Turpitude

by Young

  Fetish F*** Fest

  (Informal)

  Attire:

  Black Tie & White Briefs

  and/or

  Evening gowns & Lingerie.

  Seven P.M.

  At

  Reddish Manor

  Broadchalke

  Wiltshire

  England

  Please be punctual.

  Sincerely Yours,

  Neilyn Munrow

  &

  Fair Cecily

  Dressed in our finest, the six of us departed from the Dorchester to Wiltshire, a journey that took two hours, arriving at Reddish Manor, the country estate of none other but the world-renowned English fashion, portrait and war photographer, diarist, painter, interior designer and Academy Award–winning stage and costume designer for films and the theatre, the Cecil Beaton. That evening, he was Ms. Fair Cecily.

  Although I had no idea when I first arrived, I soon found out our hostess’ true identity.

  Count Mario had arrived unexpectedly from New York, where he had just completed a photographic assignment for Vanity Fair. He bumped in to his long-time pal, Tad, at the Dorchester where he was also staying. The athlete had invited the Italian to the soiree as Señor Triqueros’ date.

  The champion sportsman and the fashion photographer had a lot in common. They were both men about town publicly seen with beautiful women in their arms, even though in private they preferred the company of males. These two entrepreneurs knew everyone who was anyone, especially within the sports, music, artistic and aristocratic circles. It came as no surprise when the Count agreed to join us for this oddball soiree.

  “French Maids”

  A muscular black ‘maid’, dressed in a short white apron and a backless flouncy ultra-mini skirt, answered the door. A huge black and white bow held the apron and skirt in place at the back. The apron barely covered her shaven chest. When she guided the guests to the drawing room, her exposed buttocks swayed bootyliciously for all to ogle. Glimpses of her well-endowed cobblers left up to one’s imagination what lay dangling between those muscular legs, sensually enshrined in thigh-high platform boots. A perky maid’s cap, tilted at a calculated angle against a massive black afro, topped off her uniform. Any hot-blooded ‘diva’ would be envious of her guise.

  She held a white feather duster that at any moment could double as a whipping cane, depending on who was naughty (whacked red on the buttocks) or nice (tickled pink from exhaustive giggling). These ‘maids’ were scattered around the maison ready for action.

  Many of the mature ‘Ladies’ had handsome beaus in tow. It was Tad who later revealed that these bright young things were either kept boys of their respective cross-dressing sugar-daddies, or boy toys hired from classy male escort agencies that catered solely to older gentlemen (or, in this instance, ‘ladies’ who needed a pair of muscular hands to lean on or “work with,” depending on the service provided or how much ‘she’ was willing to pay).

  Much like an Edwardian lady who would never venture outdoors without a male escort, harem women, like their Edwardian counterparts, also required male escorts when venturing outdoors. Not only was it socially unacceptable, it was also a cultural taboo for a woman to sojourn alone.

  The difference was that the ‘women’ at that evening’s soiree were of theatrical pretence, while the Arabian females were mundane realities.

  Grand Entrances

  While the invitees were actively mingling and chatting animatedly over cocktails, it was also time for the grand entrance of Ms. Neilyn Munrow, a.k.a. Neil Munro ‘Bunny’ Roger.

  Heavily made up to resemble ‘The’ Marilyn Monroe, Ms. Munrow floated down the grand staircase in a white dress, similar in style to that worn by the actress in The Seven Year Itch.

  Neilyn sashayed sexily down the stairs, stopping above a wooden platform built specially for her ‘swirling skirt’ performance. Gusts of wind blew from under the rostrum up her pleated skirt, as she posed this way and that to a flock of clicking cameramen who were intimates of our ‘hostesses.’ Amused guests applauded thunderously, even though they were not surprised by the display.

  Ms Munrow’s finale paved the way for our other hostess, Ms. Fair Cecily, to take centre stage.

  Fair Cecily was a name bestowed upon the world-renowned Cecil Beaton by his confidant and mentor, Diana Vreeland, who was at the time the ex-fashion editor of Harper’s Bazaar and Vogue’s current editor-in-chief.

  Atop the grand staircase was the creator of Miss Eliza Doolittle’s black and white ‘Royal Escort Opening Day’ ensemble, which Ms. Audrey Hepburn had worn with great aplomb in My Fair Lady.

  Mr. Beaton had transformed himself into Ms. Fair Cecily, a.k.a. My Fair Lady. From her fabulously oversized and over-embellished hat down to the ruffled lace parasol, Ms. Fair had perfected her ensemble. She had fashioned the Fair Lady in her own image – tall and slender with a waspish waist, Cecily was the personification of Beaton’s Fair Lady feminine manifestation.

  The numerous stage and film costumes Cecil had famously designed he had subconsciously created for himself. These private F.F.F. soirees provided both the hostesses and their kindred spirits the unconstrained release they needed to express their auxiliary selves, where pomp and circumstance was the norm.

  Although I neither knew nor cared at the time about the psychological analysis of cross dressing or cross-dressers, my mentors and teachers would certainly educate me on this phenomenon, either in passing or as an educational topic at tutorials.

  Back then, I was having the time of my life observing these eccentric creatures outmanoeuvring one another in their exotic costumes with outrageous mannerisms to match.

  “Uniformed Footmen”

  When the gong struck thrice, it was time to proceed to the dining hall. ‘Maids’ and footmen were at hand to assist us to our places.

  These footmen were as cute as they come. Their uniforms were no more than a white high-collared tuxedo bib with black lapels, providing an appearance of a dress jacket. The bib was attached by a black narrow band with a gold buckle secured at the back. A pair of shirt cuffs, complete with gold cufflinks and black bowties, completed the upper section of their uniform.

  They wore no trousers except a tiny leather thong to camouflage their genitals. Transparent nylon socks secured by sock garters and a pair of polished laced-up shoes formed their lower sheath. Other than these skimpy coverings, they were naked as jaybirds.

  Ready to assist the guests in any way, shape or form, these beautiful young helpers were available to be addressed or undressed after our pseudo-persnickety banquet. The dinner proved to be a flirtatious foreplay that would eventually lead to a night of turpitudinous debauchery.

  As was often the case, these “maids” and “footmen” were heftily rewarded by wealthy patrons if they played their cards right. The promise of being a kept boy was their ultimate prize. These eye candies were there for the ‘ladies’ and for themselves. It was a rule of thumb at this kind of soiree.

  The reason for Tad’s Fortnum & Mason picnic celebration was the fact that this secret invitation was an unspoken perfunctory acknowledgement that the invitee had made it into this notable clandestine inner sanctum. The idiom “birds of a feather flock together” certainly rang true for Mario and Tad, since they moved within the who’s who circuits with ease, if only superficially.

  Dinner Conversation

  Our hostesses changed outfits pretty quickly after their debut entrances. Ms. Neilyn Munrow now wore an exact duplicate of the shimmering evening gown Marilyn Monroe had worn when she sang her raspy rendition of Happy Birthday, Mr. President. To complete her outfit, she was draped a scrumptious fur stole as she led the way into the dining room.

  Ms. Munrow had competition when Fair Cecily appeared in an exquisite sequined evening dress. A long flowing train trailed behind as she floated in to take her seat at the far end of the lavishly decorated dining table. Her dress was an identical copy of the antique gown Ms. Hepburn had worn in My Fa
ir Lady, when she attended the grand ball and danced with a foreign prince.

  No one could compete with Ms. Fair Cecily. She was, after all, ‘The’ Cecil Beaton, who had created the wardrobe for the movie.

  Tad, like Mario, was placed next to Fair Cecily: one sat on either side of her. A dominant ‘female’ who went by the title of Duchess Marianne sat between Mario and my Valet. (This Duchess turned out to be a British Member of Parliament). Cecily’s handsome beau, Ivan, was sandwiched between Tad and me. The society ‘lady’ next to moi was an aristocratic old guard, twice removed from the House of Windsor from the defunct Kingdom of Romania. He was a distant cousin of HM Queen Elizabeth II, who, that evening, had assumed the role of ‘Princess Eudoxia of Bulgaria’ (his usual identity at soirees of this nature).

  Inevitably, the dinner conversation soon turned to celebrity gossip.

  “You look fabulous, darling Cecily,” Princess Eudoxia complimented the hostess.

  Fair replied, augmenting Ms. Hepburn’s personality, “Thank you, my dear princess! I do recognize my inherent ‘star’ quality, and my stance is indeed a combination of an ultra-fashion plate and a ballet dancer. Not to mention, my features show character rather than prettiness.”

  She continued, “My voice is peculiarly personal, with its unaccustomed rhythm and sing-song cadence that sometimes develops into a flat drawl that ends in a childlike query.

  “You know, Eudoxia, it possess a quality of heartbreak, don’t you agree?”

  The hostess laughed at her self-assessment, and so did the audience.

  “I’m intelligent and alert, wistful but enthusiastic, frank yet tactful, assured without conceit, and tender without sentimentality,” she added to an already amused crowd.

  Mario asked, “How do you perceive Liz Taylor, whom I understand you have photographed?”

  This gave Cecily cause to disparage. “She’s everything I dislike. I’ve always loathed the Burtons for their vulgarity, commonness and crass bad taste. Liz combines the worst of American and English taste.

  “I told her not to powder her nose in front of the cameras, but she wanted compliments, so I gave her none.

  “Her huge breasts hung like those of a Peruvian peasant woman suckling her young. The biggest diamonds and emeralds covered her fat, coarse hands like oversized gloves.”

  The guests were taken aback by such venomous appraisal coming from a man who made his fame and fortune photographing well-known personalities the likes of Elizabeth and Richard Burton.

  Ms. Cecily sneered, “This is the woman with the greatest ‘draw’ yet by comparison. Everyone else looked ladylike.”

  Silence fell over the crowd. It was ‘Duchess Marianne’ who broke the silence.

  “What do you make of Princess Margaret?” she queried.

  “Ahh, the princess. Though she looks pretty, she wears too much make-up.” Fair paused before expressing, “There is no interim between a shut serious mouth and a flashing grin. Though I came away with the impression that HRH is amusing and witty.

  “When my light meter was placed near her, she opined, ‘It’s like having my pulse taken! And by the way, this is my best side.’ In truth, the difference is quite astonishing. We laughed about raising her head in order to shorten the effect of her nose.”

  Beaton’s presence was astonishing. Joviality returned to the room.

  Out of sheer exuberance, I questioned impetuously, “What of Marilyn Monroe?”

  As soon as the words came out of my mouth, I regretted having spoken. As if I were an imbecile, all eyes turned on me, especially the contemptuous stares my Valet and professor casted my direction. For a second, I prayed for the ground to open and swallow me whole.

  Fair glanced at Neilyn before they burst into hilarity. Their laughter softened the impact of my plebeian inquiry.

  “Oh, Marilyn, the naïve child who played at being an adult and foresaw her unhappy outcome.” Fair sighed before she opined, “She walked like an undulating basilisk, scorching everything in her path but the rosemary bushes.

  “Her voice, of a loin-stroking affection, had the sensuality of silk or velvet.”

  Neilyn purred saucily at this compliment.

  “The puzzling truth is that Miss Monroe is a make-believe siren, unsophisticated as a Rhine maiden and innocent as a sleepwalker. She was an urchin pretending to be grown up and having the time of her life in Mother’s moth-eaten finery. She tottered in high-heeled shoes, sipping ginger ales as if they were champagne cocktails.”

  The audience laughed at Cecily’s criticism of the deceased actress. The two people who were not amused were Andy and Triqueros.

  I turned away from my mentors and looked at Fair as she continued, “She romped and squealed with delight, leaping onto the sofa like an over-excited child asked downstairs after tea. Such an artless, high-spirited, and infectiously gay performance that ended in tears.”

  And so went the opprobrium from one celebrity to the next, until after dinner, the digestif was announced. Only then did the criticism cease in readiness for the night’s orgiastic activities to begin.

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  From Russia With Love

  “Sex is like snow, you never know how many inches you’re going to get or how long it will last.“

  Neil Munro ‘Bunny’ Roger

  (a.k.a Neilyn Munrow)

  February 2013

  My Email to Andy (Part Two)

  When Max and I met for dinner the following evening after my run-in with the pimp, cab-driver and rent-boy, I was pleasantly surprised that the German had chartered a traditional Thai cruise boat, complete with a personal server, for a romantic dinner cruise down the Chao Phraya River.

  This waterway is used daily as a major transportation system for locals and tourists alike. At night, when the glistening Buddhist temples and sparkling grand palaces are lit, the water on this river transforms, completing the appearance of a shimmering golden wonderland.

  As we sat enjoying the mystical beauty of this kingdom, images of Anna and the King of Siam floated across my mind. A bewildering enchantment washed over me as our boat meandered slowly across these unruffled waters.

  I imparted my day’s activities to my handsome companion, who lay comfortably next to me on an array of embroidered cushions. Above us, the Milky Way drifted by aimlessly as the boat glided across this “Land of Contravention.”

  When I started to tell him about my sordid night at the brothel, he burst into laughter. I took that as a cue to go on.

  I related my surprise when I saw Wat, the cab-driver, and Nom, the rent-boy, waiting for me outside the hotel the next morning after the brothel incident.

  True to their words, they took me sightseeing (though I had to pay their expenses, as you did with your Filipino boys). I soon discovered that the locals have a way of camouflaging their enmities with superficial merriment. No wonder visitors nicknamed this kingdom “The Land of Smiles” – even if it’s an ostensible contradiction.

  Max was an excellent listener. Throughout my babbling, he injected little, but he charmed me with his dazzling smiles. I was entranced by his humour and worldly outlook. Needless to say, we ended up in bed sooner than expected.

  Within the Chamber of Love

  His irresistible eyes pierced my soul, arousing the fibre of my being, just like yours did before our separation. I surrendered to his effervescent exploration with no hesitation. His nimble fingers moved to strip me bare, and I reciprocated with enthusiasm. Max had miraculously manifested in my life, and I was at his mercy. Like a seasoned magician, he had immobilised me with his intoxicating virility.

  Even though I had known the German for only a few hours, this man had already possessed me, and vice versa. Neither of us had any wish to banish our animal magnetism; we embraced it with adoration. Under his bewitching spell, I trembled and had to battle for stability.

  Andy, I hadn’t experienced this kind of animalistic attraction since our separation. Max, like me, was also recoveri
ng from a lost love.

  The two of us throbbed uncontrollably when our lips finally interlocked in delirious cognizance. I was sure our torrential passion would scorch our burning emotions, which would eventually destroy the fibres of our mutual existence.

  Like Wat and Nom, who had masked their authentic feelings in public, Max and I made no exception of ourselves. But within that chamber of love, we bared our vulnerabilities to each other.

  My dear ex, I felt his drumming palpitations as though they were yours. I savoured his intoxicating manliness with intensity.

  His pining sentiments had also seeped through the cracks of our otherwise flawless union. While his languid kisses resembled a man in unwarranted agony, his vibrant eyes also told a tale of sadness. Within that unanticipated moment of ecstasy, we fought for equilibrium.

  As our ardour intensified, so did our desire to cast off that which no longer served us. Yet our invisible bondages manifested outward, obstructing the eroticism that had held us captive thus far. We needed each other to mend our cynicism – to believe that love could again be ours.

  As soon as he eased into my contracting willingness, his solicitous gentility disseminated my trembling uncertainties. Rapturous pleasure washed over me.

  Through Max, I had rediscovered the blissfulness of living, and so had he. That evening, we took time to develop our love dance as we tangoed in humming synchronicity toward a series of intensified releases. We were perpetuated by our newfound yogistic delights – postures I had not exercised since my harem years. Not only did our intimacies invigorate our physical attributes, they also stabilized our mental equilibria.

  When he finally entrusted his fill into my receiving kernel, I was more than eager to reciprocate. My stream’s milky of ardor coated his musculature before he scooped to share my solvency in passionate kisses since time immemorial.