Enjoying a relaxing stroll, before the love making.

Here Percival and I are taking a relaxing stroll at the local fun faire, before the acquisition of the women required for lovemaking.

The Velveteen waistcoats, the insouciant string ties worn in the manner of an Old Southern Cavalier. As you can see, we dress in a manner that advertises our boldness and cunning in the sack, or hedge, wherever the lovemaking may occur. The Location is not important, for the Seduction WILL happen, the entire Drum of Prophylactics WILL be used. Percival and I will not accept less.

The cool air of evening rushing into our unbuttoned flies makes our dangly bits foritified by numbness that ensures maximum pleasure for the women of any classes and any nation that we might bed that evening. We will entertain women of any tinge, of far Mandalay or Hindoo lands. We are willing to avail ourselves of gimps, lepers, indeed any cur of even the most foulest caste, from the most obscure and vile atolls in waters brackish and stank.

None of this matters, for we are anointed by pomades, and chrisms, and unguents designed specifically to release maximum estrogen, thus rendering the most time-blasted hag into a warm fog of dewy suppleness and womanly succulents. And our ardor provides the sweetest sauce, one suited for any dish the night lays before us.

We will screw anything that moves.

And I will not cry, or sob. And Percival will not foul his pants. No, not this time. For tonight, we will become men. Hopefully like eight times.