ROYAL BLUE. 8-2-10
My wife asked me to pick up some curtain material that she’d ordered from a fabric store in town and while I waited for the guy to wrap it I took a little walkabout and I saw that the room stretched way back and that the space was completely filled with metal racks that had clutches of cloth samples hanging from hooks. After a while I went back to the counter and I said, “You know something? You should rename this store. You could call it – “We Got Swatches. Boy, Do We Got Swatches.”
Not even a ghost of a smile.
Well, pardon me!
He finished wrapping the material and then he called out ‘Franny’ and a woman of his own age came in and she ran off a copy of the bill for me. From it I saw that it was for twenty yards of ‘Royal Blue taffeta’ and so, still a bit hurt from his having found my attempt at humor to be lacking in wit, I tried again – “Ah, Royal Blue, is it? You know, where I come from that color is reserved for the Royal Family although when I was sent to the Dowager Queen Mother’s bed-chamber I was surprised to see that the predominant color in there was pale green!”
It’s true that once again I didn’t get a well-deserved smile, from either of them, but their jaws were hanging open impressively. The woman stuttered, “W-w-w-wait a minute here. Did I hea-hea-hear you right? Did you say that you w-w-w-were sent to the – what w-w-was it? – the W-w-what’s-it Queen Mother’s bed-chamber?’ ”
I had them and I happily let the BS flow willy-nilly.
“Oh, yes,” I said, “you see, two years service in the army was compulsory when I was eighteen years old but we could get a month knocked off that for every time that we agreed to – uh – agreed to – uh – pay a friendly visit to the old lady. And, d’you know what? In the end I only had to spend a total of ten months away from home.”
At that point I saw that the guy wanted to hear some choice details because he held up his hand to detain me and then he leaned over and said something into the woman’s ear and she looked daggers at him and then went into a back room.
“When you said, ‘Pay her a friendly visit’ did you mean that you had to screw her?”
“Well, yeah, of course. What else? It wasn’t exactly a pleasant experience because her thighs and belly were wrinkly and her pubic hair was straggly and gray but hell, as you must remember yourself, when we were eighteen we’d be willing to screw a hole in a concrete wall if there wasn’t too much re-bar showing.
“Anyway, I found out that it was her practice to take care of a half dozen youths of my age every weekday afternoon between her after-lunch nap and her cocktail hour at five o’clock. I was told that she’d been advised by some quack that doing it was essential for her health and for her complexion, you see.”
“For her health and her complexion. How so?”
“Well, let me tell you how it went,” I said as my brain raced to come up with acceptably lurid details. “We’d all be escorted up to a room that adjoined her bedroom and told to strip and then we’d go in and line up by her canopy bed and when her therapeutic nurse called out, ‘First one in line come on in, please.’ – later on, of course, she’d just have to call out, ‘Next.’ – the one who was up front would slip through the curtains and get on with it.
“Y’know, it was uncanny but that nurse never failed to hear when what we used to call the ‘vinegar strokes’ started in because she’d always slip through the curtains in the nick of time and then she’d expertly force us to disengage and lie on our backs and then she’d help the old lady to sit up and lean over and take it into her mouth. Ha! She didn’t need any help nor advice as to how to get herself a mouthful of semen. It was obvious that she loved doing that bit!
“Her nurse would then see to it that she kept the fluids in her mouth for a half minute or so – I was told later on that that was to give some of the sperm enough time to get into her arteries and then go up to her brain in order to help keep her senility in check – and while the nurse was letting that happen she would milk what was left in us onto a cotton pad.
“That done, she’d then turn back to the old lady and instruct her to swallow some of it – for her physical, bodily health you see – and then to spit what was left onto the cotton pad. Then, after helping her to lie down again, the nurse would put what she once referred to as ‘the pore-penetrating spermatozoa’ to work by dabbing the pad onto her face, especially around the eyes, and her neck and her shoulders. That was where the ‘complexion’ therapy part came in, d’you see?
“Well, when that was done the nurse would position the pad over both eyes of her – uh – her patient and then wait for a few minutes – I guess to give the animalitoes time to do their work – and then she’d remove the pad and spray some lavender water around and, while she was doing that, she’d dismiss the – uh – the spent one with a wave of her hand as she was calling out, “Next.”
“When it was me that was in there, whether I had my strength back or not, I’d have to move to the far side and duck under the curtain and keep going over to the door. I’d get dressed in the adjoining room and then I’d drink a glass of lemonade and then go and get my ticket punched and my certificate signed by a clerk who had a desk in the waiting room. When all six of us were done and ready to leave a Navy Lieutenant-Commander would read the riot act to us, again – the one that listed the penalties incurred if ‘subjects of the realm talk about what they’ve seen and done in service of the realm’ – and then we’d be escorted back to the gates and out onto the square which always had crowds of gawking tourists milling around.”
When he’d regained the use of his tongue the haberdasher asked, “But why in hell didn’t she use a surrogate and then she could just get the treatment without the – uh – the inconvenience and the messiness?”
I thought quickly and I came up with, “Ha, good question. Well, one time I was the last one in line and so when it was over the nurse came out of the curtains just after I did and I took the opportunity to ask that very question.
“I whispered to her, ‘Ah, excuse me Ma’am but please be good enough to tell me why doesn’t she let a young woman deal with the getting pounded part? Seeing that she’s far too old, and long past getting any pleasure out of it, I would have thought that by now her bones are too brittle to be thumped on so isn’t it kind of dangerous for her? And, come to that, why on earth doesn’t she get us all to simply fill a cup and then hand it to you?’ ”
‘I presume that by ‘she’ you are referring to Her Royal Highness The Dowager Queen Mother?’ the nurse said in a high-faluting voice.
“Well, knowing full well what was good for me I apologized at once but when she’d closed the door to the anti-chamber behind us, as I was getting dressed and as she was drinking lemonade, she said, in a normal voice, ‘I’ll tell you. The lecherous old cow has never had a problem as far as the ‘pounding’ is concerned because she doesn’t have brittle bones and nor does anyone else who’s had a personal doctor all of her life. The latest one runs different tests on her almost daily and from her files I know that she’s been taking all kinds of supplements for the last twenty years, at least.
‘As for you all ‘filling a cup’ well, you’ve got to be kidding me! She’s always loved every part of it and so she was ecstatically happy when one of her Doctors, who knew her proclivities well, told her, cleverly, that her brain therapy will not work as well if she doesn’t obtain the ‘medicine’ directly from its source.
‘He told her, ‘It must be administered while it’s hot and lively and hasn’t been touched by human hands,’ and, I’ll bet, he didn’t have to suggest it twice. She loves that part best of all as became obvious to me on my first day here, and as you must know for yourself by now, because when she was describing my – uh – duties regarding lifting her up and then letting her bend over to be able to reach – uh – ‘it’ I saw that her sense of shame was being easily over-ridden by her enthusiasm. In fact just about her first words to me, that weren’t outright orders, were, ‘Don’t be shocked, nurse. It’s the only advantage, as far as I know, that comes from having lost all of one’s teeth.’
‘Well, I’ve been told by someone who knows these things, that she was a horny young woman, after she’d gotten safely married and had produced heirs, of course, and it’s positive certain that she’s a horny old woman now. She can’t get enough of it and if, as sometimes happens, only five or, God forbid, only four of you show up here you wouldn’t believe the amount of foul language that comes out of her mouth.’
“Well,” I said to my bulging-eyed listener, “because she’d become talkative I ventured to ask her a few personal questions but she was obviously loathe to answer them although she did relent enough to tell me that she was positive sure that there are huge advantages, for women especially, in practicing oral-sex when we’re getting old but, “Seeing that me and my husband aren’t even forty yet, we only play at it a little but I can tell you this – from what I’ve seen here alone – I fully intend to follow her example – in a much more modest way, of course – when I start getting wrinkles and arthritis and gray hair.’
“She followed the same corridor as I did on my way to the waiting room and as we were walking along it she said, “You know, those health benefits were well known as far back as the twelfth century and we know that for sure because two adages have been traced back that far. They go like this – for men it’s a succinct one –
‘He who sups from furry cups need never go thirsty.’
‘And for women it’s a bit awkward –
‘She who seeks a healthy long life-span should kneel and drink from the fountain of man.’ ”
By that time the fabric store’s owner’s mouth was hanging wide open and his eyes were staring but after a few seconds he managed to control himself enough to be able to call out for ‘Franny’ again.
She came back in and she took my credit card and swiped it and then she gave me my copy of the receipts that popped out of the machine.
It soon became obvious that she’d overheard what I’d said about the procedures in the bed-chamber because as she was putting the slip that I had to sign on the counter she asked me – ‘You said that it was the Queen Mother that you – uh – went with, right? Now, would that be the one who died last year or the year before last? The one who was well over a hundred?’
Panic set in. I was being pinned down to give possibly incriminating details so I came up with, “No, no, no. Not that one at all. What I was referring to happened well over fifty years ago and it was with an entirely different Royal Family from the one that you’re thinking of. I’m talking about a Dowager Queen Mother who died back in the 1950’s. Anyway, the one who just died would have only been around fifty at that time and regular cosmetics would have kept her looking young, right?
“Uh, come to think about it,” I went on, “she too lived to be over a hundred didn’t she? And her skin was as smooth as silk even then. Right? D’you remember seeing the photos? Well now, I guess from that that this method must be a regular practice for all of the European Royal families, right? All of the free-loading, in-bred degenerates must be practicing it!”
They both stood there, mesmerized, and so I signed the slip and then I picked up my package and walked out of the shop.
When I was outside on the sidewalk I glanced back in through the window in the door and it was obvious from the looks that they were exchanging that neither of them knew whether or not to believe me but it was also obvious that they sure were intrigued by what I’d said.
Well, I thought, if you can’t leave them laughing then leaving them intrigued will do nicely.
* * *
Well now, it was at that point that the whole thing stopped being funny.
The front-page story in the local, free, weekly newspaper that was delivered to our door a few days later read –
“EXCLUSIVE – DISGRACEFUL AND DEGRADING PRACTICES OF ONE OF EUROPE’S ROYAL FAMILIES REVEALED TO OUR FREELANCE REPORTER!
READ THE SORDID DETAILS INSIDE STARTING ON PAGE THREE.
YOU WONT FIND IT ANYWHERE ELSE!
PARENTS TAKE NOTE – IT IS TRIPLE X RATED!”
The by-line was, ‘Fran Robards, our local correspondent’ and I remembered that the name of the store in question is, ‘Robards’ Fabric Shop‘ and so the woman who had eavesdropped had to be Fran Robards.
I read the article that started on Page 3 – it went on through pages 4 – 8 and there were multiple references to the phrase, ‘pore-penetrating spermatozoa.’ – I guess that that was one of the ones that were OK to put into print – also there were many photos of several of Europe’s Royal Families that went back many years – and then I read that ‘the source’ was an ‘elderly gentleman who had a foreign accent and who didn’t want his name used.’
Because of the rawness involved the editor had used countless euphemisms where appropriate for a family paper but the gist of the story came through loud and clear.
I showed the article to my wife who knew instantly who the ‘elderly gentleman’ was and – wouldn’t you know it? – she said, angrily, “Now you’re in for it. I’ve told you a hundred times that your so-called wit will get you into deep, deep trouble one day and now that day has arrived. Just remember to keep me completely out of it, you hear me, you silly, silly man?”
It was true, positive, that I’d managed to ‘intrigue’ everyone in the eight towns that the paper covered and while that was bad enough I really hoped that it would stop there.
But no! No such luck.
Two days later the town was swamped with reporters and with dozens of those huge trucks with enormous antennas on them and you couldn’t venture out of your house without being practically tied down for questioning – especially if you were an ‘elderly looking gentleman with a foreign accent.’
That afternoon, the last time that I left my house for close to two months, I set out to mail some letters and I was soon spotted and I got to be surrounded by reporters with microphones and portable cameras and they aimed them along with a veritable barrage of queries at me.
I kept my mouth shut and I kept ploughing-on through until I was clear and I knew that I had to give up on the Post Office. I walked directly away from the street where I live and I took a circuitous route to get home and, as I said, I had to hide inside it for a long time afterwards.
However, they found out who I was that same day – by bribing the owners of the fabric store to give them a copy of my credit card bill, I guess – and by noon there were swarms of them milling around on the sidewalk and the street outside my house although after I called the police none of them stepped on my property again.
I had to disconnect the phone and there were literally hundreds of e-mails that day and every day for the next couple of weeks – the highest number was 274 – and both my wife and I got sore fingers just from clicking on ‘delete.’
The story was run on just about every newscast on TV and was featured on most of the talk shows and it wasn’t until the item was dropped from them all that we figured it was all right for us to venture out again.
However, the e-mails kept coming in from all around the world and, automatically I think, from NYC and other big cities that had large newspapers and they made it next to impossible for us to communicate with our friends and family and my wife finally got fed up with it all and she asked me – she told me – to do something about it to get our lives back to normal.
I decided to send out an e-mail of my own and so I wrote down the addresses of the persistent senders and then I thought about it for a while and then I got on with writing it and when I was fairly happy with it I sent it to the Editor of the local paper and I ‘cc’d’ it to The New York Times and I ‘bcc’d’ it to all of the others on the list.
It read –
This here is the only communication that you’ll ever get from me and you can be very sure that I’ll never reveal the ‘country of origin’ of the Royal Family that was involved in my account of happenings that took place long ago – happenings, not at all incidentally, that were broadcast willy-nilly without my authorization. Also, my identity was revealed without permission, and the ramifications of both of those infractions of the law are occupying my team of lawyers at this very minute – and so, because, as stated above, this will be the only statement from me, ever, you must realize that it is quite useless for any and all of you to keep harassing me so please stop trying to get another comment after this one. It is not going to happen.
However, in an attempt to extract something positive out of the turmoil that you’ve created, may I point out to all of the married women who read this, and who keep a husband around (or who have one who is allowed occasional conjugal ‘visits’) and to all women who have a viable partner, that they should look on the positive side and by being ‘extra nice’ to him they’ll have a reliable, and free, source of ‘medicine’ that can ensure a long, healthy life with a clear, functioning brain until the very end and, into the bargain, they’ll retain the complexion of a forty year old throughout.
We men are short-changed in that we get precious little in the way of medicinal fluids out of reciprocating appropriately but we do get something that is just as important even if it’s on a higher plane.
It is, ‘Contentment’ and it’s what we get from knowing that by being allowed to use one woman’s ‘entrance to the world’ to commune with her magical inner power we are, in fact, doing much more. We are communing with the one that we came out of – especially that one – and with all the ones that we’ve ever known and with all the ones that we would have liked to have known and all the ones that are in the world right now and that were ever in it and that ever will be in it.
Directly because of – and I’m referring here to each and every individual woman – because of your magnanimity – that is, allowing the communing to take place – your lucky recipient will be so grateful that he will always make himself available to you as the source of your elixir and so it’s a win, win situation.
If anyone out there is up-tight enough to have quibbles about getting started I want to tell him – the ‘hers’ have more sense – that there isn’t a more exciting, more arousing, sight in the whole world than when you’re lying in bed with your head on the pillow – with at least one light on in the room – and the woman – that is any woman, believe me – turns around and moves down until her head is level with your feet and then straddles you and then crawls backwards slowly until her 9 merges with your 6 to form O – as in ‘One-ness’ and also as in ‘LOve’ and as in ’Om’ – please believe me when I tell you that the overall effect is magic.
If some unexplainable and unfathomable force holds some guy back from so much as trying it then he should direct his wrath not at me but at our Original Designer for making it possible in the first place. Try to follow me here but it is my belief that no matter what religion or affiliation we have we all know that HE, or IT, or WHATEVER, is, if nothing else, incapable of making a mistake that’s that fundamental.
To get back to the general picture – think on this:
I’m talking Harmony in every household and, clearly, the perplexing question of who has the power, men or women, will be resolved forever – not to mention the releasing of an untold amount of pleasure, hitherto allowed to go to waste, to all and sundry!
Well now, if this doesn’t get me a World Peace Nobel prize then there’s no justice in Sweden – or is it Norway? Denmark? Well, I have no doubt that I’ll soon find out.
Goodbye for ever from me – Mr. Wonderful.
P.S. My e-mail address and my phone number have been changed already and I’m in the process of moving to a different State and I’m changing my name and so that there ‘Goodbye for ever’ of mine is a very definite one but may I venture to ask this of all you men out there: please remember to call out to a higher power to augment my prosperity – my health is taken care of already, thank you, and you can use my old name when you do it – every time that you are called on to selflessly and bravely and uncomplainingly supply a portion of life enhancing elixir to a deserving woman.
P.P.S. Following my habit of always wanting to leave them laughing here is an old but appropriate French/English joke:
“Pardon M’sieur, mais ‘ow many ways are zere to make ze love?
“Non? You geeve up? Zut alors! You don’t know zees? Well zen, permittez-moi to inform you –
“Zere are sixty-eight ways to make ze love – zen we ‘ave to stop and clean ze tools!”