I had come to the conclusion that it had been far too long since I had had a good polishing of my rhododendron staff. Of course, I had visited the pleasure houses by the docks but it just isn't the same when you have to pay for a good wolf bagging.
I arranged to meet one of my single gentleman friends, Artur Willoughby, at the Gentleman's club for a chat about it. Artur is an old sea-faring sort and a fine chap despite having a face like a soggy biscuit.
Sitting, we smoked our pipes together and shared a bottle of 30-year-old Laphroaig. We were only halfway down the bottle and already the world seemed a brighter place.
So Artur, I will be frank. I am bloody ganting for a slice of potato pie.
What's that Boomy? Pie? Potato Pie? You mean vagina of course, don't you? Nasty bloody things, have you ever pressed your ear against one?
My ear? What, like you would a seashell?
Aye man, like that.
He said rather darkly.
I can't say I have? Should I?
By the bluest of fucks man, certainly not. Lovecraft had the right of it you know.
I poured some more whisky. Artur had lapsed into a sombre silence. I looked around the club whilst he had himself a bit of a brood. It was quiet. The usual gentleman traders by the bar, a few sitting at tables like ourselves. I wonder what this place would be like if they let women in? And their cats?
I shuddered and turned my attention back to Artur.
... and fortunately for you, I have just what you need Boomy.
He was leaning forward and his face was alight with a wild eagerness. I had the most dreadful feeling I had missed a vital part of the conversation.
Eh, and what would that be old fellow?
Artur stood, a mad grin on his hairy, overnight oats face.
Come with me man, don't be shy!
He held out his large hairy hand.
I grabbed it and then grabbed the half empty bottle of whisky with the other. What else was a gentleman to do?
It was dark by the time we stumbled onto his boat. It was quite the large vessel and Artur staggered down a short corridor stopping before a grubby door. He tilted the whisky bottle to the light. It was almost finished. He had a short swig then passed it to me.
I drained what was left. The world was decidedly sparkly.
Artur turned the handle and led me inside.
It looked to be his bedroom. Oh bugger. I think Artur had gotten the wrong end of the stick. I raised the empty whisky bottle and shook it at him admonishingly.
Now now, old fellow. I am not so desperate that my rump is lusting for a tenderising from your veal hammer.
Artur let out a roar of a belly laugh.
What, for god sake man. You don't have a hairy enough bahjina for my bangstick!
I lowered the bottle, somewhat relieved I wasn't to be his Sunday wife.
Well why are we here then?
Artur giggled like a madman who has smoked too much banana skin. He moved to the side wall where a murky looking glass-sided box sat. It was waist high and looked to be full of water.
Get your keks off man. I will give you half an hour with her.
I remember my first time. By Cthulu's balls, you will leave here a new man!
Unquestioningly I had removed my undercarriage coverings. I moved toward the tank as I now recognised it to be.
I still don't get you, old fellow. What is the... Oh...
A long, suckered tentacle snaked out over the rim and felt about as if sensing my presence. The water slopped about as if something large in the tank was getting excited.
Artur laughed wheezily.
Allow me to introduce Harriet, old chap. My most special lady.
Another tentacle snaked over the rim and prodded inquisitively at my thigh, then higher.
I let out a little squeak.
A fucking Octopus?! Called Harriet? And you want me to get in there and... and what, fuck it?
Artur slapped his sides and hooted enthusiastically before rooting in a locker and pulling out an oily fish which he thrust at me.
Yes indeed! It will do you the world of good. Here, take this. She likes a gift.
I took the fish and shook my head at his nonsense. Oh well, when in Rome... I swung a leg up and over into the tank.
Oh and Boomy?
I looked up.
Artur had paused on his way out of the door.