Buying a Globe-Wernicke

Jim sensed that he was in the hands of an experienced seducer. Richard was trying him out, deftly and carefully, like a newly-acquired musical instrument, testing his responsiveness and his G-points; fine-tuning his approach where necessary. He was light-handed and tender as he kissed and caressed Jim. To someone like Jim, who had almost never made love with a woman, the sensation was novel and wholly delightful; it felt as though Richard were seriously in love with Jim, instead of having met him only a few hours earlier in a business context. Their foreplay went on for far longer than their business meeting, interrupted only by a brief sortie to take a light meal at a Chinese restaurant.

“I don't think “Commoner” food is right for serious sex,” said Richard. It's too heavy. And definitely no alcohol for us. We'll have jasmine tea or fruit juice.”

Their conversation in the restaurant was muted and banal. They had a lot to think about but neither wanted to talk there about sex or politics, which were uppermost on their minds, although they exchanged a few smiles and some deep glances. On the way back their hands touched fleetingly. It was by now a fine evening; Richard pointed out some herons flying over the rooftops towards the River.

Once in the flat, Richard took Jim's head between his hands and kissed him with a pretty good impression of passion. Yet it could hardly be the real thing; did people like Richard ever truly go in for that kind of thing, throwing caution to the winds? It seemed unlikely.

Soon they were naked once again. At Jim's request Richard flexed his muscles. Jim examined him more closely, running his hands all over Richard's pale but smooth and healthy skin. It was – like Jim's – innocent of tattoos.

Americans call this 'worshipping someone', Jim thought.

There were a few marks; shiny white patches of scar tissue, two of which looked like bullet-wounds. Jim touched them and looked interrogatively at Richard. Richard smiled and murmured:

“Just flesh-wounds; nothing serious. I'll tell you about them one day if you're interested.”

“Yes, I am.... And this one looks like a sabre-scar. That must have been painful!”

“It was; I got it in a duel; I almost got chucked out of the Army for that! But you should have seen what my opponent looked like after I'd finished with him.” Richard paused reflectively and then chuckled. “There was tomato ketchup all over the place. He had to be whisked off to Accident & Emergency!”

Clearly Richard was not a man to be trifled with. Richard now changed the subject and looked directly at Jim:

“You remind me of somebody in my past, although I can't recall who. Was your father in the Army? Could I have met him?”

He continued to caress and explore Jim's body as he spoke. Jim replied:

“I doubt it. You see, my father was American; he was in the US Air Force. My parents split up when I was very young and he was killed a few years later in an air crash in California. The Headmaster of my school called me to his study, informed me about it and gave me a couple of days' special leave to visit my mother. I was shocked; I suppose that I felt that I ought to be, but I did not cry because I had virtually no recollection of him. My mother died not long afterwards, of cancer. My nearest relations are in New Zealand, so I'm pretty well alone these days.”

Right! thought Richard. That, of course, is one reason why Nigel recruited Jim. He likes to recruit young men who aren't married and have no inquisitive close relations, who might ask awkward questions. Whether he knows it or not, young Jim's an 'expendable', who could be used on dangerous missions. Normally I'm a selfish bastard – like most politicians - and don't give a damn about others, but on this occasion I do not like the potential implications. Damn Nigel. 

Out loud, he said: “I'm sorry to hear that. Well, it must be a coincidental resemblance; I'll remember who it was eventually. But we have something in common; we're both half-English. My father is French.”

“But Finch isn't a French name?”

“No, it isn't. It's the name of my adoptive parents. My real parents were a pair of posh, spoiled, randy and, in my view dozy, teenagers; one French and one English, who had not mastered the art of using contraceptives. I was the result, and there was the most awful fuss. I was born amid great secrecy in Switzerland, where my mother was supposed to be perfecting her French and German. I was put up for adoption ASAP and was in due course acquired by a delighted Dr and Mrs Matthew Finch in Hertfordshire; hence the surname. These days I am on friendly terms with my real father, Thierry-Alexandre Goguenard du Bassin, as he calls himself in full.”

Jim was amused: “Goguenard du Bassin! What a mouthful!”

“It is. They were originally plain Goguenard, but my late French grandfather, like Monsieur Jourdain in Le Bourgeois gentilhomme, was a bit of a snob. He bought a country estate called Le Bassin, so he was able to become Monsieur Goguenard du Bassin. Then he wasted a lot more money making – I strongly suspect - a fraudulent claim to an extinct or 'dormant' title of nobility. Anyway, he and his lawyer pulled it off. So, now that he is dead, my father has been recognised as the Baron Goguenard du Bassin.”

“It's like a novel!” said Jim.

Richard nodded: “Yes; a very bad novel. Meanwhile I prefer to remain Finch, which is a lot easier to say and write than Goguenard du Bassin! And I call my natural father 'Thierry' because he's not that much older than I am. We look alike, so we are sometimes mistaken for each other, or for brothers if we are together. It helps that the men of his family tend to turn grey late in life, if at all, and in general to look younger than they really are.”

That explains a lot, thought Jim. Apart from some grey at the sides, Richard's hair is still mostly dark and cut short, but not crew cut; more Roman emperor style. He still looks like a soldier and he's bloody handsome with it. 

Richard continued: “So, you see, I am a real bastard, as Mrs Twaddle is about to find out. Now, give us a kiss, Jim my lad... I sense that it's going to be a very active night! (pause) I bet you're a natural top, is that right?”

“Yes!”

“Well, Jim my lad, tonight you are going to be whatever I decide; versatility is the name of the game! We'll expand your experience and, if necessary, your manhole as well!”

This is going to be a real adventure, Jim thought; he took a deep breath. I think I'm in for a rough ride!

oooOOOooo

Jim felt no guilt on Norman's account. It was anyway unlikely that he would ever find out about Jim's fling with Richard Finch. Norman had of course been told that Jim was going to London to brief the MP who would speak for the Government about the Great Rat Hunt, but he was more preoccupied about what his wife Samantha and her sister Priscilla might say if they found out about his own presence at the Rat Hunt. They would wonder how on earth Norman had got drawn into thatadventure, so alien to their world. It would then start to dawn upon them that Norman had a friend, or friends, of whom Samantha knew nothing. That would not go down well and would lead to a detailed inquisition. Apart from that, Augustus the cat had had to go to the vet to have a large fur-ball extracted from his stomach; this proved to be an expensive visit.

Meanwhile Norman was having an adventure of his own. At the golf club he had run into his former brother-in-law, Priscilla's ex-husband, Humphrey. Humphrey belonged to a club that reciprocated with Norman's, so they sometimes met there; usually by chance, unless they had fixed to play a round together. Both Priscilla and Samantha thought it “unnatural” that Norman and Humphrey should have remained on good terms following Humphrey and Priscilla's acrimonious divorce, but they still got on extremely well.

Over drinks at the nineteenth hole,“You're looking young and fit,” Humphrey,” said Norman, meaning it. He now learned that Humphrey had had laser eye-surgery, so he no longer needed to wear the bifocal glasses that had formerly given him an owlish, demure appearance. He had also shaved off a moustache that he had grown in deference to Priscilla's wishes. She thought that it made Humphrey look like Clark Gable, although few other people would have agreed.

As a result of these recent changes, Humphrey had shed about eight years from his appearance. He was a short, neat man, with small, regular, pleasing features and a ready smile. His hair was thick, fair, floppy and parted on the right. His forelock tended to fall over his face when it got slightly too long. Humphrey was about five-feet nine. He was naturally muscular and stocky; seeing him fully-clad, you might have assumed that he was slightly overweight. Norman, however, had seen him in swimming trunks and knew that the bulk was mostly muscle. As an undergraduate Humphrey had played serious rugby; he still played fly-half for a veterans' side.

They got onto the subject of marriage and divorce. Humphrey was unrepentant about his own divorce, although he regretted the financial cost:

“There she is, rattling about in that great barn of a place at Frinton, for some of whose running costs I am still responsible, while I live in a flat! I suppose there are no encouraging rumours of her remarriage?” he added hopefully. (Remarriage would end Humphrey's financial obligation towards Priscilla.)

“I'm afraid not,” said Norman. “Or not to my knowledge, anyway; I could broach the subject with Samantha when she gets back?”

“Better not. She'd be certain to tell you soon enough if there were. You know what women are like, especially about things that have been confided to them and which they've been asked to keep strictly to themselves!”

Norman nodded. “I do. What about you?” he asked. “Never thought of re-marriage? No lady on the horizon?”

He was surprised by the vehemence of Humphrey's reaction: “No fucking way! I do not want anything remotely resembling marriage. I've learned my lesson the hard way.”

“Oh come on, Humphrey. You and Priscilla were not suited; that's all!”

“That, Jim, is the understatement of the century, although I did try to make it work; I really did. Our last house-move to that expensive folly of a manor-house was really an attempt to rebuild the relationship on new ground, but it didn't work out.”

“No, quite. So what do you do? You're still a vigorous, relatively young man. Get it out of your system through long runs and cold showers? Don't tell me that you resort to 'ladies of the night'?

“You mean tarts, I suppose,” replied Humphrey. “For your private information, I did, a couple of times. But it was not my scene. The first time – it was in Amsterdam - I was so nervous that I couldn't do anything! Waste of heaven knows how many Euro! Of course one can always wank!”

“Well, there's something to be said for that.” said Norman, trying to keep a straight face. “You cannot catch AIDS or any other 'social diseases' that way, nor does it cost you anything.”

“But I miss the human touch, in both senses,” Humphrey said.

“I don't think that the golf club is the right place for this conversation,” said Norman, who thought – although he could have imagined it - that he had seen a discreet smile flit across the barman's face. “Why not come back to the house with me? Samantha's still at Frinton, until next Thursday; we can have drinks on the terrace. We can try a new cocktail recipe someone sent me for a non-alcoholic drink called a Club Special; it tastes like a Pimm's but you can drink it without fear of the breathalyzer.”

Having nothing better to do, Humphrey willingly agreed. Back at the house: “It's still fucking hot. I wonder how much longer this weather'll last? I wish you had a swimming pool!” said Humphrey.

So do I, thought Norman, for a different reason, although I would not enjoy the maintenance bills. “We can't swim here, but we can at least top-up our tans,” he suggested. “I've had some privacy fencing set up around a paved area at the end of the garden. There we can sunbathe to our heart's content without attracting attention. I can lend you a pair of trunks.”

In Norman's dressing room he handed Humphrey a pair of scarlet bikini swimming trunks; under Jim's influence, he had recently bought a few pairs. Humphrey's body was as chunky and heavily-muscled as Norman remembered it. Humphrey was obviously a rugby player, albeit on the small side; in fact, he was a pocket Hercules.

Humphrey quickly pulled on the trunks.

“Fuck me! They don't cover much, do they!” he giggled. In point of fact, they partly covered his ass-cheeks; the sides were basically a narrow, elasticated scarlet strip; the front contained and enhanced Humphrey's genitals, whose outline was visible, as the cloth was not thick and was slightly wet-look. For the first time Norman noticed that Humphrey had been circumcised.

“Correct! We should keep tan-lines to a minimum,” said Norman, pulling on a tiny black slip. “I've gone off tan-lines; they're unaesthetic.”

“I can see that,” said Humphrey. Norman was now completely naked and it was obvious that he had been sunbathing naked; he had no tan-line at all.

“Apart from all that, I go for maximum exposure to healthy ultra-violet rays,” he replied.

“Just one thing,” Humphrey persisted. “How are you going to explain your tan to Samantha?”

Norman laughed and shrugged. Carrying their drinks, they headed for the private, Mrs Stebbings-proof, sunbathing area. Humphrey ran like a greyhound; he did not want to be seen in his cache-sexe.

In the event Humphrey stayed for a microwaved meal. He had become quite used to this kind of fare since his divorce. To compensate, he and Norman finished a bottle of French red wine that they had opened to accompany the meal. They enjoyed it so much that Norman opened another. Now Humphrey could not risk driving; he would have to stay the night, sleeping in the spare bedroom. They became more and more relaxed and cheerful as the evening wore on. More than once, Norman noticed Humphrey looking at him in a searching, curious way, but he said nothing.

Finally they retired to bed, Humphrey going upstairs first. But when Norman entered his own bedroom, Humphrey was in his bed.

“Hi,” said Humphrey, and grinned.

“Well, I am surprised!” said Norman. He could not think of anything else to say.

“Well, don't be. You've taken long enough to cotton on. I want to be fucked!”

Soon afterwards, despite the alcohol that they had both taken, he was.

oooOOOooo

In London Jim, who had been on a sex-roller-coaster with Richard, was sitting up in bed and looking at the moon, which was now riding high above the roofs of Westminster. The room was not overlooked, so they had not closed the shutters. Richard was lying beside Jim, his pale skin catching the moonlight. He was sleeping now, completely exhausted, lying on his stomach with his head resting on his arms. The night was warm and Jim had drawn back the duvet so that Richard's ass-cheeks were exposed. Jim patted them gently; Richard grunted without waking up. Jim's own ass hurt, although in a good way.

And I hope your man-hole does, too, Richard.

Jim was physically very tired. Mentally he had never felt better. He looked down affectionately at the sleeping Richard, smiled reminiscently and wondered how it was all going to end.