He had expected that there would be female undergraduates on the course, who might be sympathetic to his longings, but disappointingly all ten of his fellow students turned out to be male. One of them, his next door neighbour Jeremy, who had switched from a ladies hairdressing degree course, had made it abundantly clear that he would more than welcome an advance from Arbuckle. Arbuckle however, although disappointed that he was still a virgin, wasn’t yet ready to take the brown route to sexual gratification.
Rather than wait until the third year to embark on his thesis, as was the norm, Arbuckle had decided to make a start on it immediately, to do it at his leisure (and ultimately, he hoped, his pleasure). After just six months at Cleek he was more than halfway through his dissertation, to which he had given the rather ambitious working title ‘All you ever wanted to know about inflatable rubber women but were afraid to ask’, and was toying with the idea of presenting it to the university authorities at the end of his first year, thus saving himself the inconvenience of doing another two years at Cleek before setting himself up as a sex guru.
Which was not to say that he wasn’t enjoying university life. Far from it. He found being amongst people who were almost as clever as he, for the first time in his life, to be quite stimulating. The only dark cloud was that the students on the Sex and Inflatable Rubber Woman Studies course were looked upon by those reading more conventional subjects as being a bit weird, and this being the case the female students at Cleek University withheld their favours from them. As one of them had once succinctly put it to Arbuckle, when he had propositioned her: “Who wants to be studied while they’re being shagged?”
So Arbuckle had continued to labour at his undergraduate studies under that constraint. However he was confident it wouldn’t be too long before he finally popped his cherry.
****
CHAPTER THREE
Rap...rap...rap! Henry Willoughby rapped the dildo three times on the table top to call the weekly meeting to order.
Various local groups used the large, high-vaulted upstairs meeting room of The Grim Jogger public house in south Derby. Tonight, Friday, it was the turn of VAST, Vigilantes Against Sex Toys, to hold court. Present at the meeting were eight of the nine members of VAST, Mr Willoughby, Mr Grimshaw, Mr Seal, Father Flannery, Mr Khan, Councillor Mrs Wisbech JP, Mrs Bean and Miss Preece. Plus initially, until he found out his mistake, a member of the Orienteering Club who had managed to find his way there but on the wrong night. Willoughby had welcomed him and offered him membership but he had declined, saying that if people wanted to use sex toys it was their own business. Willoughby told him in no uncertain manner that it was also the business of VAST, and very much so.
When Willoughby had rapped the dildo on the table top Emily Preece, spinster of this parish, had visibly blanched. “I really wish you wouldn’t do that, Mr Willoughby,” she reproved him.
Willoughby treated her to an apologetic smile but the tone of his voice indicated that he would not be swayed. “I do need to call the meeting to order Miss Preece.”
“Not with that thing you don’t. You could use a gavel, like any normal chairman, or rap on the desk with a coin or your knuckles, or just simply say ‘I call the meeting to order’.”
Willoughby sighed. Miss Preece hadn’t been a member for long and perhaps hadn’t yet grasped the full significance of the dildo. He reminded her. “It’s ceremonial, Emily. The very first ever sex toy we persuaded a member of the public to give up. It serves to remind us of why we are here.”
“I don’t need reminding why I’m here, I know exactly why I’m here, I’m reminded of it every time I pass the sex shop in the High Street,” said Miss Preece, from atop her high horse. She pointed at the dildo. “There’s one of those....things in the window this week.”
“Well it is by no means unusual for a shop to put its wares in the window. And much as we would like to stop them including dildos in their display I’m afraid there isn’t a lot we can do about it. However, like I say, our dildo is merely symbolic.”
“It’s diabolic.”
And to Emily Preece it was diabolic. In her eyes dildos were something the Devil himself might have invented. As a member of VAST she was naturally against all sex toys in any shape or form, but especially in the shape and form of artificial penises.
In fact it was a dildo that had been instrumental in her joining the group, some six months earlier. A girls’ school teacher of English Language and Literature, she had been asked by the headmistress to oversee a training session of the sixth form 4 x 100 metres relay team - the games mistress having been forced to make an emergency visit to the dentist. Having little time for sport Miss Preece had been far more interested in a re-visitation of the carryings on of Elizabeth Bennet and Mr D’Arcy in her new edition of Pride and Prejudice than she was with her charges. Consequently, with only half an eye on them, she had failed to detect what the girls were using as a baton. The half an eye she did have on them had noticed, for reasons she couldn’t discern, that Caroline Durant, who was running the second leg, seemed very reluctant to pass the baton on to Sharon Pengelli, who was running the third leg. More often than not they failed to exchange it at all, both girls collapsing in fits of laughter before this seemingly simple task could be achieved. It wasn’t until she wandered over to the girls, whilst they were seated on the ground taking five, and saw it nestling between Caroline’s thighs, business end pointed towards her crotch, that she realised what it was.
“Is....is that thing what I think it is?” she said, blushing violently.
“Why what do you think it is, Miss?” said Caroline, artfully.
“Isn’t it a baton, Miss Preece?” asked Sharon, like her friend not one to miss the opportunity of having a bit of fun at the expense of their prudish English teacher.
Miss Preece, refusing to be drawn, had taken the dildo gingerly between finger and thumb, and with some difficulty, as it was a dildo of generous proportions, put it in her handbag. Having dismissed the girls and ordered them to take a cold shower she took the offending apparatus to the headmistress, Mrs Jones.
“Look what I found the relay team using as a baton,” she said, turning her handbag upside down and letting the dildo drop onto Mrs Jones’s desk with a loud ‘thunk’.
“Oh dear,” said Mrs Jones.
“Oh dear, indeed. How on earth would the girls come by such a thing?
If it had been any of her staff other than Miss Preece who had presented such a double entendre Mrs Jones might have cashed in on it and shared a laugh with them. Instead she gave a rueful smile. “Unfortunately in the times in which we live they are generally available, Emily; and that being the case I’m afraid they are bound to fall into innocent young hands occasionally.”
“Well they won’t be falling into innocent young hands any longer. Not if I have anything to do with it,” stormed Miss Preece, and, although not entirely convinced that the young hands the dildo had fallen into were completely innocent, had from that point on made every effort to make her words come true.
She had achieved only limited success. One small victory had been a successful objection to the opening of a sex shop in an old Methodist chapel which now served the community as a bingo hall - despite strong opposition from the Methodists, who had originally objected to their church becoming a bingo hall and would have preferred it to become a sex shop. However her campaign had bought her to the attention of VAST, who at the time were also objecting to the proposed sex shop. Willoughby had invited Miss Preece to join them and Miss Preece, adopting the maxim of strength in numbers, had abandoned her solo efforts and joined forces with them.
It was the use of the dildo as a sort of ceremonial gavel that sometimes made her wish she hadn’t. However, that apart, she was aware that her being a member of VAST was more likely to rid the world of sex toys than if she had remained a lone campaigner.
“Before we move on to tonight’s agenda there is one apology for absence,” said Mr Willoughby. “From
Mr Cleaver.”
“And he has much to apologise for,” chimed in Constance Wisbech.
“Why, what has he done?” George Grimshaw had missed the last meeting, when it had been reported that Mr Cleaver had set fire to a branch of the Body Shop, an act of arson that had given the local fire brigade an unwelcome afternoon out.
Mrs Wisbech filled him in as to Mr Cleaver’s transgression.
“Why did he do that?” asked Arthur Seal, who had also missed the last meeting as it clashed with a darts match. “What has he got against Body Shops?”
“Nothing. He mistook it for an Ann Summers shop. Apparently there was a naked mannequin lying down in the shop window awaiting the attention of the window dresser,” explained Willoughby, “and the shop’s cat had taken the liberty of taking forty winks on its lap. Mr Cleaver thought it was some sort of grotesque sex toy, and....” he spread his hands in a hopeless gesture and left the rest of the sentence unsaid.
“And what is his reason, other than his bizarre behaviour, for tendering his apologies?” said Miss Preece.
“He is indisposed.”
“He is in prison,” said Mrs Wisbech, in a manner which left no one in any doubt that she thought it was no less than Cleaver deserved. “For twenty eight days. I myself was instrumental in sending him there. He has another two weeks to serve, unless he is released for good behaviour; which is highly unlikely if his past behaviour is anything to go by.”
“Why, has he got previous?” said Seal, lapsing into the vernacular of the police officer he had been before recently retiring from the force.
“I meant burning the Body Shop down. People of that ilk don’t deserve to be a member of VAST.”
Mrs Bean, aka Brown Owl, tried to introduce an element of reason into the discussion “We all have a right to be against the evil of sex toys, Mrs Wisbech,” she said.
“Even the fallen,” agreed one of VAST’s founder members, Father Fergus Flannery.
“I am entitled to my opinion,” said Mrs Wisbech. “And I stand by it. The man is a thoroughly bad lot; it wasn’t the first time he’d been up before me.”
“Anyway he’s sent his apologies,” said Willoughby, anxious to move on. He looked around at the other seven of the eight members of VAST present that evening. “Now are there any matters arising from last month’s meeting?” Mrs Wisbech raised a hand. “Yes, Madam Honorary Secretary?”
Mrs Wisbech got to her feet. Holding a letter as though it were contaminated she regarded it with as much distaste as she could muster, which was quite considerable; registering distaste came easy to her as she lived next door to a financial adviser.
Mrs Wisbech was responsible for penning and signing the organisation’s letters of complaint, Willoughby being of the opinion that the Justice of the Peace initials behind her name added more weight to their missives. It was apparent from her demeanour and tone of voice that whatever weight may have been added on this occasion hadn’t been enough to influence the writer of the letter now in her hand. She cleared her throat and spoke. “As agreed in committee I wrote to the owners of the former barber’s shop in Belper, which is now polluting the town as a sex shop. I pointed out to them that the barber’s pole still remained in position from the property’s previous use, and that as long as it remained there members of the public might be misled into construing that it was doing service as a phallic symbol, and would they therefore kindly remove it. I have their reply here.” She read from the letter. “‘Dear Madam, Thank you for your letter of the 20th inst. We hadn’t realised the barber’s pole was still there and will be painting it pink’.” She scowled. “No less than can be expected from the sort people who run sex shops, I suppose. Although I shall be writing to them again of course, and in much stronger terms.”
“Of course, Mrs Wisbech.” Willoughby thought she might be wasting her time but refrained from saying so in case a protracted discussion developed; there were more important things to discuss that evening. He quickly moved on. “The first item on the agenda is our annual trip to the Sex Toys Exhibition, which will be held this year in Blackpool.”
“Oh goody,” said Mrs Bean, clapping her hands together in delight, “I’ll be able to have a ride on the Big One. I had a ride on it last year when I took a party of Guides and Brownies; we all found it quite exhilarating.” She frowned as she recalled the experience. “Although it did make two of the younger Brownies sick.”
Willoughby, his mind still on phalluses and the Sex Toys Exhibition thought for one horrible moment that Mrs Bean was referring to some monstrous new example of the most basic of aids to female sexual satisfaction before realising she was talking about Blackpool’s giant roller coaster. He breathed a sigh of relief.
Miss Preece was puzzled. “Why would we want to go to an exhibition of sex toys?”
Willoughby was on firmer ground here. “Of course being a fairly new member you wouldn’t know, Miss Preece. You see we are in the habit of going every year in order to keep abreast...” He stopped and searched for another word, feeling that abreast, although not an incorrect word, was perhaps not a suitable one for the chairman of VAST to be using. “Er.... in order to keep tabs on, the latest products in the sex toys industry.”
“To keep tabs on them?”
“Specifically to take note of any new items which may have been introduced during the last twelve months and will no doubt be finding their way onto the shelves of the establishments who trade in such filth.”
“I would have thought we would be seeing them quite soon enough when they hit the shelves,” said Miss Preece loftily.
“That’s the problem I’m afraid, they don’t all hit the shelves. Many of them are sold under the counter.”
The schoolteacher was surprised on learning this. “Even in this day and age?”
“Especially in this day and age. Not all frequenters of sex shops are happy to see things like......pardon my French.....Donkey Dicks on open sale.”
“And self-circumcision kits,” said Grimshaw.
“And self-circumcision kits.”
“And Prince Charles butt plugs.”
“What on earth is a butt plug?” said Mrs Wisbech.
“I believe it’s a plastic or rubber device that homosexuals push up their rectums for the purposes of pleasure,” said Willoughby uncomfortably.
“And a Prince Charles butt plug specifically?” asked Mrs Wisbech, although as a staunch monarchist not really wishing to know the answer.
“A butt plug moulded in the image of the head of the Prince of Wales,” explained Willoughby. “Apparently the ears make for added sensitivity.”
“Cupid’s Four Finger Tingler,” said Grimshaw, continuing the list of things that some frequenters of sex shops might not be happy to see on open sale.
“Yes all right, Mr Grimshaw, I think we’ve made our point,” said Willoughby. He paused before going on. “I will put us all down for the visit to the Sex Toys Exhibition then? And our usual fish and chip supper afterwards, of course.” There were no dissenters although Miss Preece looked very dubious about it all. “Excellent.” He referred to the sheet of A4 in front of him. “So then, the second item on the agenda is funding. I’m afraid the purchase of the portable X-ray machine, now being used to excellent effect by Mr Grimshaw, has depleted our funds quite considerably. Consequently we need to get them up to a healthy level again.” He looked around the members. “Has anyone had any ideas as to how we might boost our coffers?”
“I was thinking a flag day perhaps,” said Fr Flannery.
“I’m pretty sure you have to be a registered charity to hold a flag day,” warned Mrs Wisbech, the club’s legal brain. “Like lifeboats.”
“Then a registered charity we shall become. After all we are just as essential as lifeboats, are we not. Indeed we are not dissimilar to them, taking as we do to the troubled waters to save the souls of those unfortunates wallowing in their murky depths,” said Flannery, sounding as though he were delivering one of his Sunday
sermons, but to a possibly larger congregation.
“You could well be right,” said Grimshaw, “But given the choice I think a man drowning at sea would welcome the sight of an approaching lifeboat a bit more than us pitching up and trying to talk him out of using a French Tickler,” he continued, demonstrating his knowledge of both human nature and available sex toys.
“Perhaps someone could look into the possibilities?” said Willoughby. “Perhaps....”
“Why we need raise money anyway?”
As one, the other members of VAST turned to Farzad Khan, the man whose interjection had interrupted Willoughby. Up until now Khan had spent the entire meeting sat slightly apart from the others, brooding. He was exceptionally good at brooding and often spent the whole meeting doing it, never once saying a word.
Before Khan had finally been accepted as a member of Vigilantes Against Sex Toys there had been grave reservations expressed by the members. And there had been even graver reservations ever since, the main one being that whilst they had nothing against Afghans per se, Khan not only looked very Afghan but exacerbated it by dressing like one. His normal attire was a loose black and grey striped dress-like garment, a sheepskin waistcoat, a turban, voluminous trousers and knee boots. If this wasn’t bad enough, in place of his missing right hand he had a hook, which coupled with his permanently bloodshot eyes and his long flowing beard gave him a quite fearsome appearance. His nose, permanently scarred and habitually bloodied through his occasional habit of unconsciously picking his nose with his hook, didn’t improve matters.
Problems had been foreseen. The members of VAST, like Jehovah’s Witnesses, operated in pairs when they door-stepped people, and while it was one thing for two of them to enter a sex shop and politely argue with its owner that it was morally wrong for him to be plying his trade, and would he therefore kindly desist, it was quite another for one of them to do it whilst accompanied by someone who looked like a Taliban terrorist. Grimshaw had ventured the opinion that this might be no bad thing, since a sex shop owner confronted by a bloodied Afghan with a hook might be more likely to accede to their request to shut up shop. Willoughby however had pointed out that although this was probably true, Vigilantes Against Sex Toys was and always would be a strictly non-violent organisation.
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