Chapter II: The science of sexual deduction
The next day, just as we had arranged, I arrived at No. 221 Baker Street, and found apartment B. From the outside, I could see that the space had two broad windows facing a sitting room, though a white curtain blocked my view indoors. As I approached the knocker, I heard a great deal of commotion coming from inside. There was the repeated sound of someone banging on the floor coupled with snorts and shouts.
Thinking something might be amiss, I quickly opened the unlocked door and found Holmes entirely nude, thrusting himself into a young companion on the floor of the living room. This display of naked fornication in broad daylight was almost more than I could handle, though the two men took hardly any notice of me as I entered.
I saw Holmes, his tall and well-built frame, his muscles bulging like Vitruvian Man. His eyes were sharp and piercing, watching the sweat-covered back of the man beneath him. His hair was wild, in a passionate disarray. The fur on his body was light but noticeable, curving around his nipples, pooling on his chest, and trailing down to his sex, where a rough tangle of hair sprouted at the base of his cock and covered his balls in a fine down. His companion appeared to be in his early twenties, with inky hair and icy eyes. He looked up at me with a flirtatious smile, clearly enjoying the show they were giving me.
But by far the most spectacular thing in the room was Holmes' cock. Large and throbbing, it was greater than any member I had ever come across. Holmes continually buried it in the other man's arse, his eyes rolling to the back of his head as he moaned. He would pull it out, enormous and glistening, only to thrust its unimaginable dimensions back inside again. The dark-haired man on the floor appeared to be in heaven as he took the assault with ease. "Oui, oui," he cried each time Holmes pushed in.
Finally, Holmes gave a loud shout and came, his body shivering. He reached around to grab the other man's hard dick, pumping it a few times until the man shuddered and ejaculated, a white puddle amassing on the floor beneath him.
Holmes shut his eyes for a moment and then looked up, seeing me for the first time.
"Is it noon already?" he said indifferently.
He got up, a loud plopping sound emerging at the same time as his colossal implement. The dark-haired man collapsed to the ground, completely spent. Holmes stood and wrapped a smoking jacket around his body, though he neglected to sash it shut. He strode to the kitchen, his front side resembling the display of a Viennese sausage shop.
I followed Holmes, bewildered. The man on the floor seemed to be resting, exhausted from the frenetic activity. Holmes reached into a cupboard, pulled out a bottle, and removed the cork.
"Vin Mariani?" he offered. I told him I thought it was a bit early for wine. "Nonsense," said Holmes. "A cup of this is more stimulating that tea."
"Who is that man?" I said, pointing at the bare arse in the living room.
Holmes shrugged. "A French aristocrat's son. Jean-Pierre, I believe. He asked me to help him find a suitable hotel for a man of his tastes while in England. We came to a mutually beneficial agreement regarding his price."
"Is this something that will happen frequently if we are to live together?" I asked, annoyance in the edge of my voice. Though I have enjoyed my fair share men, above all else I am a Victorian gentleman, and prudence was my main operational mode. This open display of carnality was beyond anything I had heretofore experienced.
"If you like, I can keep such things confined to my bedroom," he said. "Though I take it you had some enjoyment from watching us."
He pointed at my crotch, where the outline of my rock hard equipment was visible through my trousers. Flummoxed, I did my best to cover it up. I took a swig from the offered glass. "Listen, Holmes. I am as libertine as the next man but I was not expecting to find you like this."
Holmes eyed me. "And I was not expecting you for at least five more minutes," he said. "But I assure you I will keep such things in my trousers for the time being so as not to upset your sensibilities.
I wondered if perhaps I should try to find more suitable lodgings.
Holmes downed his glass and perked up. "Would you like to tour the place?" he asked. "Or perhaps you would like to relieve some tension with Jean-Pierre?" He smiled wickedly. "He is a young rooster and if you give him a few minutes, I'm sure he would be ready to go again."
I elected for the former. Holmes showed me to my bedroom, which was comfortable. The kitchen was small but would serve our needs and the living room was airy and, even with a naked man sprawled out on the floor, cheerfully furnished. Jean-Pierre stirred as we entered, rising slowly. He grinned as I attempted to look away from his limp organ and made no attempt to hide his nakedness. He sprawled out on a plump sofa, the hair at his crotch as dark as that on his head.
"Zis eez your ozer lover?" he asked Holmes.
Holmes raised an eyebrow at me. "No."
"Zen what eez he?"
"I am hoping he will be my flat-mate," he said, reaching out to shake my hand.
I looked around at the apartment, which was desirable in almost every way. The terms that Holmes had given for the rent were quite moderate as well. And it would be nice to lodge with someone from whom I would have no need to hide my interest in men. Holmes might be a bit eccentric but there was also something interesting about him. Perhaps I could learn a few things. I took his hand and shook it, concluding our bargain on the spot.
That very evening I moved my things round from the hotel, and on the following morning Sherlock Holmes followed me with several boxes and portmanteaus. For a day or two we were busily employed in unpacking and laying out our property to the best advantage. That done, we gradually began to settle down and to accommodate ourselves to our new surroundings.
Holmes was certainly not a difficult man to live with. He was quiet in his ways, and his habits were regular. Unless he was with a companion, it was rare for him to be up after ten at night, and he had invariably breakfasted and gone out before I rose in the morning. Sometimes, he spent his days at the chemical laboratory, sometimes on long walks, which appeared to take him into the lowest portions of the City. Nothing could exceed his energy when the working fit was upon him; but now and again a reaction would seize him, and for days on end he would lie upon the sofa in the sitting-room, hardly uttering a word or moving a muscle from morning to night. On these occasions I have noticed such a dreamy, vacant expression in his eyes, that I might have suspected him of being addicted to the use of some narcotic, though secretly I wondered if the drug that plagued his heart was love.
As the weeks went by, my interest in him and my curiosity as to his aims in life gradually deepened and increased. His very person and appearance were such as to strike the attention of the most casual observer. In height, he was rather over six feet and lean enough to appear taller. His eyes were penetrating and ever-watchful, save during those periods of torpor which I have earlier alluded to; and his hawk-like nose gave his whole expression and air of alertness and decision.
There were times when I would look at him and be glad for his rules about not mixing domestic and recreational activities together--Holmes was rather not the type of man I typically went for. His hands were invariably blotted with ink and stained with chemicals, yet he was possessed of extraordinary delicacy of touch, as I frequently had occasion to experience when he would run his fingers over my shoulders to get my attention.
The reader may set me down as a hopeless busybody, and my protestations of how little he attracted me physically merely a ruse. I confess that this man stimulated my curiosity, and often I endeavored to break through the reticence which he showed on all that concerned himself. Before pronouncing judgment, however, be it remembered how objectless my life, and how little there was to engage my attention. My health forbade me from venturing out unless the weather was exceptionally genial, and I had no friends (nor lovers) who would call upon me and break the monotony of my daily life. Under these circumstances, I eagerly hailed the little mystery which hung around my companion, and spent much time in endeavouring to unravel it.
He was not studying medicine. He had, himself, in reply to a question, confirmed Stamford's opinion upon that point. Neither did he appear to have pursued any course of reading which might fit him for a degree in science or other recognized portal which would give him an entrance into the learned world. Yet his zeal for certain studies, chiefly men, was remarkable, and within eccentric limits his knowledge was so extraordinarily ample and minute that his observations have fairly astounded me. Surely no man would work so hard or attain such precise information about male behavior unless he had some definite end in view, beyond the obvious.
His ignorance was as remarkable as his knowledge. Of contemporary literature, politics, and philosophy, he appeared to know next to nothing. Upon my quoting Thomas Carlyle, he inquired in the most naïve way who he might be and what he had done. My surprise reached a climax, however, when I found incidentally that he was ignorant of the Copernican Theory and of the composition of the Solar System. That any civilized human being in this nineteenth century should not be aware that the earth travelled round the sun appeared to be to me such an extraordinary fact that I could hardly realize it.
"You appear to be astonished," he said, smiling at my expression of surprise. "Now that I do know it I shall do my best to forget it."
"To forget it!"
"You see," he explained, "I consider that a man's brain originally is like a little empty attic, and you have to stock it with such furniture as you choose. A fool takes in all the lumber of every sort that he comes across, so that the knowledge which might be useful to him gets crowded out, or at best is jumbled up with a lot of other things so that he has a difficulty in laying his hands upon it. Now the skillful workman is very careful indeed as to what he takes into his brain-attic. He will have nothing but the tools which may help him in doing his work, but of these he has a large assortment, and all in the most perfect order. It is a mistake to think that that little room has elastic walls and can distend to any extent. Depend upon it there comes a time when for every addition of knowledge you forget something that you knew before. It is of the highest importance, therefore, not to have useless facts elbowing out the useful ones."
"But the Solar System!" I protested.
"What the deuce is it to me?" he interrupted impatiently; "you say that we go round the sun. If we went round the moon it would not make a pennyworth of difference to me or to my work."
I was on the point of asking him what that work might be, but something in his manner showed me that the question would be an unwelcome one. I pondered over our short conversation, however, and endeavoured to draw my deductions from it. He said that he would acquire no knowledge which did not bear upon his object. Therefore all the knowledge which he possessed was such as would be useful to him. I enumerated in my own mind all the various points upon which he had shown me that he was exceptionally well-informed. I even took a pencil and jotted them down. I could not help smiling at the document when I had completed it. It ran in this way--
SHERLOCK HOLMES--his limits. 1. Knowledge of Literature.--Nil. 2. Philosophy.--Nil. 3. Astronomy.--Nil. 4. Politics.--Feeble. 5. Botany.--Variable. Well up in marihuana, opium and other drugs. Knows nothing of practical gardening. 6. Male sexuality.--Practical, but limited. Claims to tell at a glance the desires of different gentlemen, though I sometimes suspect he is inventing things. 7. Chemistry.--Profound. 8. Anatomy.--Highly accurate to the point of unseemliness. 9. Sensational Literature.--Immense. He appears to know every detail of every scandalous encounter committed in the city of London and beyond. 10. Plays the violin well. 11. Is an expert singlestick player, boxer, and swordsman. 12. Has a good practical knowledge of British law.
When I had got so far in my list I threw it into the fire in despair. "If I can only find what the fellow is driving at by reconciling all these accomplishments, and discovering a calling which needs them all," I said to myself, "I may as well give up the attempt at once."
I see that I have alluded above to his powers upon the violin. These were very remarkable, but as eccentric as all his other accomplishments. That he could play pieces, and difficult pieces, I knew well, because at my request he has played me some of Mendelssohn's Lieder, and other favourites. When left to himself, however, he would seldom produce any music or attempt any recognized air. Leaning back in his arm-chair of an evening, he would close his eyes and scrape carelessly at the fiddle which was thrown across his knee. Sometimes the chords were sonorous and melancholy. Occasionally they were fantastic and cheerful. Clearly they reflected the thoughts which possessed him, but whether the music aided those thoughts, or whether the playing was simply the result of a whim or fancy was more than I could determine. I might have rebelled against these exasperating solos had it not been that he usually terminated them by playing in quick succession a whole series of my favourite airs as a slight compensation for the trial upon my patience.
At first, we rarely had callers, save a dark-eyed man who was introduced to me as a Mr. Lestrade. I understood that Holmes had no interest in him sexually, and neither did I. As to what he and Holmes were discussing all the time, I couldn't say.
Presently, I found that Holmes had other callers, and they were mostly from different classes of society. The French boy I did not see again. But Holmes returned once with a blond man, very fashionably dressed, who left behind a pair of lavender gloves. A seedy young Jew with brown curls stole a china saucer from the apartment. There was the Irish lad, too, who Holmes dragged into my room nude in the middle of the night to show me that the hair at his crotch was the same burnished orange as that on his head.
I would hear Holmes banging into them from the room next to mine. Exactly how he found so many men in London with such capacious arseholes was beyond me. I did my best to ignore it, thinking that I should be out finding a romp of my own. But still I listened, often bringing myself to completion with the sound of some man softly calling Holmes' name.
It was upon the 4th of March, as I have good reason to remember, that I rose somewhat earlier than usual, and found that Sherlock Holmes was still at his breakfast. I sat down to my own, picked up a magazine from the table and read it while my companion munched silently at his toast. One of the articles had a pencil mark at the heading, and naturally I began to run my eye through it.
Its somewhat ambitious title was "A Case For Open Love" and it attempted to show that it should not be illegal for two men to have romantic relations. I was sure that the populace was scandalized by its case but I found myself drawn farther and farther in to its points. What bravery this person had to argue that the type of love I enjoyed with another man was not a wicked thing but in fact good and natural. Holmes inquired at what was making me grin so wide and so I began to read:
"A man with the Uranian urge is not shameful, but simply a human being and therefore has inalienable rights. His sexual orientation is a right established by nature. Legislators have no right to veto nature; no right to persecute nature in the course of its work; no right to harm living creatures who are subject to those drives nature gave them."
"What is it?" asked Sherlock Holmes.
"Why this article," I said, pointing at it with my egg spoon. "I see that you have read it because you have marked it. It is amazingly well written but there is no way that it can change anything about our society."
"Why not?" demanded Holmes.
"Because in our delicate era such ideas would not find themselves very welcome. You and I both know that firsthand. It will be completely ridiculed and ignored."
"That may be," said Holmes. "But at the very least it will put the idea out there and then perhaps things can start to change."
I shook my head. "Perhaps. Though the person who wrote it would be best to keep their mouth shut in public."
"Why Watson, you know that I am the very model of discretion when it comes to matters like this."
I gaped at his audacity. "This is your article?"
"I used a pseudonym: Mr. Peaslin." His face betrayed how clever he thought he was. "But I feel it could help people better understand the world that I and many others live in. It is a part of my work, after all."
"And what precisely is your line of work?" This was a point that had troubled me until now.
"Well, I have a trade of my own. I suppose I am the only one in the world. I'm a sexual consulting detective, if you can understand what that is. Here in London we have many men who are looking to find other men to satisfy their proclivities. And since people of our persuasion must be inconspicuous, hiding what we do in the shadows, there is the penchant for misdeeds. I have always had a knack for spotting the cravings of other men, their likes and dislikes in bed. I enjoy applying my abilities toward interesting cases that might otherwise go unsolved."
And gratifying your own desires in the process, I thought, though I didn't utter this idea aloud. Instead, I said: "Do you mean to say that you can deduce the precise sexual desires of any man who you see on the street?" This was among the points in my list that I considered to fantastical to believe.
"Quite so. I have a kind of intuition that way. You appeared to be surprised when I told you, on our first meeting, that you had slept with thirteen men in the last two months."
"I assumed you were told by Stamford, though I don't recall telling him myself."
"Nothing of the sort. From a long train of thoughts that ran so swiftly through my mind, I arrived at the conclusions without being conscious of the intermediate steps. There were such steps, however. The train of reasoning ran:
"Here is a gentleman of the medical type, burly, and with the air of a well-honed military man. Clearly, you are virile and enjoy taking charge. I knew that you and Stamford had enjoyed one another. But he was also still somewhat nervous around you, indicating that the two of you had just met once again after a long period of absence. You clearly seduced Stamford quickly and quite successfully. You enjoy sex, work swiftly, and will easily take your pick of men."
I was impressed. "But you still didn't tell me how you knew it was thirteen."
"It was obvious to me from the beginning that the two of us are quite similar in character. That was the same number of men I had taken to bed during that span."
"It is simple enough as you explain it," I said, smiling. "You remind me of Edgar Allen Poe's Dupin. I had no idea that such individuals did exist outside of stories."
Sherlock Holmes rose and lit his pipe. "No doubt you think that you are complimenting me in comparing me to Dupin," he observed. "Now, in my opinion, Dupin was a very inferior fellow. That trick of his of breaking in on his friends' thoughts with an apropos remark after a quarter of an hour's silence is really very showy and superficial. He had some analytical genius, no doubt; but he was by no means such a phenomenon as Poe appeared to imagine."
I walked over to the window, and stood looking out into the busy street. "This fellow may be very clever," I said to myself, "but he is certainly very conceited." Annoyed at his bumptious style of conversation, I thought it best to change the topic.
"I wonder what that fellow is looking for?" I asked, pointing to a stalwart, plainly-dressed individual who was walking slowly down the other side of the street, looking anxiously at the numbers. He had a large blue envelope in his hand, and was evidently the bearer of a message.
"You mean the man who enjoys having his toes sucked while being penetrated?" said Sherlock Holmes.
"Brag and bounce!" thought I to myself. "He knows that I cannot verify his guess."
The thought had hardly passed through my mind when the man whom we were watching caught sight of the number on our door, and ran rapidly across the roadway. We heard a loud knock, a deep voice below, and heavy steps ascending the stair.
"For Mr. Sherlock Holmes," he said, stepping into the room and handing my friend the letter.
The question on the tip of my tongue was too embarrassing to say out loud. I merely stared at the man, perhaps too leeringly, for he gave me a perplexed look as he left.
Holmes read the contents and told me it was a note from Lestrade. He asked us to come to number 3, Lauriston Gardens, off the Brixton Road.
"What does he want you there for?" I asked Holmes.
"Lestrade sometimes consults with me. A man of my talents can come in handy."
Comments welcome at sirarthurpornandoyle@yahoo.com
If you liked this or other stories on this site, please help Nifty out with a donation http://donate.nifty.org/donate.html