+++How many times have I told those nosey under 18 year olds not to hang out here. These stories are for mature and gently corrupted folks like me. Please do go.
I am Percy Welling, Perce to my intimates. I am an American youth of English extraction. My father emigrated here for a position in a Yankee bank. I do love this country, but I have an overwhelming curiosity about my forebears.
This interest was especially pricked when I discovered a letter from my Grandfather, whose name I bear. addressed to his friend referred to in the salutation as Pucky. This epistle shed a bright searchlight on his interests and activities that so parallel mine, as you will see.
The letter was written on heavy parchment paper attesting to his wealth, or pretensions to that state. In any event, he was a man of elegance. I reproduce the letter below. It seems to be more of tale than a letter. Perhaps he was ventilating to his friend Pucky (what a silly name!)
London, l1 April 1891
Dearest Pucky,
Whilst I know you are still following your extreme pursuits with the gay crowd in Paris, I have been more circumscribed, still obtaining much satisfaction from the youth of this town. At a mere twenty four tender years, I still have the power to attract, but if that fails, a bit of cash can turn the tide.
This current social season has produced several escapades. It has not been all enjoyment. I still have that thorny problem with my debits, which have grown to mountainous proportions of late. Aunt Pussy and dear old Pater has been drained dry as a source of funds. But one must have the best hair cutting and shaves. My barber has been surly of late berating me for the unpaid bill. It had only been a year, yet he acts as if I have been as tardy in paying as the Exchequer. That tonsorial debt is small in comparison to my tailor's bills that rivals India's national deficit. Still my high society placement and the fact that I am a walking advertisement for his establishment has shielded me from harsh consequences, thus far. He is an excellent tailor, small faults in my physique, those you have often commented on, are minimized from his clever draping. Then too, he knows how to emphasize my, shall we say, assets. My trouser from is a virtual boy baiting affair. Recently he hinted that he might request that I return my suits. That, I deemed, a foolish request. Who has my twenty nine waist and six foot height?
And that brings me to the subject of boys. Now these sweet fellows, particularly those of the lower classes have been bonbons to me. They have been costly, heaven knows, but a reverse of this outgo occurred last week, an unexpected consequence of my dalliance with Billy Wheaten. This happening is the prompter for this letter.
I rushed the season somewhat and donned my light colored suit and mitigated the pale color with a waistcoat of dark blue silk. You've seen it, the one with the fleur de lis scattered on it. I had also stopped at Pierre, my hairdresser who reluctantly set and pomaded my hair whilst complaining throughout the process of my great debt. I ignored him.
I then set out, cane jauntily swinging, heading for Trafalgar Square. That was a new stick. It has an embossed round silver head. Don't you agree that silver is the new gold. Young men were often found there pretending to be interested in the pigeons or statues. Once I met that guardsman, remember how we both enjoyed him, and he surely had enough to offer both of us.
Well this was a propitious day! I stationed myself near the entrance. I deemed that I was the only gentlemen there at the time. Thusly, many eyes turned toward me, seeing me as a source of money, but in some cases, found me desirable. Why not? My clothes were excellent, my face rivaled that on a Roman coin and my graceful body called to all. Then too, my soot black hair, some escaping artfully from my tan bowler made an enticing presence.
As I investigated the scene before me, I noticed an odd occurrence. There was plenty of room all over the square, yet men clustered near the statue of Nelson, not a particularly successful piece of art. It turned out that it was not the statue but the man child standing, illegally, I must say, on the pedestal. He was a young sailor. Sailors always get attention. That uniform with its jaunty cap, the young neck exposed and the form fit of the trousers. This lad seemed uninterested in the stares he was receiving. He removed his cap, thus exposing his curly blond hair, butter yellow, my favorite, and wiped his smooth, noble forehead with the back of his hand.
Whilst he was thus busy, I moved closer and peered upward. The view of his sizeable prick bulge was impressive, almost was if he was in a state of excitation. He body was such as if dreams, wet ones, are made. He had broad shoulders and he tapered down to a small truck. One could also see that his thighs were heavy and muscular. I dared hope that soon they might be pressed against my shoulders from my position on my knees between them.
Then strangely, or perhaps I do myself insufficient credit, he stared down at me, his intense blue eyes blazing with interest. Shamelessly I beckoned to him. With extraordinary grace, he left down and stood beside me, still holding his hat in his hand. He cap band stated, "MS Greenspont". He held out of smooth, large hand and introduced himself.
"Name's Billy Wheaton, Ordinary Sailor, milord."
"I am Percey Welling, no a lord, merely an ordinary gentleman who finds you quite enchanting.. Do you fancy a bit of activity?"
"I am up, so they say, meaning it two ways, for it, sir. Shall we adjourn to a more private spot. The loo in the museum has been closed due to "elicit activities" the sign says. What is your suggestion?" "There is a hotel on Piccadilly that asks no questions or requires luggage. Shall we book a room for an hour?"
He smiled, exposing the most beautiful teeth I have ever seen. Most of these poor boys are missing a tooth or two by their late adolescence. "Do you think an hour will be sufficient for your appetites?"
"You are a insolent child." but I uttered it in a way to indicate that insolence was a desirable trait."
On the way around the corner and up two blocks I questioned him about his sea duties. I know a bit about the life of a seaman, both from having spent time with many Billy Budd's, but more knowledge was gained from that old sea dog, my Uncle Wesley. I mention this because my new friend seemed very ignorant about life at sea. Later on in our relationship I discovered that he had borrowed the uniform and was a civilian. He also confessed that he often donned disguises to interest gentlemen and increase his earnings.
On the way I asked what his charge was for a single encounter. To my surprise, he quickly answered one pound.
I whistled somewhat inelegantly, for that was a large sum. Attractive fellows might be obtain for a whole night for a quarter of that. However, I had a few pounds in my pocket, enough for the room and with a pound left over for my companion.
When we arrived at the desk to register, I was somewhat dismayed to discover that the desk clerk was an effeminate old aunty who sized up our situation immediately. He whispered that if I would permit him to watch us, the room would be free. I declined.
We walked up three flights (the clerk's punishment, I suppose) and I put the key in the lock. I glanced at Billy. He had swept his blouse off as he waited. His white, marble, muscled chest was glowing with youthful vigor. He tensed his pectorals causing me to turn quite breathless. I fumbled and finally got the door open. I entered and I held the door, he followed. As he passed me I nearly fainted from the delicious odor of the boy, consisting of sweet young sweat with a spicy top note.
We stood in the ugly room facing each other. Who should make the first move?
End Part One
{Dear Reader: I regret the overly proper tone of the letter thus far, but patience will reward you with a very stiff prick if you read part two of the letter.}