Only wanting to finish the last chapter… “Mistresses,” of an instructive handbook for young gentlemen... All ages... he was writing he had called:” What to do and not to do”… after a profound study of women, he has made... in person for years... Desperate with lust, Col. Willoughby… happy with Mister W. More… (his generous bodypart Will is proud of often 'asking' ladies "Want More, Sweetheart?") Ooops… Willoughby has now not only no idea what to do, indeed having fallen for Maureen Venus… only wanting to help his best friend Rob who was crazy about the Baroness. She however, is mad about Will insisting he is not only “One Hell of a Man and the Love of her Life” … according to her, Willoughby is a: “God come down from the Olympus to make her happy,” even adding she will never let him go… Ever! Now what…?
CONFESSIONS OF LUST…
Body and soul why can’t you agree...
Singing two different songs to me?
One a melody of heavenly piety…
The other a lusty dance… Hot ecstasy!
As old as Humanity...
the choice is mine,
Now, no peace I can find!
Intellect and reason gone,
What can be done…?
Baroness... Reenie, loving me so,
Will you ever let me go...?
Oh yessss, of heavenly rebirth,
Goddess Venus stepped
down to earth.
Me... a virile reputation often tested,
Enjoying ladies... not only interested...
Now, a Widow
Spider wants me without stop,
Will she finally gobble me up?
Provoking mad lust in numerous men,
Smiling beguiling she dances
again and again…
Covered only by flowers few… here and there…
I'm certain of this; Brave Jason found a fiery fleece,
Not golden... but copper red instead!
From delightful curves leading to paradise,
He was given hot, magical wine… at a price…
This Venus… Ohhh… Words! Do come to me!
With powers of hot fire and wild desire,
Venus, Thy name is Lust!
Can I still in me trust… I know I must!
Cream with a drop of blood her skin,
And turquoise eyes of eternal sin,
Plump strawberry lips... a galaxy of pleasure,
And more, everything a man will adore!
Torture he faces,
Seeing curves in all the right places…
Mad wives making scolding faces,
And not just a whim...
Insist Venus’ fiery hair is
of slutty sin.
Always at sixes and sevens,
Virginity claims she is not of the “Heavens.”
full of hate really do,
Men never say these words so untrue.
a Mistress fit for a King,
Is an... Mmmmm... an intoxicating thing,
Not just a Cavalier and of substance indeed,
often chosen by ladies... in need...
I confess to you... I was often bliss too…
Venus and I... indeed
tit for tat...
Passionate... none of us can fool a cat,
And never like brother and sister, Mister!
You see, sensual
Venus hungers only for me…
An oyster with an irresistible pearl is She…
And I, the only man with a perfect steel key,
The one always dreamt of… now reality,
As virile twins of gallantry much admired,
Leave no embarrassment… hardly desired...
Procreation not a temptation says She,
And now I do agree.
Venus a barren Baroness... Not just any wench,
Showing the colors, there's no need to go French.
A steel sword with edge urged over a ledge…
Is bewitched by a hot volcano and the sweetest
As ardent flesh intense pleasure does find.
Is this heaven or hell…? It’s hard to tell.
Passion galore like never before,
When this oyster opens… that will always sing,
A perfect fit, harmony bounce and swing…
Forgetting all others and everything.
Never lying and simplifying… By far we are,
“The Best Case of Lust” London has ever seen,
Lord Willoughby and his stunning Maureen…
Now insatiable passion in too many places,
Is shocking… both hardly seeing other faces…
Love? Oh, yes… Sadly that too,
Never finding YOU… What can I do?
My Love for You always truer than true,
And like no other,
Sweet Beautiful Angel, next to my Mother,
High up on a
pedestal you still stand!
Do come down to your enthusiastic man!
Oh, my Sweet Angel... What can I do?
Even Venus pales next to YOU!
I'm the first man ever walking away…
Honor kept, with ardent Venus I cannot stay!
lonely... she was not for me anyway.
A daft idiot I am, mad and sad...
No longer an innocent boy of six,
Obsessed by a sweet
dream, I'm a crazy mix,
Of a monk, a lover, a warrior and a fox...
Still carrying Your poem and rose you
Even your golden hair is always with me!
My unique True Love… for eighteen years,
were always who you seem to be.
Do turn up and finally love me!
Sorry... I know! Drawing YOU… wherever I go,
You must have seen,
You lost your wings when I was thirteen,
But in my heart and soul;
YOU are my World! My Everything
Indeed doing the very best I can,
And unworthy to kiss your hand…
Please do forgive this rueful
Oh, Sweet Beautiful Angel!
Christ hardly around…
No. Him, I still have not found.
Even so, if God made Woman and Man,
I’m sure He had a damn good plan…
My Angel Rosie, what is it I don't understand?
In all Honesty I am,
Yours Forever and Beyond,
With a constant, stiff English upper lip and always applying "Good Form" expected of a gentleman and taught boys since they were young and a must, grown men were not expected to
be cowards and show what they really felt. When drunk and with their mates however, there was a whole other side to them fine ladies hardly ever saw.
Sad, mad as hell and indeed drunk, in this poem Willoughby says things he would normally never say when sober and always a gentleman... getting drunk.. even so hardly vulgar and albeit unable to stand... he gets awfully eloquent
when really drunk, which is not only used as a release for what he calls "The pressure cooker syndrome" and pent up "things," and he certainly does.
The next day when he sees what he wrote he is a bit shocked, but sadly smiles. Indeed blurting out a lot of sexy things never said, even so how he feels about Sweet Angel Rosie he cannot find and still
a dream is truer than true... but he has no right to...
With the Industrial Revolution in England well on its way, pressure
cookers were a "dangerous new" invention that certainly did explode when too full... and still do.
Not only living out their dreams, often in unthinkable places... and doing anything pleasurable to and with each other, crazy indeed and more than once... or twice... after two and a half
days not only giving most of the furniture a whole new meaning... and both again down on the floor... Maureen says to him:
"Mmmm... Sugarplum... Reenie..."
we forgot to eat!"
Copyright©2013 by Kari M. Knutsen
I am afraid there
is a need to elaborate a bit about the expression ‘going French.” Having nothing to do with writing at all, the British called them ‘French Letters’ and the French called them ‘English Coats.' Hardly mentioned and thought
shocking, Willoughby calls them ‘those bloody things.’ Not made of rubber, but put on an excited male member, they were ill fitting, expensive and used by the rich or the nobility as a contraceptive for males. Made of sheep intestines
and thin leather they were often used more than once… Even full of holes, they often broke or fell off. Casanova is said to have tied one to his waist with strings… Oh, yess! He did however, contract the 'Great Pox' ... better known as
Syphilis, the British called the 'French Curse' and even worse than leprosy, there was no remedy for either. Mercury and arsenic were used to no avail: "... just a moment with Venus... to suffer with Mercury..." English irony... Yesss! This illness
was called the 'Spanish Sickness' as well, for by then it was well known several of the Spanish Conquistadores had brought it from the Americas in the 15th century. The ghastly and shameful illness spread rapidly and if not killing themselves, many died
in great pain, shunned, horribly disfigured, blind and mad... after years of unimaginable suffering. The few 'lucky ones' died quickly... killing themselves. Many an innocent wife was given this undsired 'present' from a husband who had fought for
King and Country on the continent or had mistresses. The disease uncurable, many women preferred to drown... males mostly used a pistol, a musket or a knife to end it all. Smallpox, measles and influensa arriving with the Spanish from Europe however, is said to have killed about 90% of the native population in the Americas.
Never mentioned and certainly not well seen in a time when unmarried sex was called 'Criminal Conversation, ' even so the French Letters were used by gentlemen to prevent ‘diseases of passion.’ Discreetly
sold in barber shops, inns, book shops,
in theaters and even in open markets... as for women... Not to ‘multiply,’ some women used sea sponges dipped in vinegar… or beer... Even so it was said to be more than 350 000 illegal abortions in England at the time… but highly
likely 500 000, many a poor women dying, bleeding to death in a filthy back alley and others hardly telling… staring at the backs of young men wandering off to war… or cursing a bloody bastard...