Avoiding the homeless and embracing the inebriated female: welcome to the life of The Tattler.
I wasn’t expecting much from this first week back and especially not from Tuesday evening. I hadn’t felt ripe all day, not since that whistling homeless lady had offered a “Nice trousers”, to me as I passed her on my regular morning walk. Her comment was accurate but as a man of the arts, yet also totally sickened by homelessness, the interaction was deeply irksome. Nevertheless, stoic that I am, I self-pleasured to Wagner’s “Die Walkure”, took a swig of the good stuff and bolted out the door, delayed only by my uncertainty with regards to the appropriateness of a cravat for this occasion.
The reception room was charming, the company less so (distinctly multicultural) yet I soon found myself cheerily swooning between this ambassador’s son and that oligarch’s daughter, sharing with all my vision for a range of tweed erotica. “Hefner meets The Highlands”, I found myself repeating but they weren’t buying it. This crowd was pâté to my foie gras.
Salvation was delivered by text message: “Symposium at our house. Bring panache and class A drugs.” I quickly persuaded a vulnerable blonde and her clumsy boyfriend to join me; I thought some court jesters would be a well-received offering and had remembered how much I enjoy cuckoldry in January. We walked a slightly longer route (to what the profane would call ‘a house party’) because I didn’t want to risk seeing my whistling pauper again, a fear only heightened by the enormously seductive power of my trousers of choice.
Upon arrival, Clumsy was quickly anesthetised with a spiked cocktail. The delicate young creature and I, encouraged by some rather magical hors d’oeuvres and champagne, discussed the various merits of cashmere and the science of cunnilingus. Yet within moments, the various substances working away on her brain had set her vagina alight. She grabbed my hand and led me upstairs. I was three-quarters of the way through performing my tribal mating dance when the boorish boyfriend interrupted. He mumbled something about the rugby captain and a strap-on before snatching his woman and darting home.
Not letting this admittedly disappointing theft mar my performance, I finished my dance to unexpected applause from a small coterie of thespians who had gathered by the door. A quick romp ensued, stop-starting to debate the upcoming ADC term card which I took as a chance to note some reminders: “Fortnums Thank You Hamper for DoS; Bullets; Hermes lubricant”.
Walking home in a cloudy dawn, my heart grew heavy and my manhood hungry as I pondered the mundanity of my life. Ahead, a blonde in a memorable dress turned a corner. Could it be? Without thinking, I darted after her only to discover the whole thing a mirage. Instead, before me sat the whistling tramp… “Nice trousers,” she said.