by Young
At the Promenade
Besides Tad, Jabril, Sahim, the cultural attaché, and Hussain (his assistant, breathing sighs of relief), we men proceed into the Promenade for a swig of traditional English afternoon tea while the women took rest within their appropriated chambers.
As soon as we’d ordered our beverages, the athletic Tad vociferated, “Women, women, women! What could’ve possessed them? I cannot understand those wretches at all. Women are irrational; that’s all there is to that!”
He continued vexedly, “Their heads are full of cotton, hay, and rags! They’re nothing but exasperating, irritating, vacillating, calculating, agitating, maddening and infuriating hags.”
Señor Triqueros countered jestingly, “Ah, perhaps it is because men are so honest and thoroughly square?”
“Exactly. So eternally noble and historically fair. Who, when you win, will always give your back a pat. Why can’t women be like that?” my stalker added. His annoyance, however, was dissipating at my teacher’s lighthearted rendition.
Jabril couldn’t resist adjoining. “Why does every one do what the others do? Can’t a woman learn to use her head? Why do they do everything their mothers do? Why don’t they grow up, well, like their fathers instead?”
We burst into laughter, including the two officials, who had taken the recent mishap with gravity.
The athlete resumed, “Why can’t a woman take after a man? Men are so pleasant, so easy to please. Whenever you’re with them, you’re always at ease.”
The art historian negated with glee, “Would you be slighted if I didn’t speak for hours?”
“Of course not,” my Valet chimed.
I was taken aback by his candor, let alone his participation in such witless irony.
The Levantine twittered capriciously, “Would you be livid if I had a drink or two?”
Andy declared, “Nonsense.”
He turned to me and asked, “Would you be wounded if I never sent you flowers?”
I answered pensively, “Yes, I would!”
“Well, a woman is just like you!” my lover teased. The men burst into hilarity.
Tad resumed, “One man in a million may shout a bit. Now and then, there’s one with slight defects. One perhaps whose truthfulness you doubt a bit, but by and large, we are a marvelous sex! Why can’t a woman take after a man?”
Victor seconded, “Because men are so friendly, good-natured and kind. A better companion you never will find.”
My chaperone said cheekily, “If I were hours late for dinner, would you bellow? If I forgot your silly birthday, would you fuss? Would you complain if I took out another fellow?”
“Oh yes, I would!” I replied testily.
My stalker pronounced, “Men are so decent, such regular chaps, ready to help you through any mishaps, ready to buck you up whenever you’re glum.
“Why can’t a woman be a chum?”
Jabril expressed before anyone could reply, “Why is thinking something women never do? And why is logic never even tried? Straightening up their hair is all they ever do. Why don’t they straighten up the mess that’s inside?”
This last statement seemed to strike a chord with Hussain. We had no knowledge that he was having problems with his Irish girlfriend.
Tad declared animatedly, “If I were a woman who’d been hailed as ‘Madonna’ by one and by all, would I start weeping like a bathtub overflowing, or carry on as if my home were in a tree? Would I storm off in a peeve?
“Why can’t a woman be like me?”
As our party continued with our moronic tittle-tattle, the solemn patrons glanced in our direction with distaste. I was absolutely positive that our atrocious behavior that afternoon was beyond vulgar in the eyes of the prim and proper in this Promenade of graceful tea toddlers. After all, this was England, a nation known to keep a stiff upper lip.
The Sultan of Oman
Our imprudent mimicry ceased as soon as Tad and our Arab officials caught sight of a regal gentleman entering the tea room. Accompanied by a profusion of cohorts and a couple of British diplomats, this middle-aged Arab occupied a cordoned-off section of the dining hall.
My stalker, the art historian and the two attachés excused themselves to pay homage to the man in question, leaving my Valet and me to cogitate.
“He must be the Sultan,” my chaperone surmised.
“Which Sultan?” I questioned.
“The sultan that had the Assalamu Alaikum ladies in a flutter,” Andy declared.
“The Sultan of Muscat and Oman?” I chirped.
My lover nodded. “Right on, boy. The Said bin Taimur.”
“What is he doing in London?” I asked.
“He must be here to consolidate power with the Brits. After all, he gained sovereignty over Muscat and Oman with the help of the British SAS,” my guardian speculated.
“What is SAS?” I queried.
“The SAS is the ‘Special Air Service,’ a notable forces unit of the British Army.”
I questioned curiously, “Why does he require help from Britain, now that he is the supreme ruler?”
“Young, politics is a dirty game. When one achieves dominance, he is afraid of losing it and will make concessions to remain in power,” my guardian explained. “Rumour has it, he did little to improve the lives of his people. Many believe his conservative policies are the reasons Oman has an infant mortality rate of seventy-five percent, and trachoma, venereal disease and malnutrition are widespread.
“Reportedly, there are only 3 schools, with a five percent literacy rate. There are only a few paved roads in the country.
“While his country’s denizens suffer, he lives in the lap of luxury.”
Andy paused before adding, “I’m not surprised if he is negotiating protection deals with the British authorities. If I were him, I would fear a coup.”
Our Arabian contingent returned to our midst just as a scrumptious selection of finger sandwiches, scones and pastries arrived at our table, together with pots of brewing Darjeeling, the Champagne of teas.
Chapter Fifty-Four
London’s Gentlemen’s Clubs
“Courtesy is as much a mark of a gentleman as courage.”
Theodore Roosevelt
February 2013
Continuation of Andy’s Message (part three)
Thank you, Young, for your evaluation of my beginner’s attempt at erotic writing. It is no easy task following in the footsteps of an erotic auto-biographer.
You are indeed correct to note my lack of descriptive commentary when we were an “item.” I’ve come a long way. Age, maturity and experiences have much to do with my transformation. I’m more frank than you give me credit for these days. ☺
When we do meet, you’ll have a vastly different perspective of the man you once knew. For now, will you allow me to resume my tale?
1977
Palawan Island, Philippines
Taer and Anak became our tour guides, accompanying us wherever we went. Although we did not pay for their services, we treated them to meals and paid their entrance fees to places of interest. Whenever I asked about their home and schooling schedules, they provided anomalous excuses.
The first few nights, they stayed at my hut. Since we had nothing in common besides unbridled sex, I soon grew weary of their presence. Moreover, I needed time alone, but they couldn’t bear the thought of leaving. They clung onto me as if I were their saviour.
I had no choice but to bid them to return home – and that was the straw that broke the camel’s back. They confided in me that they had run away from their dysfunctional families and were homeless before we met. They had been relying on me to provide for them. I now had a problem I hadn’t envisioned.
So, I consulted with my rowing buddies. These were their suggestions:
● Without telling the boys, move to another part of the city.
● Call it quits and compensate the boys with some financial aid.
● Break off all ties with th
em.
I ended up doing all three, but that was not the end of Taer and Anak. My saving grace was that I had not told the boys my return date to Canada.
The rest of my Palawan Island vacation was spent avoiding the Filipino teenagers.
More to the point, this was what transpired after my ‘Dear John’ conversation with them.
‘Dear John’ Monologue
On the day I terminated our relationship, Anak and Taer were their usual spirited selves, doing their best to tempt me into a three-way liaison.
They thought I was playing a dominance-and-submission game until I put a stop to their seduction with an authoritative stance. At that point, they turned sheepish, and I made them hear me out.
It was difficult delivering my ‘Dear John’ spiel, but I knew I had to do it. It was for the greater good after all. It was gruelling not to feel guilty when they looked so mousey and lost.
I said, “The two of you are sweet and accommodating, but you must realize our liaison must come to an end. I’ll be returning to Quebec, and you guys will have to make a life for yourselves here.”
“We go you to Quebec for you,” Taer replied in broken English.
“Yes, we go you Quebec,” Anak professed.
“I’m afraid that is not possible. I can’t look after you,” I expressed.
“Why no? We help in house,” chirped the older boy.
“Yes, we help in house,” seconded the younger one.
Those two made every conceivable excuse to hang onto me, envisioning me as their ticket out of the Philippines. I did everything in my power to end the affair sensibly, but my reasoning seemed to fly over their heads. I was left with no choice but to toss them out of my lodging. It was not a pretty sight when we finally parted ways. Before they left, they swore revenge and that I would not see the end of them.
The situation turned ugly.
1968
Gentlemen’s Clubs
Prior to our Arab contingent’s return from paying homage to the Sultan of Muscat and Oman, I took the opportunity to come clean to Andy. I confided to my Valet about my dinner invitation from Tad.
My chaperone’s comment surprised me. “I had been waiting for you to tell me about your dinner invitation with Tad,” he remarked.
I stared at him in amazement. “How did you know he invited me to dinner?”
“Ahh! I know more than you think I do,” was his reply.
“In that case, I don’t need to tell you anymore,” I answered pensively.
Andy laughed before adding, “Tad asked me if I could loan you for an evening.”
“Loan! I’m not an article that can be traded back and forth,” I exclaimed. “I’m a living, breathing…”
Andy chimed before I could finish. “A living, breathing, purring pussycat?” he teased.
I gave him a playful slap for his insolence. Instead of retaliation, he kissed me in full view of the diners and Señor Triqueros.
I muttered in confusion by this unexpected display of affection, “Why did you do that?”
He gazed at me adoringly. “Because I love you, and I’m allowing you to meet Tad-dy boy alone.”
“What? Why?” I blurted.
“Because your stalker had the audacity to request my permission to take you to dinner.”
He paused before resuming, “I respect a man of integrity, and he is such a person.”
“Aren’t you afraid he’ll abuse me, like Miyaz in Monte Carlo?” I declared.
He laughed. “You are such a silly goose. He’s taking you to a gentlemen’s club for dinner. He has no intention of harming you,” he affirmed.
Puzzled by my Valet’s line of reasoning, I questioned, “What’s a gentlemen’s club?”
“Boy oh boy! I shouldn’t have to explain that,” my chaperone chirped. I remained silent.
“Young, a gentlemen’s club, or a traditional gentlemen’s club, is a members-only private club. These 18th-century establishments were originally set up by, and for, British upper-class men as social places for their like-minded compatriots.
My teacher injected, “In the late 19th and early 20th century, these institutions were popularised by wealthy and sophisticated English male travellers associated with the British Empire, particularly India, the Middle East and Asia.”
I asked puzzlingly, “But Tad is not English.”
“That’s true. But, he is well connected with the affluent and influential British society. He is also an athlete of fame both in his country of birth and his adopted England,” my Valet counselled.
“How many gentlemen’s clubs is he a member of?” I queried.
“You will have to ask him that question,” came my guardian’s reply.
“Traditionally, most gentlemen had only one club, which closely corresponded with the trade, social or political identity that mostly defined him, but a few belonged to several. Members of the aristocracy and politicians are more likely to be members of several clubs,” my teacher commended.
I resumed questioning. “What do members do in these clubs?”
“Don’t worry, you wouldn’t be asked to perform Bacha Bazi,” Andy bantered jestingly. (That was Persian for ‘boy-play’ or ‘playing-with-boys’).
Victor added, “In fact, public entertainments, such as musical performances and the like, are not a feature of these clubs. These establishments are in effect a kind of ‘second home’ where men can relax, socialize, play parlour games and have a meal with their male friends or companions. Although some clubs do offer overnight stay for members.
“Expatriates can use their clubs as a base when staying in England – think of the East India Club or the Oriental Club. These establishments also allow upper-middle-class men with modest incomes to spend time in grand surroundings.
“The wealthier clubs were often built to resemble the finest country houses of the time. Furnished with stately interiors, these retreats were for men who wished to get away from their female relations and spend time with like-minded company.”
Andy expressed, “Many men spent much of their lives in their club. It is common for young graduates who moved to London for the first time to live at their club for a few years before they could afford to rent a house or flat.
“I may do that when I leave Daltonbury Hall.”
I queried, “Tad is already an affluent gentleman who owns a London residence. He doesn’t need to stay in a club.”
The Señor stated, “He doesn’t. These clubs are private places to relax and create friendships with other men and are regarded as a central part of an elite man’s life. They provide everything a regular home has. Clubs are places to relieve stress and worries. They provide emotional and practical needs.
“It’s also a scene of gossip, for communication and sharing of information with one another. Bonds are created through information sharing to confirm social and gender boundaries.”
My Valet endorsed, “The art of small talk, or gossiping, helps confirm a man’s identity within his community and society at large. Clubs are often used as a tool to further a gentleman’s social and political career. It reveals that he has certain information others do not possess. These private establishments are also used as a show of masculinity. Men joke, tell stories and share information freely, showing both awareness of behaviour and discretion. Oftentimes, gossiping is also a tool that yields practical results in the outside world.”
My lover leaned close and muttered, “A word of caution, Young: there are rules of privacy and secrecy that govern gossiping. This kind of communication is club-regulated, so it is done in a civilized and admissible manner.”
“Can anyone with money become a member?” I questioned.
My professor looked at me with amusement. “Are you planning to join?” he teased. “Young man, many clubs have a lengthy waiting lists. Some as long as sixteen to twenty years. These memberships are symbols of power and wealth, truly reserved for the elite.”
Chapter Fifty-Five
Club Nobbing
“Creativity is eccentric, and fashion is creative eccentricity.”
Bernard Tristan Foong
1968
The Oriental Club
This was one such occasion when I felt liberated. With no chaperone or guardian in tow, a sense of autonomy washed over me as I dressed to meet my stalker.
Tad was spiffed and ready for an entrancing evening when we met at the hotel lobby. He looked handsome in formal wear, and I was his date, the envy of many.
The hotel’s Rolls wound through Oxford Street, through Bond Street before turning into Stratford Place. It came to a halt in front of Stratford House, home to the Oriental Club.
We were greeted by a steward who led us into the club’s inner sanctum, through an enclosed ante-chamber that led into an open courtyard, used as a cocktail lounge during the summer.
As soon as we had seated ourselves comfortably, a footman arrived to take our beverage order. My host turned to the steward and said, “Harrold, will you be so kind as to give my guest a guided tour of the Club?”
“Of course, I would be delighted to give the young Master a tour of the establishment,” Harrold answered.
“That will be splendid. I’m sure Young will be pleased,” Tad promulgated.
The steward nodded. “Would you like to come this way, Master Young?”
Amused by his formality, I let out an inaudible giggle. My date gave me a wicked smile and winked.
History Lesson