Again, again, I’m having to begin a posting by assuring you all I’ve not died since I last wrote. This is one of the maddening things about being 120 (soon to be 121). I mean, were I 20 (soon to be 21) I wouldn’t feel I have to keep assuring you I haven’t passed on.
I often think, though, what I would be doing, and what I would be like, were the “1” in the “120” not there, so that I’m 20, not 120. What if I’d been born in 1995, not 1895? For one thing, I’d be having a lot more ladies than I currently am. Not finding willing ladies is another maddening thing about being 120 (soon to be 121). It used to be that young ladies found older gentlemen very attractive. But not today, it seems.
I’ve still much more to offer than most gentlemen out there looking for ladies. For one thing, I’m a very experienced lover, having over the last hundred-or-so years had many, many scores of ladies in all the areas of the world I was stationed in during my long military career. As a conversationalist I have few equals, for, being catholic in my interests, widely read, and with a cosmopolitan spirit, I’m a veritable Renaissance Man.
Also, I’m still a very good physical specimen because I work-out every day, punching the heavy bag, shadow-boxing, doing calisthenics, running, and suchlike. I was, after all, once middleweight champion of the British Army. You may therefore now wonder why it is that today’s young ladies don’t seem to want to beat a path (so to speak) to my door. The only explanation is my advanced age. Today’s young ladies don’t know what they’re missing.
Not having had any ladies for so long, I’ve been thinking more and more of Victoria. She was a lady (a fortyish lady, actually) with whom I was passionate. This was in the very early 1920’s. Since, as I intimated earlier, I’ve been passionate with scores upon scores of ladies in the course of my life, why should I be thinking particularly of Victoria? Is it because I’m currently reading “Victoria – A Life” by AN Wilson? Being a biography of Queen Victoria, it serves as a reminder that in her very copious writings (she wrote over 60 million words, the equivalent of 700 novels) she reveals how passionate was her love for Albert. Little is left to the reader’s imagination.
I had first met my Victoria at someone’s rather lavish party in a home in London’s Belgravia district. I was 25. She was 15 years my senior. I was then unmarried (Gladys was still in my future). But Victoria was very married – to an executive, in “oil” – and she had a son at Harrow. All this didn’t matter to Victoria, who set her sights on me and made her move. I was as helpless as a beetle caught in a spider’s web, for Victoria was the sort of older lady young gentlemen dream about and cannot resist. Her figure was trim, her hair black, her glittering eyes dark and obsidian. She was the controller; I the controlled. She was the predator; I the prey. She was the sadist; I the masochist.
Victoria’s oil-executive husband was constantly out of England doing the things around the Empire which oil executives did. Her son at Harrow was a boarder there. So Victoria was frequently home alone, where we did the sorts of things together behind closed doors in her home, that Queen Victoria and Prince Albert had done together behind closed doors at Osborne House. After Albert came John Brown. I have, however, still to get to that part in AN Wilson’s biography………
As for my Victoria, I’ll be forever grateful to her for indulging me in my (secret) wish to be beaten with a whip by a lady I desire. And there was no lady I desired more than Victoria. The more she beat me the more red-hot became my desire for her – a desire deliciously slaked in our couplings after the beatings were finished.
As for Queen Victoria, could it be that, as a prelude to her and Albert’s couplings, she beat him with a whip so that his desire for her become more red-hot? This question isn’t as outlandish as it might sound, because any references to such a thing which Queen Victoria might have made in her journals or diaries, would certainly have been destroyed by her youngest daughter, Princess Beatrice, who, after the Queen’s death, did in fact destroy large swathes of her mother’s writings.
As for my Victoria, she, after some months of our couplings, began to tire of me. Our affair consequently ebbed, then ended. It was against my wishes, but, as I had said earlier, she was the controller, and I the controlled. I was the beetle she caught in her web, and devoured.