something a little different: Victorian homoerotica
Here's something a trifle different - some original Victorian-style homoerotic fiction. I have decided, after much pondering, that my conventional short stories are worth the investment in time, although pornography is more marketable (short stories have declined in popularity since the 1950s.) I may yet continue the adventures of these two 19th-century New Yorkers, but for now, this is all I have and I thought the friends list might enjoy it.
An Early Evening's Frolic
It was hard not to be envious of Cedric as I returned from another soul-numbing day of clerking for Jas. Bros. Printing House. The city was sweltering in the August heat. I was sweating profusely in my suit, and my fingers were blackened with ink. He was still in his maroon dressing gown, no doubt entirely nude underneath, lolling indolently on the sofa surrounded by a scattering of sporting pamphlets, the Pall Mall Gazette, and a stack of books with lurid covers.
“Hullo, Jack, how’s the daily grind?” Cedric looked up from his yellow-backed novel - another lewd selection from the Cortland Street shops. I groaned and dropped my satchel onto the carpet, sinking down into one of the Chesterfield chairs.
“Dreadful. It’s killing my soul,” I said, perhaps a bit too dramatically. I loosened my tie and waistcoat.
“Sorry to hear that, old fellow. I’ve had a rather fine day.” He lit a Turkish cigarette and stretched lazily, pushing aside the scattered papers. His chestnut curls were in disarray, and his dark eyes could only be described as languid.
“Reading flash weeklies and smoking perfumed cigarettes?” I asked, not without envy.
“Plus a round or two of the solitary vice,” he said archly, exhaling a thin stream of smoke. “Oh, and I developed some films this morning.” Photography is Cedric’s hobby - the only of his many recreational pursuits at which he displays a real talent.
“That’s hardly good for the complexion, nor are those cigarettes. And French novels corrupt the mind.” In truth I had no objection to Cedric’s vices; I share many of them when luxury permits. I was simply jealous of his life of leisure. I picked up the yellow novel irritably, intentionally breaking the spine as I held it open. It was a romance tale of the more prurient variety. The adventuress depicted in lush color was full-bodied and winsome, her golden locks flowing, her generous breasts barely contained by her half-ripped bodice. A handsome dark-haired man in a kilt loomed over her, rather ominously, I thought, but she looked up at him with passionate eyes. I tossed it dismissively onto the sofa next to Cedric.
“It’s not bad! Rather a good read, actually.” Cedric snatched the novel and closed it carefully, restoring the loosened pages.
“It hasn’t given you the horn,” I said, casting a glance downward as the gap in his robe, through which I could see his soft pego nestled between his legs. “Not like having a strapping lad straining in your arms.” I gave him a lewd glance, which he returned twofold, touching the tip of his tongue to his lips.
“You know that kind of smut is a sin against morality and the law,” Cedric replied, with mock indignation. “Even worse, it’s not so easy to find in the book-stalls. I had Porter looking hither and yon this morning, but he found nothing fresher than this week-old Cremhorne.” The aptly-named Porter was Cedric’s valet, a fastidious foppish ponce of a man, banished from his post as second butler on their country estate because he refused to stop wearing a lady’s dressing-gown on his half-days.
“I could write some for you,” I said impulsively. In truth, the idea of writing fodder for the smut-peddlars had crossed my mind many times. Other writers, under the guise of ridiculous noms des plumes such as Rider St. George and John Thomas, were making substantial income writing lewd stories, anecdotes, songs, poems, recollections, and even entire novels dwelling on the arts of procreation. There was a lively trade in these sporting publications among the book-stalls south of the canal.
Cedric looked so doubtful that I boldly pressed on. “How much was that copy of The Rake - ten cents? For two bits I’ll make you stiff as a poker with just one page.” Cedric loved wagering, and I knew he was unable to resist.
“You’re on!” he said enthusiastically. “I have to warn you, I’ll do my best not to win. I’ll be thinking of steaming piles of offal, and that sort of thing, to keep the old pecker soft.” He extended his hand, and we shook on it. I held his hand a moment too long, squeezing the smallest finger as I released him, merely as a reminder of our ongoing dalliance.
“I haven’t any worries about my abilities to bring that matter to attention. Give me a cigarette and a sheaf of fools’ cap,” I told him.
Cedric rounded up both without even rising from the sofa, stretching his long languid limbs from one end to the other, propping himself up to reach the desk drawer, from which he extracted several sheets of paper, a bottle of ink, and a pen. He lit a ready-made cigarette and handed it to me, and our eyes met as I drew on it.
“Ten minutes,” I said, exhaling smoke in a thin stream. As I turned to my task, I thought of his fine lips and the way they’d wrapped around my stiff-stander last night, milking out every last drop of spend while mine were similarly engaged with his own swollen priapus. Soixante-neuf, it was called. I found the image inspiring, and started to write. For several minutes I scratched away at the sheet, while Cedric sat reading the Gazette and clocking me with a stopwatch, carefully setting aside the more colourful sections of the paper so as not to give me a jump-start.
“And three…two…one,” said Cedric, after I had written for ten minutes, dramatically clicking the button on the top of the stopwatch. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”
I passed him the sheets, but he waved them aside. “Read to me,” he said, and I read aloud:
Cecil and I were late getting out of the music-hall, for we lingered over cigars, drinking one last bottle of wine and waiting for the crowds to clear out. At last the usher entered our box and busied himself with emptying ashtrays and collecting our crumpled napkins and spent corks, making it clear he wanted to close up.
“Let’s push off,” said Cecil, standing up and wobbling slightly. He headed for the staircase, and I followed. I was also halfway tipsy and avoided looking the carpet, patterned in bold cabbage rose. It was making me walk crookedly. Instead I watched Cecil’s arse as he descended each long, shallow step. It was a mesmerizing sight, pert and well-rounded, clad in the cobalt-blue wool of his well-fitted full dress suit.
“Cece old fellow, your bottom is simply cracking,” I muttered, as I crept up behind him.
“Quit talking like a schoolboy,” he said. “It doesn’t suit you, James.” Nonetheless I felt an irresistible urge to sample the goods, and goosed his adorable bum, making him leap down the stairs in surprise.
We stumbled out onto the pavement and I fetched a hansom. I had to flag several, for most didn’t want to drive all the way out to Irving Place, as there was no chance of a picking up a return fare. Finally I found one who was willing to take us. Cedric climbed the footboard and offered me a hand up, and I closed the door behind me and rapped on the roof to signal the driver to set off.
We fell to it forthwith, the jolt of the carriage acting as a kick-start to our luxurious activities….
At that I heard a groan from Cedric. I paused in my reading and looked up from the pages to see him reclining on the wicker sofa, and an impressively large cockstand poking out through his robe.
“That’s rather a cheat,” he said, though I noticed his elevated breathing. “Really, Jack… 'James and Cecil'… not to mention, that’s precisely what we did Saturday last, when my great-uncle gave me those theatre tickets!”
“You didn’t specify that it had to be fictional. It’s not half-bad for only ten minutes!” I cast a significant glance downward at the gape in his dressing-gown. “Ha - I win! Those hack scribblers down on Cortland Street haven’t seen the likes of me,” I said triumphantly, forgetting for a moment that I was aiming for a respectable career in letters.
“Come here and let me settle the bill,” Cedric said, one hand resting on his cock. I cast the sheaves aside and joined him on the sofa, loosening the belt of his dressing gown.
“I’ll take it in trade, you luscious tart. Down you go!” Cedric slid down to the carpet and pushed my legs apart roughly. I struggled with my buttons and braces while he slid my trousers down and put his cool hands around my hot shaft. He licked his lips teasingly before settling to, and I ran my fingers through his curly hair and gave a gentle tug forward to hasten him.
Ever masterful, he began slow and soft, rising up to a pleasing crescendo, teasing me just to hear me beg, until at last I groaned helplessly and admitted that yes, I was at his mercy, and to hell with the two bits. A clever flick of his tongue made me spend copiously, nearly sobbing with pleasure and relief.
“What a darling you are!” I said foolishly.
“You sentimental old sap,” he replied fondly, removing the handkerchief from my waistcoat to mop me up a bit. “I’ll spring for dinner over at the tavern if you like.” He sat next to me on the sofa. Weary though I was, I grasped his stiffened prick and stroked it a few times. Cedric leaned his head into my shoulder and sighed as I jerked him.
“Let me show you the master’s strokes,” he said teasingly, pushing my hand away, and taking over for himself. We kissed softly, and Cedric pushed his tongue in the French manner, tipping the velvet, moaning around our kiss, and jerking himself until he too spent in an agony of delight and his mouth slackened around mine.
“You are quite skilled in the art,” I said, as he panted to regain his breath.
“There’s no method like practice,” he replied. “Let’s dress and have a sup - I’m famished.” He rang Porter for hot water to dress for the evening, while I tidied myself in front of the hall mirror, tucking in my shirt, shaking out my waistcoat, and placing a fresh handkerchief into my pocket. While Cedric shaved, I brushed off my sack-coat and ran a comb through my hair, thinking to myself that the rosy glow to my complexion was a comely style for an evening at the pub.
An Early Evening's Frolic
It was hard not to be envious of Cedric as I returned from another soul-numbing day of clerking for Jas. Bros. Printing House. The city was sweltering in the August heat. I was sweating profusely in my suit, and my fingers were blackened with ink. He was still in his maroon dressing gown, no doubt entirely nude underneath, lolling indolently on the sofa surrounded by a scattering of sporting pamphlets, the Pall Mall Gazette, and a stack of books with lurid covers.
“Hullo, Jack, how’s the daily grind?” Cedric looked up from his yellow-backed novel - another lewd selection from the Cortland Street shops. I groaned and dropped my satchel onto the carpet, sinking down into one of the Chesterfield chairs.
“Dreadful. It’s killing my soul,” I said, perhaps a bit too dramatically. I loosened my tie and waistcoat.
“Sorry to hear that, old fellow. I’ve had a rather fine day.” He lit a Turkish cigarette and stretched lazily, pushing aside the scattered papers. His chestnut curls were in disarray, and his dark eyes could only be described as languid.
“Reading flash weeklies and smoking perfumed cigarettes?” I asked, not without envy.
“Plus a round or two of the solitary vice,” he said archly, exhaling a thin stream of smoke. “Oh, and I developed some films this morning.” Photography is Cedric’s hobby - the only of his many recreational pursuits at which he displays a real talent.
“That’s hardly good for the complexion, nor are those cigarettes. And French novels corrupt the mind.” In truth I had no objection to Cedric’s vices; I share many of them when luxury permits. I was simply jealous of his life of leisure. I picked up the yellow novel irritably, intentionally breaking the spine as I held it open. It was a romance tale of the more prurient variety. The adventuress depicted in lush color was full-bodied and winsome, her golden locks flowing, her generous breasts barely contained by her half-ripped bodice. A handsome dark-haired man in a kilt loomed over her, rather ominously, I thought, but she looked up at him with passionate eyes. I tossed it dismissively onto the sofa next to Cedric.
“It’s not bad! Rather a good read, actually.” Cedric snatched the novel and closed it carefully, restoring the loosened pages.
“It hasn’t given you the horn,” I said, casting a glance downward as the gap in his robe, through which I could see his soft pego nestled between his legs. “Not like having a strapping lad straining in your arms.” I gave him a lewd glance, which he returned twofold, touching the tip of his tongue to his lips.
“You know that kind of smut is a sin against morality and the law,” Cedric replied, with mock indignation. “Even worse, it’s not so easy to find in the book-stalls. I had Porter looking hither and yon this morning, but he found nothing fresher than this week-old Cremhorne.” The aptly-named Porter was Cedric’s valet, a fastidious foppish ponce of a man, banished from his post as second butler on their country estate because he refused to stop wearing a lady’s dressing-gown on his half-days.
“I could write some for you,” I said impulsively. In truth, the idea of writing fodder for the smut-peddlars had crossed my mind many times. Other writers, under the guise of ridiculous noms des plumes such as Rider St. George and John Thomas, were making substantial income writing lewd stories, anecdotes, songs, poems, recollections, and even entire novels dwelling on the arts of procreation. There was a lively trade in these sporting publications among the book-stalls south of the canal.
Cedric looked so doubtful that I boldly pressed on. “How much was that copy of The Rake - ten cents? For two bits I’ll make you stiff as a poker with just one page.” Cedric loved wagering, and I knew he was unable to resist.
“You’re on!” he said enthusiastically. “I have to warn you, I’ll do my best not to win. I’ll be thinking of steaming piles of offal, and that sort of thing, to keep the old pecker soft.” He extended his hand, and we shook on it. I held his hand a moment too long, squeezing the smallest finger as I released him, merely as a reminder of our ongoing dalliance.
“I haven’t any worries about my abilities to bring that matter to attention. Give me a cigarette and a sheaf of fools’ cap,” I told him.
Cedric rounded up both without even rising from the sofa, stretching his long languid limbs from one end to the other, propping himself up to reach the desk drawer, from which he extracted several sheets of paper, a bottle of ink, and a pen. He lit a ready-made cigarette and handed it to me, and our eyes met as I drew on it.
“Ten minutes,” I said, exhaling smoke in a thin stream. As I turned to my task, I thought of his fine lips and the way they’d wrapped around my stiff-stander last night, milking out every last drop of spend while mine were similarly engaged with his own swollen priapus. Soixante-neuf, it was called. I found the image inspiring, and started to write. For several minutes I scratched away at the sheet, while Cedric sat reading the Gazette and clocking me with a stopwatch, carefully setting aside the more colourful sections of the paper so as not to give me a jump-start.
“And three…two…one,” said Cedric, after I had written for ten minutes, dramatically clicking the button on the top of the stopwatch. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”
I passed him the sheets, but he waved them aside. “Read to me,” he said, and I read aloud:
Cecil and I were late getting out of the music-hall, for we lingered over cigars, drinking one last bottle of wine and waiting for the crowds to clear out. At last the usher entered our box and busied himself with emptying ashtrays and collecting our crumpled napkins and spent corks, making it clear he wanted to close up.
“Let’s push off,” said Cecil, standing up and wobbling slightly. He headed for the staircase, and I followed. I was also halfway tipsy and avoided looking the carpet, patterned in bold cabbage rose. It was making me walk crookedly. Instead I watched Cecil’s arse as he descended each long, shallow step. It was a mesmerizing sight, pert and well-rounded, clad in the cobalt-blue wool of his well-fitted full dress suit.
“Cece old fellow, your bottom is simply cracking,” I muttered, as I crept up behind him.
“Quit talking like a schoolboy,” he said. “It doesn’t suit you, James.” Nonetheless I felt an irresistible urge to sample the goods, and goosed his adorable bum, making him leap down the stairs in surprise.
We stumbled out onto the pavement and I fetched a hansom. I had to flag several, for most didn’t want to drive all the way out to Irving Place, as there was no chance of a picking up a return fare. Finally I found one who was willing to take us. Cedric climbed the footboard and offered me a hand up, and I closed the door behind me and rapped on the roof to signal the driver to set off.
We fell to it forthwith, the jolt of the carriage acting as a kick-start to our luxurious activities….
At that I heard a groan from Cedric. I paused in my reading and looked up from the pages to see him reclining on the wicker sofa, and an impressively large cockstand poking out through his robe.
“That’s rather a cheat,” he said, though I noticed his elevated breathing. “Really, Jack… 'James and Cecil'… not to mention, that’s precisely what we did Saturday last, when my great-uncle gave me those theatre tickets!”
“You didn’t specify that it had to be fictional. It’s not half-bad for only ten minutes!” I cast a significant glance downward at the gape in his dressing-gown. “Ha - I win! Those hack scribblers down on Cortland Street haven’t seen the likes of me,” I said triumphantly, forgetting for a moment that I was aiming for a respectable career in letters.
“Come here and let me settle the bill,” Cedric said, one hand resting on his cock. I cast the sheaves aside and joined him on the sofa, loosening the belt of his dressing gown.
“I’ll take it in trade, you luscious tart. Down you go!” Cedric slid down to the carpet and pushed my legs apart roughly. I struggled with my buttons and braces while he slid my trousers down and put his cool hands around my hot shaft. He licked his lips teasingly before settling to, and I ran my fingers through his curly hair and gave a gentle tug forward to hasten him.
Ever masterful, he began slow and soft, rising up to a pleasing crescendo, teasing me just to hear me beg, until at last I groaned helplessly and admitted that yes, I was at his mercy, and to hell with the two bits. A clever flick of his tongue made me spend copiously, nearly sobbing with pleasure and relief.
“What a darling you are!” I said foolishly.
“You sentimental old sap,” he replied fondly, removing the handkerchief from my waistcoat to mop me up a bit. “I’ll spring for dinner over at the tavern if you like.” He sat next to me on the sofa. Weary though I was, I grasped his stiffened prick and stroked it a few times. Cedric leaned his head into my shoulder and sighed as I jerked him.
“Let me show you the master’s strokes,” he said teasingly, pushing my hand away, and taking over for himself. We kissed softly, and Cedric pushed his tongue in the French manner, tipping the velvet, moaning around our kiss, and jerking himself until he too spent in an agony of delight and his mouth slackened around mine.
“You are quite skilled in the art,” I said, as he panted to regain his breath.
“There’s no method like practice,” he replied. “Let’s dress and have a sup - I’m famished.” He rang Porter for hot water to dress for the evening, while I tidied myself in front of the hall mirror, tucking in my shirt, shaking out my waistcoat, and placing a fresh handkerchief into my pocket. While Cedric shaved, I brushed off my sack-coat and ran a comb through my hair, thinking to myself that the rosy glow to my complexion was a comely style for an evening at the pub.