Walter.Adventures in The New World. by davisttrell@aol.com
Sir Walter Raleigh was a fine figure of a man. He walked down our cobble stone street and I put down my coat down for him, so he wouldn't have to step in the rain puddle. He was a sea-faring man, most famous for bringing back the potato, tobacco and anal sex, back to England. And in the coffee houses and ale-shops the new "American" vice enjoyed a distinct popularity. I shook Master Will's spear frequently and was entertainingly sodomized regularly by Chris Marlowe, the notorious rake. I tried Ben Jonson but he was vehemently "straight" -a new word he'd coined. He did show me though how to hang a lambskin sock around my willy.
"It's called a penis, boy, and wear my "Cumdon" whenever you partake of this new fangled love-making. There are pestilent, virulent diseases that rot men's minds and atrophy the body. The pox, boy, beware the pox!"
I was one of the boy-players at the Globe and now at eighteen was allowed to take on the heavier roles. One night, cocksucking with Will, he told me he had written Cleopatra for me, and I was to play her like a whore. But he didn't tell me how many fucking speeches there'd be.
But there would be fame, and I could sleep my way up the court, if the nobles would come round and be backstage sugar-daddies. Sugar being a sweet condiment imported from the West-Indies, I'm told, far off in the New World where the natives run naked, and men copulate with men, as a form of population control. But the land is so big, so empty, and will remain like that always. An Edenic paradise with no kings and queens or landlords or bosses.
Sir Walter cut a dash and avoided soiling his feet by stepping on my coat.
"Why thank you, sirrah. A most courteous gesture." He swished his cape and gave me, an urchin, a bow.
He was not so old, but the way he looked in my eyes, he tried to steal away my youth. It wasn't possible, but I knew how to achieve the next best thing. Before standing up, I flashed my bottom, to test the waters.
"You're one of Will's lads, aren't you? You were a very wicked Lady Macbeth, if I remember."
Rumour hath it that Sir Walter was the true author of what goes on as "Shakespeere" plays, but hides under Will's name as the Queen would not be amused. I wondered if I could discover the truth? There'd be a pretty sovereign to be made here, no doubt.
"Sire, thou'rt kind, too kind, it's the eloquence of the words that are magnificent, I merely a parrot for them, falling on the deaf ears of the groundlings."
I spied the parrot Walter had brought back from the Indies and took everywhere on his shoulder. The black eye patch and the wooden stump, replacing his leg from the knee down, and holding himself up with a crutch, the dreadful wounds of war, his leg amputated, and his dick circumcised by the short-sighted jewish doctor, during a naval encounter, near the Seychelles.
If he had indeed written these words, I knew this flattery would
drive us assuredly unto to his bed-chamber.
"O, that this too, too sullied flesh would melt, thaw, resolve itself unto a dew..." I slumped into his arms as if stricken by sickness. Fainteth clean away.
"Young sir, ar't thou okay?" He used an americanism that I'm not familiar with, but I think it meant he wished me well.
"The quality of mercy is not strained, sir, it droppeth like a gentle heaven-sent rain."
He'd kindly bundled me up in his carriage and we were borne along the filthy London streets, filled with homeless people and folks who peddled that dreaded, more virulent strain of tobacco, that sadly the Queen's counselors have deemed wise to outlaw. I like the stuff, it gets you high and takes the edge off reality, like having your cock sucked, in a carriage, borne by four husky, well-hung, under-employed layabouts, being sucked off by a man twice your age plus seven.
The carriers won't go to Whitechapel, it's too scary down there.
The 'weed', as it is known, was another thing brought back from the Americas by Sir Walter, and the thought cheered me up, I felt grateful, and joined in the sex act with more vim and gusto as he tickled my balls.
Beside the play-bill announcing the coming attraction at the Wooden O, was a picture of me, dressed up in a slinky, sexy tight, balls-revealing costume, as Portia, the legal slut of a lawyer in that Shylock thing. They called my portrait a pin-up, and men would drool over my sexy thighs. I wanted to play it in a broad way. Will said I was going over the top. That's rich, coming from him, a bottom. I told him what it meant and he says he'll use the name as a character in the next play. The one about the gay fairies, based on real life adventures in Hyde Park, in the woods, of a weekday night, staggering home, pissed on porter, singing sea-shantys from that famous pub, the Boar's Head. He's gonna call it Midsummer Night Moon Madness or something.
Walter 3/3 davistrell@aol.com
I'd never seen a penis shaved of it's foreskin before. Its cock-like head was naked and bald but wore a helmet reminiscent of the soldiers in good King Harry's day that fought that day at Agincourt. I felt privileged to see the only man who would ever have had this done, so I gave it special attention. But he was too excited, so I tried to prolong his pleasure, and I rubbed him with my hand instead. Up and down, down and up. He squirmed beneath as if he didn't like it. But he did. A peasant I know calls this "Wanking", and peasants know, and until I hear a better, that's how I refer to the rubbing motion.
"Do you have a word for what I'm doing, sir, no one has learned me yet. It excersises my hand real good."
Sir Walter corrected my grammar and asked my name.
"Bates, sir."
"Well, Master Bates, you do raise a good point. It would have tobe a noun and a verb, combined with an 'ing, making a gerund. Like fuck and fucking. Like buggering and sodomizing. Th-ings I'd like to do to your bottom. With its shape like a barrel-butt, we'll call it butt for short, and these round melons...butt-cheeks. We'll call them..."
"What are you going to call this hole? Yes, where you've slippedin your fingers... "
"Anal cavity, I think, it has a rich resonant sound, don't you agree? And I will slip my penis deep inside..."
"Can't you come up with something better than penis...its such icky word."
"Well you said my head looked like a cock. so let's call it that." And he crowed like a rooster, an upstart crow.
He pushed his -new word- cock, inside my anal cavity, as I savoured the words, and the sensations of lust set off in my body.
"Once more into the breeches of a dear friend, once more," he howled, "Come,crack open your cheeks for my manly hurricano."
His speech made him comical he acted like a fool, but he does have a way with words and I had no right to leer.
And he filled me up, copulating like the beasts in the field do. This stance, we called it pony style, as he fucked me, as if riding a small horse. He turned me over on my back and entered me beneath. I liked it best this way, as you can watch. I could see my pecker wave like an English flag.
"A drum, a drum, Macbeth doth come." quoting himself.
Burbage, another Richard, another Dick, who plays the scottish king, was my favourite bedmate; who talks with a funny accent but he does what Sir Walter is trying to do, but does so much better. He holds my dagger before him as he sucks on it, kneeling, a sort of role reversal, a parody of the knighting ceremony, I don't quite get it.
Sir Walter eventually shot off white-snot into the lambskin dongle I'd given him. Although I enjoy being penetrated in my behind, and the spasms, inside when he cums, but I don't like the liquid trickling inside me, like girls do. I don't want to have a baby at this stage of my career. I want to fuck as many men as I can, make a lot of money, and then I'll settle down. But not with Sir Walter, no thank you, he's getting too old.
"Good night sweet prince and may flights of angels go with you." his way of saying goodbye, as I left the room and I fucked around with the American for a couple of hours before going directly home.
Sir Walter did have one pretty thing about him though, his cock was shaped like a swan on the Avon.
Any complaints of the innacuracies in the quotes can be ascribed to my use of the First Quarto and NOT the Bad Folio. And the American English of today is closer to Queen Elisabeth's day than contemporary U.K. English. Even if there is another Elizabeth on the throne now, to makethings even more confusing. And of course the influence of Sir Walter Raleigh.