Afternoon Wisdom

Three gay sages with Falstaff tummies sniffed and sipped their cordials. Discussion this time centered on faults of great literature. Shakespeare was up for grabs.

“Not literally,” Melchoir touched from his chin a drop of Cherry Kijafa. “With a name so fakey, he was wanting someone to grab it. Spear? More a tinkertoy. Marlowe shunned its every shake. We all know Willie-boy pulled one of his willy-defensive snits and drew his pen-knife (wishing he could afford a dagger) on Chrissie-babe in a tranny bar. That tired story.”

He sighed, tipping a tad more taste from stemware to tongue.

Balthasar was concerned, “Sit back, honey. Don’t get riled over 16th century commonplaces. Yesterday’s news. Ho-hum! It’s way more interesting to focus on the dreadful conclusion to Romeo and Juliet. Silliest ever. Any dramaturge who wanted to be believed would have had a rescue ending.”

Caspar and Melchoir roused elderly ears.

“It would go thus: the Nurse licks Juliet’s clit to wake her up and Friar Tuck fucks Romeo for a really long time through a hole in his tights. At it for a goodly while. Romeo pretends not to know he was awake already (think blade-into-sheath stagecraft). Plenty of applause for that but more when exeunts are executed – the two guys stage right, hands tugging each other’s cocks. The gals stage left, Nurse walking backward pulling Juliet by her nipples to leave the vial and the knife to take curtain calls before running off together, stage center.”

Caspar complimented Balthasar by raising his piece of the Venetian glassblowers’ artisanship and quaffing his Kijafa’s syrupy rest. “True, my dear. And have you considered the Willie-boy’s affected efforts at cleverness in masque-ing what The Tempest is all about?”

“You’ll tell us, won’t you?” Melchior recovered his breath, adding the apt sobriquet, “You old hussy.” He burped discreetly.

“Close study’s not even necessary, the veil of mock-propriety being sheer.”

His raised right eyebrow was not lost on them.

“The reason Prospero’s off on that island is to shag his daughter without censure. Miranda, dimwit that she is, longs to romp with Caliban for some excitement, Dad being dull in the sack. Same old, same old.  But the wily creature craves a fuck. That why he lives wild. Ginger roots grow big in that climate. He peels big, long ones to plug himself with love. Their peppery burn: proof of Nature’s ardor. The proper happy ending to these frustrations should come with the shipwreck.”

Melchior, backed by a nod from Balthasar, inquired, “How so, slut?”

Caspar continued, “The Captain’s quick with Miranda – answering their mutual dreams on a Midsummer’s eve – and Caliban gets the horny crew. The island shakes with bongo rhythms. Happiness all around.”

Before they could interrupt, Caspar concluded, “World weary Prospero returns to his water-logged old books, too pooped for anything else – a single spotlight on gnarled hands dipping a quivering quill into his inkwell and beginning to scribble.”

“Beautiful,” Balthasar declared. “Oh so uplifting. What about Love’s Labour’s Lost?

“Piffle,” chimed Melchoir. “Mere premature-ejac.”

Satisfied with their erudition, refills were called for.

(Written to cheer a sick friend)

My other gaydemon stories are here: https://www.gaydemon.com/stories/authors/cooper/