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    Rigby Taylor
  • Author
  • 5,713 Words
Stories posted in this category are works of fiction. Names, places, characters, events, and incidents are created by the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual persons (living or dead), organizations, companies, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.

Mortaumal - 25. Hale's Story, The Gelds, and Mort's Spiel

Mort sprawled over the carpet listening to the Vivaldi Mandolin concerto while Hale did some stretching, bending, muscle toning and balancing exercises. Mort attempted to follow suit for at least ten seconds, then watched in awe as his friend did impossible things. As the music switched seamlessly from grand to playful, light and delicate to heavy and commanding, then back again, Hale’s movements were a visual accompaniment that added to the music, which seemed to wrap his body in perfect sound.

Mort shook his head in disbelief, unashamedly wiping away tears of delight. ‘That was awesome! I’ll never be able to do anything like that.’

‘Of course not. I’ve been doing this stuff since I was five, and had the best training possible. And I’ve naturally loose joints that allow the extreme deformations required for many of those exercises. Most people can never gain sufficient flexibility. All the strength in the world won’t help you bend, twist and balance on a knife-edge. You’ll be my partner in balancing acts. You’re already capable of most of the stuff. The routine I was just practising is part of tomorrow’s audition. What do you think?’

‘I’m blown away! I’d never have believed it possible.’

After watching Hale rehearse four other equally impressive routines, scarcely working up a sweat in the process, they showered, brushed teeth then leaped into bed to cuddle and kiss and stroke and explore and produce almost simultaneous orgasms.

Lying on his lover’s outstretched arm, Mort couldn’t stop grinning. ‘I’m lucky such a handsome, strong and clever man is also so hospitable.’

Hale turned his head and gazed at his guest in silence for what seemed like ten minutes but was exactly twenty seconds—he was counting his heartbeats. ‘And I can’t believe I’m lying beside the best looking, most intelligent and sexiest sixteen year-old in the state.’

‘I don’t believe you, but thanks. Actually, it probably isn't either strange or lucky.’

‘How do you make that out?’

‘Remember I told you about Leo, the aerobics instructor I met by accident?’


‘Well, he explained that we instantly recognise people like ourselves. He said that when I laughed at his joke about strawberry jam, he knew I was alive. And I looked fit and worth saving.’


‘Yeah. And he was handsome and strong and also looked alive. As if he dared to live and do and think and laugh when everyone else was weeping and wailing. So I also just knew that Grandpa would like him too.’

‘Mmm... So that’s why I decided to turn around and pick you up when I’d already passed a dozen young men on the make that I’d rejected?’

‘Yeah. And then I instantly recognised that you were also alive, so got in the van, came home with you, and trusted you with my dangerous secret.’

Hale nodded thoughtfully. 'Mutual recognition. Like seeks like. We can recognise intuitively people who are like us in important ways.’

‘Yeah. If I think about it, the dozen or so people I’ve liked and trusted were instant attractions. I didn’t even question it. I just knew instinctively that each was someone I could trust.’

‘But there aren’t many people like that. You’re the first person I’ve felt an instant connection with for about six years.’

Mort snuggled up, took Hale’s hand, kissed all the fingers, then deliberately keeping his expression vague as if not really interested, asked, ‘Does this mean we’re... you know... partners? Will I be called your significant other?’

Hale frowned. ‘Leading with your chin aren’t you?’ The voice was cool. ‘It’s not twenty-four hours since we met, and you actually know nothing about me.’

Mort sat up in surprise. ‘Oops, sorry Hale. I thought you'd guess I didn’t mean it. I was just being silly. Sorry. I always leap in where angels only jump or something. Forget it, please!’

‘No. It’s important and I’m glad you brought it up, even in jest. You said earlier that you’re thinking of looking for your father?’

‘Yeah. Nothing urgent. Just curiosity. I’ve no intention of dumping myself on him or anything like that. Just…’

‘I understand. How old is he now?’

‘The same age as Perdita—the woman who carried me in her womb for nine months then dumped me. Thirty-one.’

‘I’m thirty-two.’


‘Perhaps I go for older men?’

‘But not to live with forever. When you’re my age and in your prime, I’ll be forty-eight and approaching the end of physical attractiveness. And when you’re forty-eight and still sexy, I’ll be sixty.’

‘I wouldn’t mind.’

‘But I would! I want a life partner who’s my own age so we can get wrinkles and sagging flesh together; be bored with parties and dancing and watch TV together.’

‘Does that mean you don’t want me to stay too long?’

‘No! It means I want you to stay and be my non-committed, not jealous, not bossy, easy-going friend who’s also my lover, until I meet a man my own age who wants to settle down with me. By then you’ll have found yourself someone and we’ll be a couple of sexy couples who are best friends... or something like that.’

Mort grinned in relief. ‘That sounds exactly what I’m after. You’re so nice to me I was worried you had hopes of us becoming... you know, a fixture. I’m too young and silly and ignorant to commit myself to anything for long. But I’m still curious about you. Is it too late to tell me about yourself?’

‘It’s not as interesting as your life. My parents were conventional middle class people who never went to the theatre, just sat and watched TV then went to bed early, even though they were only in their forties. To their credit, they’ve never stopped loving and supporting me in everything I’ve ever done. And I love them still. Mother is the template for excellence in parenting a boy. After caring for me until I was nearly five and could walk, talk and think, she said she’d done her bit, and as she had no idea what made males tick, Dad could take over. From then on he was the one I went to if I needed advice or assistance. If all women were so sensible, their sons would grow up liking women, and most of the aggro all men seem to have against them would disappear.’

‘That sounds so reasonable it must be true.’

Hale grunted an appreciative laugh. ‘By the age of five I was crazy about gymnastics, and spent all my spare time when other kids were kicking a soccer ball around, learning to do cartwheels, stand and walk on my hands, walk on stilts, climb ropes and do flips. Dad made me a bar and trapeze, and I joined a gymnastics club for a while. When I was fourteen we had our roof repaired by a fellow called Roman. He was about my height, stocky and strong, and worked in short shorts and heavy work boots. I wanked myself silly the first night thinking about him.

‘The following day when my parents were doing Saturday shopping I performed on the bar and trapeze, knowing he’d be watching. He came down, said I had a good body and offered to show me a few tricks. When he stood behind me and lifted me up to the top bar, I twisted my head and kissed him on the lips. He just laughed and gave me some useful balance tips as if nothing unusual had happened. He’d been a circus clown specialising in acrobatics and trapeze work. He reckoned clowns were often better than serious acrobats because they had to look as if they couldn’t do it, and that made it dangerous.

‘After quitting the circus he became a roofer because it kept him fit, supple and feeling alive. I liked and trusted him instinctively, similar to you with Leo. He had a large block of land surrounded by a two-metre-high iron fence with trees everywhere except for a small flat lawn and a good sized vegetable garden. He reckoned the land was more valuable empty than with the sort of house he could afford to build, so he lived in a tiny caravan, next to which was a frame and trapeze similar to what I’ve got on the lawn. I used to go there after school and train. Dad came round once and said he hoped I hadn’t pushed Roman into letting me use his gear. Roman said it was his idea, so they shook hands and Dad left. I thought he was handsome, but Mother thought he looked a bit too much like a gypsy to be trustworthy. But that didn’t stop her from encouraging me to continue going when I wondered if I was good enough.

‘When I’d learned a few things I asked Dad to come and see my progress. Roman provided a chair and Dad sat and smiled, pleased to have been invited. After my demonstration, Roman and I did a few routines together. I’d chosen two that involved some sexy body contact because I wanted Dad to know I was queer, but didn’t want to tell him because that would mean I thought it was a big deal. He had to ask me if I was, so I could just say nonchalantly, yeah, I’m queer, as if he’d asked me if I liked ice cream, and then he’d know it was no problem for me.

‘Dad clapped like a madman. Kept saying we were both very clever and told me not to tell my mother we practised naked because she would tell every woman she knew and then Roman would get into trouble, so we ought to always lock the gate to the garden. He thought it was wonderfully liberating. It was Saturday and Roman wanted to go to the movies, so I asked Dad if I could go with him and then stay the night so we could get an early start on Sunday. He didn’t reply. Roman called out that tea was ready so we went into the caravan. Dad remarked on how small and neat it was and looked pointedly at the bed across the end of the caravan. He frowned as if thinking, then his face cleared and he asked cheerfully, “How long have you two been lovers?” “Since the first day,” I replied with a shrug as if it was totally normal—which it was for loads of other boys my age who were screwing girls. One of my classmates was fucking a woman of twenty-three. Dad nodded sagely. “So that bed’s seen plenty of action?” “Plenty,” Roman replied nonchalantly. “Your son’s a sexy guy.” Dad nodded and said he’d read that many boys have their first sexual experience with an older woman, adding with a grin that it had also been his experience, so he supposed he shouldn’t expect me to be any different. Then he asked if I was happy. I said I was—very happy. He relaxed, smiled, stood, and said, “This is one more thing not to tell your mother yet.” Then he laughed and said, “That means there’ll be no grandchildren. Hale, my son, you’ve made me a very happy man.” He shook hands with both of us and whistled cheerfully all the way to the gate.

‘Roman and I were acrobatic lovers for a year until he took me to see Cirque de la Lune. I was blown away. We went to all their shows. He took me back-stage after the third show and I asked if they were taking on acrobats. They looked sceptical, but Roman told them his background and what I could do, so they gave me an audition, thought I’d be useful, and when they moved on I went with them. For the next twelve years the circus was my home. Travelling is not as romantic as it sounds. And now is not the time to tell you anything about it. My life since I returned is what you see here. I bought this house and started up Lightfoot’s Acrobatics, failed to find satisfaction in the company of rent boys, then today I found you and suddenly I want to go on living. Voila!’

Mort shook his head in disbelief. ‘I guessed you’d had a charmed life. Thanks for telling me. It makes you a... a realer person.’

‘Is there such a word as realer?’

‘There is now.’

They kissed, rolled over, and slept.


It was exactly four o’clock when a pair of giant stone pillars topped with large marble balls announced the longish drive between trees that concealed the Geld residence from prying eyes. After a hundred metres Hale took a left fork, which eventually encircled an oversized fountain from which a dozen jets of water shot up and splashed down into a massive stone bowl the size of a swimming pool. He parked the van at the foot of an impressive flight of stone steps guarded by a pair of heraldic lions and flanked by classical concrete balustrades painted to look like white marble. This grandiose stairway led up to a Roman arch of white-painted bricks, fully three metres high and wide, that gave access to a loggia running along the entire front of the building, fronted with the same balustrade as that flanking the steps.

The body of the house was simply the usual abode of the nouveau riche, a two-storied brick cube as large as a country hospital with the usual rectangular aluminium sliding windows and doors. This uninspiring edifice was topped by a conventional tiled roof.

The heavy, nail-studded, wooden front door of the mansion was flanked by delicate stained glass windows. From the loggia, one could look beyond the fountain and its encircling cobblestones to a lawn dotted with flowering shrubs. About fifty metres beyond that was an impressive forest of tall trees.

Hale pressed the button marked ‘press’. Chimes played the first verse of Jesu Joy of Man’s Desiring five times before the doors were was opened by a tall, pale youth in knee-length grey baggy shorts and matching cotton T-shirt.

Avoiding their eyes he looked beyond them to the van. ‘I’m terribly sorry, but you can’t park there, guests have to go round the back.’

‘We’re the performers—at least I am,’ Hale explained with a smile of such radiance that the lad flinched. ‘I need the van here to set up the equipment, then I’ll move it. I’ve come to see Mr. Geld.’

‘Oh. I’m sorry. I didn’t realise. He’s my father.’ He began to turn, noticed Mortaumal, stopped, opened his mouth and stared.

Mortaumal, who had taken an instant liking to the young man, smiled sweetly, fluttered his eyelashes and held out his hand. ‘Hi, I’m Calypso. What’s your name?’

Blushing furiously the young fellow took the hand and waggled it, ‘I’m Massimo.’ Then in a burst of courage blurted, ‘You’re gorgeous!’

‘And you’re a sweetie,’ Calypso murmured, stroking his cheek. ‘How old are you?’

‘Seventeen.’ The lad could scarcely breathe.

‘Mmm. Sweet seventeen. What a shame we’ve no time to chat. I suppose we’d better find your father.’

With a jolt Massimo woke from his daze enough to stutter, ‘They’re all in the drawing room, I’ll take you.’ But he didn’t move.

Hale was having difficulty suppressing his laughter. ‘Shall we go then?’

Massimo literally shook himself, dragged his eyes away from Calypso and led them through a cavernous entrance hall, past a grand staircase leading up to the first floor, then along a wide corridor. He stopped outside a panelled door.

“I’ll get Dad.’

While waiting, Hale repeated his instructions. ‘I’ll get permission to set up the gear, then leave you to spread the message and charm everyone until I rescue you in about twenty minutes. OK?’

‘I’ll never get away with it.’

‘You’ve already made one grovelling slave. The only other person you have to charm is the mistress of the house, Mrs. Geld. She’s the boss, apparently—at least the thorn in our side, so once she’s on side we’re home and hosed.’

‘What’ll I talk about?’

‘Nothing, let her talk. Agree that the woman’s place is to obey unquestioningly her husband, as long as he does what she wants, that all men are too silly to live without being shoved along by their wives, that she is intelligent, beautiful, wise and femininity incarnate... the usual things. There’s no need to be convincing. It’s impossible to overreach yourself when flattering a woman, and then...’ he shrugged and grinned. ‘I’ve run out of ideas. Ah… I think someone’s coming.’

The drawing-room door opened to reveal a large bosom decorated with green shot silk and strings of emeralds. Three gold teeth flashed for a nanosecond before disappearing behind glossy red lips.

‘Are you the entertainment?’ she boomed in the same tone she would use to ask if they were the septic tank cleaners.

They nodded.

‘I’m Caterina Geld,’ she announced proudly. ‘But everyone calls me Catty. You may too.’

‘Thank you, Catty,’ Hale gushed as if overwhelmed by such beneficence.

Catty accepted the homage with a curt nod and gazed along her nose at Mort. ‘And who is this?’

‘I’m Calypso, Mrs. Geld,’ Mort almost whispered, dropping his version of a curtsey.

Clearly charmed by such an act of respect, Catty offered a fat little hand, bared her teeth briefly and said, ‘Call me Catty, Calypso. What a delightful name.’ Turning to Hale. ‘Why is she here? I wasn’t told you would be bringing a guest, Mr. Lightfoot!’

‘Calypso is my fiancé, and please call me Hale. I apologise for not phoning to inform you. It was very remiss of me.’

The gold teeth flashed again. ‘No matter. No matter. Come in and meet everyone.’

The drawing room was large enough to lose a regiment of soldiers. A dozen or so adults standing around looked suitably lost, and relieved to be joined, even if it was only by the entertainment. An equal number of children ranging in age from early to late teens, lounged over well stuffed armchairs or lay on the floor, earphones and thin black wire protruding from heads that looked, in the dim light, like time bombs wired ready to be detonated.

The women were wearing smart little frocks that probably cost an average weekly wage, exposing more flesh than fabric. All were superbly made up, several surgically lifted up, and the glitter of jewellery competed with the light of a twenty-armed crystal chandelier. All the males were wearing dark suits, white shirts, dull ties and shiny black shoes and socks. No adult was sitting. All were clutching sparkling tumblers of liquid as if for support. The music was something vaguely recognisable that didn’t intrude or make you ask what it was.

‘Hale, thank you for coming.’ The mellifluous voice was instantly recognisable. ‘You’re looking very smart.’

In a dark suit whose elegance put those of the other men to shame, Hale took the powerful paw in his and shook it manfully. ‘As are you, Midas, thank you for inviting me.’

‘My pleasure. I want to offer all the assistance you need—we’re all curious to see if the show lives up to the brochures.’

Hale smiled. ‘May I introduce my fiancé, Calypso de la Mare.’

Midas Geld smiled, turned so his wife couldn’t see him wink, then assuming a serious face, draped an arm over Hale’s shoulders and drew him aside, waving to the other men to join him.

Imagining Midas was worried his wife would be jealous if he paid Calypso any attention, Mort gazed around and smiled nervously at his hostess and the seven silent females who were staring at him vacuously, as if not sure how to treat this uninvited intruder. ‘What a beautiful house,’ he blurted without thinking. ‘And those emeralds suit you to perfection, Catty.’

Mrs. Geld simpered. It was an unnerving sight, but Mort bravely maintained his enthusiastic smile.

The hostess turned to her other guests. ‘Girls, I want you to meet Calypso de la Mare, the fiancé of the entertainment. She…’

‘Catty!’ her husband interrupted loudly, ‘Hale’s going to set up his gear, so the men and boys are going give what assistance we can.’ He turned to Mort with the slightest of smiles. ‘I’ll leave you to the tender care of my wife, Calypso.’ Then spinning on his heel he led the way out followed by Hale, seven men and six boys.

Catty’s voice was as strained as her smile. ‘Well, that’s a relief. I’m sure Midas will ensure everything goes according to plan. It’s always tiresome to have the men hanging around, don’t you think, Calypso?’

‘Oh, definitely. They have so little understanding of a woman’s needs.’

This released a few tense muscles, allowing the seven underfed, over-painted, underdressed and expensively decorated women with thin lips and wary eyes to offer tentative smiles while waiting for Caterina Geld to show them how to treat this odd young woman. The five teenage girls who’d been left behind when the boys joined their fathers, drifted across to droop beside their mothers. All eyed Mort with wary interest.

‘Well,’ Mrs Geld said portentously, ‘Why are we standing? Sit!’

Everyone jumped to obey, arranging themselves on three plump sofas arranged in a semi-circle, leaving Mort to perch with his knees clamped tightly together on the edge of a shiny leather recliner, terrified he would slip back and expose his thong with its unfeminine bulge. A vision of Lydia floated before his eyes. What would she do?

Wide eyes registering awe, Mort leaned across and gently took Catty’s pudgy little white hand in his own strong, smooth brown one. ‘What a beautiful ring!’ He sounded genuinely impressed because he was. ‘It must be an heirloom and incredibly valuable.’

Mrs. Geld’s already voluminous bosom appeared to swell at least a decimetre. ‘Yes, dear, it belonged to my great grandmother. How clever of you to realise its value. It came from Shri Lanka—Ceylon that was. My family was in the precious stone business.’ She turned to another woman. ‘Elizabeth, show Calypso your Alexandrite brooch.’

Elizabeth obliged, and demonstrated the change of colour in different lights. ‘It is extremely rare, as none have been found for well over a century. There are lots of artificial Alexandrites that are very good, but natural one’s like mine are better.’

‘Oh, it is so lovely,’ Mort sighed. ‘And it looks so right on that lovely dress.’

Elizabeth simpered and managed a grateful smile.

‘But you also have a beautiful ring, Calypso,’ Catty gushed, taking Mort’s hand and examining the ring Elbert had given him. It was the first time Mort had worn it since Elbert’s death. He couldn’t bear to put it on when Perdita was alive, and until today there had been nothing he felt like celebrating. But since meeting Hale he’d felt reborn and somehow worthy of the ring.’

The women gathered around to look, clearly hoping he’d take it off, but that he was not going to do... it was too precious. One by one they held his hand, fondling it and the ring, asking questions. ‘It’s huge, too big for a woman really, but magnificent.’

‘Is it real gold?’

‘Twenty-four carat.’

Respectful silence.

‘What’s the red stone?’

‘A sapphire.’

‘I thought they were blue.’

‘Most are, this is very, very rare.’

Jealous silence

‘There’s something carved into it!’

‘Yes, a winged man.’

‘Is it an heirloom?’

‘Yes, it’s very old, from Ethiopia. My father left it to me.’

‘Is he a bla.... An Ethiopian?’

‘Part. He died two years ago.’

Murmurs of condolence. Then...

‘Your dress is quite daring, Calypso,’ Mrs. Geld stated with a slight sniff. Whether from a cold or disapproval wasn’t clear.

Mort blushed. ‘Oh dear, is it too much? I had it made by a little couturier in the City. Armando said it was very a la mode.’ Mort hesitated and managed to look pathetic enough to generate grudgingly positive comments and a demand that he model it for them.

Remembering to take small steps and keep his hands as small as possible, Mort made a circuit of the carpet in front of the seated ladies and girls who all wanted to feel the fabric, then touch the pearls, and declare they would never dare expose so much bare back, and it would look too much on most people, but Calypso could get away with it, whatever that meant.


The girls, who had until then sat in mute silence, perked up when the eldest, a squat red-head asked abruptly, ‘De la Mare... any relation to the poet?’

‘A distant relative, I believe.’

‘You look too young to get married. Mum says I can’t get married until I’m twenty.’

‘I’m twenty-six. I’ve always looked young for my age.’

‘Are you living with your Mother?’

Mort froze, then tossed that unwelcome memory out and invented a new one. ‘Mother took over Daddy’s business, importing fine silks and objects d’art. She’s French, and in Europe at the moment visiting relatives. I’m meant to be staying with an aunt on the Gold Coast, but as Hale and I are engaged she lets me stay with him. My mother still treats me as an infant, but I’m not, I’m rather a serious person—like you, I fancy.’

The redhead perked up at that. Her seriousness had never been admired before, so her next question was couched more politely. ‘If it isn’t too rude to ask, what do you do? I’ll be leaving school soon and I’ve no idea what to do. It’s really rather frightening.’

‘Oh, I do understand. I feel for you. Until recently I was a legal secretary in an environmental legal office up north, but resigned to come back here and get married.’ Mort smiled shyly and looked at his feet, hoping he hadn’t been waving his hands around. How long was Hale going to be? He was already desperate.

An excitable woman whose jewellery had elicited no squeals of delight, even from her daughter, leaned forward and asked, ‘Is it exciting being engaged to a... an acrobat?’

‘Not exciting,’ Mort replied, frowning prettily. ‘But I like watching him practise, and he is very thoughtful and kind. Sometimes he has to perform at night when I would like to go out, but that is easy to put up with.’ He stopped with an almost post-coital smile lingering on sensuous lips.

‘Doesn’t it embarrass you that he performs naked?’ This from a girl who looked about fourteen.

Mort managed a shocked, ‘Not at all! I am very, very proud of him, he is so clean and perfect. He’s a very moral man and his ethics are impeccable. There’s nothing sleazy in being naked, you know, quite the opposite. In Renaissance Art, sacred or pure love is portrayed by nudity, while profane love—the love of clothes and worldly possessions, is portrayed by expensively dressed women. You might be surprised to know that several deeply religious people for whom Hale has performed, told me their faith was strengthened after seeing God’s design made manifest.’


‘What does God’s design made somethingfest mean?’ the youngest girl asked with a slight lisp.

‘Well…’ Mort’s brain went into overdrive. ‘Made manifest means displayed or shown, is that clear?’


‘And God is perfect, right?’


‘So everything he makes must be perfect?’

A grudging, ‘Yes.’

‘God’s design for a man is perfect, but most men are not, for lots of reasons. However, every now and again a man is born who looks as perfect as God intended, and when these people saw Hale performing naked, they thought he must be exactly what God had designed.’

‘Gosh! I can’t wait to see him!’

Murmurs and giggles of agreement from all the girls.

‘But don’t you get jealous that other women can see the... you know... privates of your man?’ The question came from a mousy woman who had to be the mother of the squat redhead.

‘No, no, no.’ Mort’s voice was soft and gentle as if speaking to a backward child. ‘A penis is God’s lance through which he creates new life in us women. It is a wondrous thing, as wonderful as our breasts that provide food for God’s newborn creations. None of you are concealing the fact that you have breasts, some of you have very fine cleavages... so why should a man conceal his wonderful instrument of creation?’ Mort paused, wondering if he’d gone a bit far, but the wide-eyed, open-mouthed faces surrounding him were obviously desiring more of such talk. OK, he thought, you asked for it. Taking a deep breath, he looked down shyly and murmured, ‘But I’m talking too much. You are all women of the world; you already know these things.’

‘Yes, but it is refreshing to hear the point of view of someone not of our religious faith,’ Mrs. Geld boomed. ‘It is time all women talked about these things. Men too often treat us as if we’re too stupid to even think about sex. And they’re so proud of their precious penises. I look forward to seeing this paragon. But whether we should allow him to parade his genitalia in all fifteen of the concerts, to audiences that will have as many children as adults, is another matter.’

‘Yes, yes,’ muttered her acolytes.

‘But we’re children, and we’re going to see the man’s penis.’ The girl slammed her hand against her mouth, eyes wide in expectation of a command to wash her mouth out. When no reprimand arrived she relaxed and whispered, ‘penis, penis, penis,’ just loud enough for her friend to hear.

‘I am most interested in your thoughts on the matter, so please go on, Calypso!’ Catty commanded.

‘I’ve been reading about The Church of Fumutie,’ Mort continued, ‘and I am deeply impressed at the way you have brought religion into the twenty-first century, making it relevant to our times. You must be extremely proud.’

Murmurs of surprised agreement, tinged with slight disappointment that penises seemed to have slipped from the menu.

‘Sensible people understand that prohibitions create desires,’ Mort continued persuasively, ‘and when people are kept ignorant, facts are replaced by febrile imagination. If you declare that a penis may never be seen, then in people’s imaginations it becomes a dirty, dangerous, nasty object. Whereas if people saw them every day, they’d know it is a relatively small, attractive appendage, neither dirty nor evil. Like our ears, fingers, noses and toes. And being naked doesn’t turn men into wild animals as so many silly women think—quite the reverse. There are no rapes and other sex crimes in nudist colonies, because physical sexual differences are seen as natural. When every one is naked there’s no coquetry, no deception. Bodies are not a mystery to endlessly and unprofitably occupy our thoughts. Minds are freed to look for other, more enduring and valuable things.’

‘Have you been to a nudist club?’ A girl with well-developed breasts asked, blushing furiously.

‘Yes. I’ve spent many summers in the south of France on beaches where clothing is banned. It is wonderful. So liberating.’

‘And all the men and boys were naked with their... penises sticking out?’

Much giggling, but no mother said ‘shh’, being as curious as their daughters.

‘Usually they just dangle charmingly. Penises only stick out when they’re sexually aroused.’

‘Does that happen often?’

‘With teenagers, yes. At that age boys seem to be erect most of the time.’

‘Isn’t that rude?’

‘Definitely not! It shocks me to hear you say that. It’s a natural part of growing up, just as we girls have tender breasts when they start to grow. An erection is a magnificent sight! The smallish floppy tube becomes up to four times as large and long and very hard. It stands proudly upright and looks wonderfully powerful. You must consider yourself very lucky indeed if you ever have the chance to see one. I love looking at them.’ He sighed winsomely. ‘Unfortunately, men hardly ever have erections in public when they’re used to being naked. As for being rude... only a person who hates God would consider that his beautiful design was rude! Many wise people think it is an insult to God to insist that genitals must be covered.’

The redhead again. ‘But the fact remains that all men do cover their bits, so it seems odd that you don’t mind when other women see your man’s.’

‘As I said before, I’m proud of Hale in all ways, and all my girlfriends who’ve seen him perform, said they went home with a new respect for their husbands, who, although not as talented or as perfect as Hale, were, after all, made the same way, and their sex lives improved enormously when they understood this simple fact.’

‘What’s a sex life?’ The ten year-old again.

Again no remonstrance from an adult.

‘We have a working life, a life when we have entertainment, a life when we sleep, and people who find each other attractive like to enjoy kissing and caressing and…’

‘And pushing their erections into women!’ The redhead snapped unpleasantly.

‘Only if the woman asks for it because she enjoys it.’

‘Has a man shoved his penis into you?’

‘Happy, well-bred men don’t shove their erections into anyone. Shoving is rude and unpleasant. Sexual intercourse between people who like each other is an exciting and happy experience.’

‘Do women enjoy it?’

‘If they don’t, there’s something very wrong. And that’s what we mean by a sex life, which for a woman can be either wonderful or awful, depending on their attitude to men and their penises.’


Caterina Geld cleared her throat. ‘You make it sound so simple, Calypso. But it isn’t really. Perhaps it should be, but it isn’t. And we have strayed from the purpose of this afternoon, which is to see if it will be suitable for Mr. Lightfoot to perform naked before a mixed audience in our fifteen fundraising concerts. That is what we must consider. Are our congregations as open minded about this as we are?’

They were saved from answering by the arrival of Massimo. The show would be starting in five minutes.

Copyright © 2018 Rigby Taylor; All Rights Reserved.
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Stories posted in this category are works of fiction. Names, places, characters, events, and incidents are created by the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual persons (living or dead), organizations, companies, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.
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Chapter Comments

Let the proselytizing begin!  I agree that "prohibitions create desires." That was certainly true during the anti-alcohol Prohibition era in the US and has been true with marijuana since it was declared evil and placed in the same class as heroin.  Once decriminalized, we'll see its recreational use spike and then level off, albeit after several decades. I'll climb off my soapbox now...but, this was a great chapter! 

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Well I can see that sermon on human relations going down well at St Pats,  St Pauls or St Mary's (the only cathedrals I can think lf at present!)!  Would certainly change the path of organised religion. They may even get a few parishioners under the age of 60!


Very entertaining, I like the way you entice us readers into your world view! Its certainly an interesting world😊

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Very intriguing chapter. Certainly not views that one would hear at weekly Mass.  But, I find the different thoughts and opinions very clever and you present them so articulately.  


I do agree with the thought that prohibition creates desire.  I’ve always tried to remember that while raising my kids.  Anything they perceive as taboo, dirty, or forbidden only increases its interest.  Of course not everything is permissible, but within reason I’ve tried to not make too many things forbidden for them.  


Very interesting chapter my friend.  Kudo’s!

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9 hours ago, skyacer said:

Let the proselytizing begin!  I agree that "prohibitions create desires." That was certainly true during the anti-alcohol Prohibition era in the US and has been true with marijuana since it was declared evil and placed in the same class as heroin.  Once decriminalized, we'll see its recreational use spike and then level off, albeit after several decades. I'll climb off my soapbox now...but, this was a great chapter! 

Thanks, skyacer. You are not wrong. Keep on soapboxing. 

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8 hours ago, Canuk said:

Well I can see that sermon on human relations going down well at St Pats,  St Pauls or St Mary's (the only cathedrals I can think lf at present!)!  Would certainly change the path of organised religion. They may even get a few parishioners under the age of 60!


Very entertaining, I like the way you entice us readers into your world view! Its certainly an interesting world😊

Entice eh? I like it. Always wanted to be a seducer of souls. :P

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7 hours ago, Wesley8890 said:

Ugh the women in this story!

Ah, they're not so bad. At least they listened. This is fiction, remember, and I'm deliberately caricaturing just about everyone, from a 'male lib' point of view. Actually, don't tell anyone, but I met a really nice woman once - somewhere - I can't quite recall where, but ... anyway, she said I was handsome, so what's not to like?:rolleyes:

Edited by Rigby Taylor
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7 hours ago, Okiegrad said:

Very intriguing chapter. Certainly not views that one would hear at weekly Mass.  But, I find the different thoughts and opinions very clever and you present them so articulately.  


I do agree with the thought that prohibition creates desire.  I’ve always tried to remember that while raising my kids.  Anything they perceive as taboo, dirty, or forbidden only increases its interest.  Of course not everything is permissible, but within reason I’ve tried to not make too many things forbidden for them.  


Very interesting chapter my friend.  Kudo’s!

Ah, thanks Okiegrad - I've always dreamed of being articulate. Yes, instead of prohibiting, all you have to do is praise 'right' actions and ignore 'wrong'  ones. A child who is praised for not running onto the road, will never run onto the road, because he wants to be praised, not ignored. Punishment destroys pleasure in learning, and teaches nothing. 

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