy the company of your married lady with some frequency, want to make friends with the husband. Find out what you and he have in common. If this is no more than having the same number of balls, and all gents, by no means, do, discover then his hobbies and make sure one of them isn’t rubbing folk out. If you can get him on the subject of the prominent industry he’s connected to then ask the tycoon how things are going. Whether or not the last sales conference he momentarily popped in on had unleashed any new fresh thunderbolts on distribution methods to revolutionize the selling of his product. Should he be a large sleeping shareholder, come right out with it.

  ‘Gee Bob, in the uncertainty of the present business climate how’s the old arbitrage doing.’

  It ought to be doing swell since the whole point of arbitrage, if you’re doing it at all, is to purchase in one market and instantly sell in another at a higher price. Therefore reach right out and clap Bob hard a couple of times on the back. You may think that this is overdoing it. And it is. But in making Bob sputter, readjust dentures or, even better, spit them out coughing, you are, although the point might not be apparent to most people, underlining your sincerity. And you will find as you say.

  ‘Gee Bob, that’s just swell.’

  That although Bob, who employs a temporarily deeply trusted investment counsellor, may not know what the hell arbitrage is, he is going to like your interest. Sidle up close in as nearly a conspiratorial manner as you can without Bob suspecting any homo motives. This will make him feel your glow of sympathy for his wife’s thunderous clothing bills he gets monthly. These goddamn charges really knock hell out of even the big money chaps. When that woman who was already dressed warm enough when he first met her now needs teams of carpenters to extend the closets of her apartments to house the new dresses that appear each day from the reigning haute couturiers. With this in mind beware how you admire her latest gown that she doesn’t gurgle to hubby that you adore the designer’s work and therefore she’s commissioning him to do her yet another whole new wardrobe for the pre spring season. Nothing makes a husband clap suspicious eyes upon you faster than inciting his wife to spend even more of his money. But once having got his business confidence, his wife’s most innermost portfolio is yours to tamper with next.

  Into a special category come wives of chaps who have inherited money and large estates. Better known as the gentry. Here’s where your philandering can really flower. And the perfumes of nature and musky heady scents of your amorata can transport you into the memorable vistas and delights of romance. Plus you stand a much better chance of easily putting it up the wife if not behind an attic chimney or upon the musty mattress of your disused servant’s bedroom, then at least in an overgrown summe
rhouse down by the trout lake or north gate lodge. Although do please be careful, since some of these types being extremely spoiled want no one else to enjoy their rococo statuary, fabled architecture, or to sigh at their sunsets splashingly pink upon their parklands or even to take advantage of their big fluffy towels stacked high in their bathing pavilions. Not to mention a dip between the pure elegant soft sweetness of their ladyships’ thighs.

  So always be ready for the alert cuckold. The persistently sour look on his face is the tip off. Especially as he watches you quaff his Roederer Crystal Brut champagne in his marble floored ballroom where your eyes are glued to the ample gilt surrounding his semi fake art masterpieces which are always those ones fully authenticated as not being forgeries but which are, of course, forgeries. As the real ones are in his Zurich bank vaults. And this gent, educated by private tutors and who was frequently reminded of humanity’s frailties, may sidle up to you when you least expect and let you rather have it straight in the haggis.

  ‘I say, sir, if you are contemplating jumping upon my wife and rogering her in verso and recto, I suggest you also prepare to pay for her hay and stabling.’

  ‘I beg your pudding, are you speaking to me.’

  ‘Regretfully, sir, yes. And to remind you that you may shell out as well for her silk and furry evening tack she is most fond of seasonally acquiring in some quantity when she is not riding. Not to mention, my dear chap, my better wine and viands she freely hands out to sundry eager lap dogs such as you who slaver after her every low and high heeled footstep. But of course if you have already sundry times covered her I suggest you be gone the hell out of here, otherwise I may sooner than soon shift her out for you to watch over for a longer period than I now care to do. You may then witness at leisure while she gets old, tit drooped, fat assed and distinctly au blet. Sorry to put it to you so coarsely. But you are a turd, are you not. You flash Harry you.’

  Now of course this is a rather long speech from your anciently pedigreed man and should have given you a considerable opportunity to conjure up appropriate words to deal with this crusty snooty bugger. But you are best advised to simply say nothing which is bound to make your superior chap add to his little diatribe.

  ‘Did you hear me, sir. I said you flash Harry you.’

  At this stage however you might venture a reply.

  ‘As a matter of fact I did hear you but was weighing in my mind whether you, when you were last covering your wife, were in your socks or not.’

  ‘What, sir, have my socks got to do with it.’

  ‘Well, on they would make you appear in a hurry. And off they would make you appear barefoot. But either way your toenails, of which your wife complains bitterly, need cutting.’

  This riposte of yours, although only gently inciting your man’s intention to visit his chiropodist, should produce bluster and fluster and redden your greying chap at the temples. But beware that while during its delivery this erudite gentleman, Henry, fluttering his tailcoat, hasn’t from his classical Greek and Latin background unearthed something in modern English to slash you about your own possibly too tight evening garments with an epoch making dressing down. Calling the instant attention of the other ball guests who now will be by the potted palms whispering about the bang bang really thank you ma’am liaison they think you are having with his wife.

  ‘You pithering ill born upstart impostor. How dare you attempt to pop it so heinously into my Hilda who tells me that your flaccidness has bored her back to fox-hunting which sadly occasions me to employ more grooms, whom, sir, I would not insult by inviting you to assist them in mucking out the stables.’

  Of course the stage of your romance just suggested by her husband may have already been reached when Hilda is encouraging the attentions of other instant pricked, satin coated and velvet trousered bed bouncers of bottoms. These chaps could, if you are bright white, even be of the dusky complexioned variety who, if they own far Middle East jungle estates, seem always able to bifurcately excite ladies with their elephant mounted tiger killing exploits. Or as desert chieftains can produce in womankind a yearning faintness with attendant procreative teardrops when these Raja Sahibs climb a minaret and yodel down to her upraised adoring eyes. And you now may indeed, as you stand there in your not too badly selected toilet water, be compared to these other Asian and African operators, and as his Lordship suggests, be merely a flash alabaster Harry. This branding could, if you take it to heart, smash your philandering career with a depressing variety of hysterical impotence.

  However, let’s say you’ve avoided such mournful pitfalls. Your hormones are hopping and it’s a Tuesday winter crisp evening. And by sheer blatant pushiness you have successfully penetrated another socially whirling charity ball. Crammed with the polo slender booted and horsed. And there suddenly by the caviar bowl is a lady as dazzling as her spouse is rich. Who has an easy going understanding with her husband, as she stands, as she does every autumn in her life, in a snow storm of engraved invitations. Prominently she features at hunt meetings and cotillions and is given to wearing body clinging silk pale peach dresses and matching shoes. Her recently coiffed hair teased by a terrace breeze gently freshening in the Edwardian window. Or in places requiring it, by the powerful air conditioning set in a ventilator grate of rare flush topped walnut construction. And you rehearse your opening words.

  ‘Would madam care to discuss her splendid elbows upon which she might take ease while chewing and sipping in the future some underdone beeves and booming burgundy I should delight to golf down with her.’

  She will of course be instantly spotted by other like minded chaps such as yourself who will also do everything in the language they can to captivate this penis engorging creature. And it is best therefore, straight off, to treat this fellow philanderer with a fusillade of sartorially undermining remarks.

  ‘Where did you get those shoes.’

  The word ‘where’ is the key to this enquiry and should be accented. As your man, pleased with your question, is about to loftily tell you of a revered St James’s boot maker and purringly looks down, let him have the next one.

  ‘Don’t please bother to look, everyone else already has.’

  Naturally if you are he who is him being told off concerning your footwear, you need only whisper the following.

  ‘Where vas you Charlie ven dey crucified my lord.’

  Of course for those in the know the slightly foreigner sounding reply is.

  ‘I vas baking beans suh, I vas baking beans.’

  Now having discouraged if not eliminated at least one of these cheeky impertinent competitors, pay attention to your last and usual obstacle, her well heeled but commoner husband Basil. Consider first his strengths as it is most ill advised to depend upon what you might think are this gentleman’s weaknesses. Especially find out if he collects hand guns and frequently has blind uncontrollable rages. Upon this enquiry being negative, check out his routine. Which will mostly consist of absences at tailors for fittings, athletic clubs for work outs and bloodstock sales for brood mares. This latter hobby of course sharpens the eye not only for the best in horsy attributes but no doubt has helped her husband choose what you covet in his wife, Briget. Notably her uncommon head, well turned legs, good front on her breathing box and her lack of sloping in the quarters.

  Although this will have invariably been for money, find out if there are any minor reasons why this splendid filly married Basil. These will gigantically have to do with the rated horsepower of Basil’s yacht engines if not his gross Lloyd’s registered tonnage, which made Briget choose him over all the other equally panting, tongue out, feverish guys wanting maritally up and in her who own vessels of similar length or displacement. And of course here is how you prevent an awful repetition of being caught as you were by Bob or mortified as you were by that aristocratic twit, Henry.

  GET YOUR SEAGOING MASTER’S PAPERS

  And don’t be discouraged by the years it takes to obtain such briny qualification. You wil
l be rewarded by more cuckolding philandering once you’ve installed yourself as captain on one of these luxury yachts, both at sea and in foreign ports, than you could shake an internationally major symphonic conductor’s baton at. Especially when Basil is ashore and Briget is on board. But even when that bastard’s luxuriating over his pink linen napkined breakfast in his owner’s suite you will still, as a matter of courtesy, be reporting your daily position and weather in person to her in Briget’s own quarters. Remove your cap as you step over the bulkhead and secure the hatch behind you and keep your fingers well stiffened in your salute.

  ‘Good morning, madam.’

  ‘Hi, Captain.’

  ‘Madam, it’s good to see you looking so splendid.’

  ‘Captain, you say the nicest things so early in the morning.’

  ‘I do regret though, madam, that at o eight thirty hours the meteorological office has issued a gale warning to all shipping which may lash and toss us all over the ruddy wave tops.’

  ‘Oh dear, Basil will be so awfully seasick.’

  ‘We are presently steaming pronto out of its direction but it could be blowing, madam.’

  ‘Then I must immediately order you, as Basil will be so absolutely indisposed with yawking, to personally hove to and stand by me below decks while abiding further blowing. Of the weather of course.’

  ‘Aye aye, madam.’

  Madam’s blatant invitation may surprise you but stand at ease and remember there is simply nothing which attracts ladies more than glistening white ducks in the tropics, or elegant navy blue serge in the ice belts or the chart in your chamois gloved hand to which details of the gale warning is affixed. Not to mention that gold braid, not only on your sleeve and shoulders but also scrambled all over your hat visor. This latter salty radiance alone would open your ladyship’s dimpled welcoming limbs to you.