Anonymous - The Romances Of Blanche La Mare

We drank, and I took her away, or rather she took me away, in a cab to some unknown part of Fulham. I was blind, and I remembered little till the morning. Then a frowsy sort of maid of all work brought breakfast. We ate some of it, but I do not care for the feeling of eating buttered toast with cunty fingers.

That, of course, is one way of considering breakfast.

After our little mal in Jermyn Street, we dressed leisurely, each admiring the pretty body of the other. It was strange how firm Madame Karl's skin was, how round her buttocks and her breasts, considering her age and very considerable experience of a gay life. Upon my word, she had nearly as good a figure as I, and at that time I really think that a looking glass seldom reflected more perfect charms than those supplied by Blanche's naked little body. I used to flatter myself, in fact, that if I failed to do any good on the stage, the career of a model in the altogether was always open to me. In fact, once during my stay with Madame, during a period of hard-up-ness and at that time when I was particularly anxious not to touch the dear little Madame for any money, I did put my pride in my pocket and have a round o? the studios. After trying about five I found a man who wanted a model for the figure.

He was very blunt about it. I was consigned behind the screen, and came back naked to the world, to pose before a critical eye, now additionally armed with a pair of glasses. He decided I would do, and I got to work there and then as he had a picture on the stocks. I don't quite know where he intended to exhibit that picture; even the French salon I should have thought, would have shied at it. It represented a pretty girl at her toilet. She was naked, all save her stockings, and she was taking the advice of an elderly man with her, as to which set of underclothes she should select. The flesh tints of the girl were gorgeously done, and the whole thing was full of suggestiveness. The man in the bedroom was fully dressed.

“Still, this is a little apart from the story, isn't it.” interrupted Gladys. “I have been an artist's model myself, but it isn't one of the episodes in my life that I care to dwell on. Still an artist hadn't any of the negative attributes. He was not a mannikin with crinkly skin over him, but a big, bluff young man, fresh from the Slade school, who used to make me pose for an hour or so, then fuck me on the sofa for another hour or so, and finally take me out to a remarkably fine lunch. It was a sweet thing, his penis, a good eight inches long, and perfectly shaped; and the best of it was he knew how to use it so as to give pleasure to the girl as well as to himself. How he could fuck!”

“Talking of penises,” I break in, “what do you consider a really large one?'

“Ten inches, of course, is Brobdlinagian,” answers Gladys, “but I must say that I have met a good many which measured quite eight on the foot rule. Still, after all, the size of a man's weapon is only a matter of curiosity; it is a thing which pleases one to look at, but I don't think at all, the actual length or girth makes any difference to the enjoyment of the fornication. It's the way he uses it.”

I remember a negroe who once-but it's an awful story, and I'll spare you telling- still he had a thing on him which must have measured a good foot. George Reynolds, my seducer, though not a very big man, had a pretty plaything to flatter a girl with.

However, to get back once more to the tale. A few days after my disappointing interview with Lewis, Madame told me she thought it quite time an excursion was made to the agents. To gain that end she first proposed to introduce me to a journalist friend of hers who had some little influence in theatrical circles.

Madame showed me the paper with which her friend was connected, a publication bound in an offensively light green color, and labeled “The Moon” in heavy black lettering. I knew the paper, it was one of Charley Lathmere's favorites. It contained weekly stories, under the heading of “What the Man in the Moon Thinks” that suited Charley's taste exactly. They were very much up to date and frequently improper, wherefore it was with considerable surprise that I subsequently learned that they were all written by an elderly widowed lady, resident in Scotland.

We found the office of the “Moon” at last in a small street running from the Strand, and Madame sent her card in.

The office boy took her card through an inner door and we heard the sound of his voice, but none answering. Some minutes passed, but dead silence reigned in the room within. Then Madame, who was becoming impatient, signed to me to follow, and herself followed the boy through the door. We found ourselves in a large, comfortably furnished room that looked on to a small courtyard and was quite apart from the distracting noises of the outside world. In the center of the room stood a square table of considerable size, bearing a large variety of newspapers, a whiskey bottle, several syphons, and a half dozen glasses or so. In three armchairs in various corners of the room, sat three men all fast asleep. One of them was tall and fair, his face was clean shaven, and he was rather haggard, he was dressed a little elaborately, and wore a large buttonholes in the lapel of his frockcoat I should have guessed his age to be about twenty six. A second was of medium size, and might have been any age. His hair fell in thick masses about the sides of his head, his mustache were twisted upwards with an assumption of ferocity but in his sleep it was easy to see that he was really a very mild man. In the best armchair, and nearest the fire, sat a little man whom I took to at once. He was short, and of a well rounded, comfortable figure, but it was in the extreme youthfulness of his appearance, that lay his charm. His hair was long, and fell in carefully disposed ringlets over his forehead into his blue eyes. His whole chubby countenance was wrapped in a seraphic smile, and in his left hand he still grasped a tumbler. He was snoring somewhat and with each snore the smile broadened across his face; doubtless he was dreaming some happy boyish fancy, and his spirit was wandering in some pure noble land, far away from the worldly turmoil of the Strand.

“The long one is Mr. Annesley,” said Madame, and advancing towards him she prodded him sharply in the ribs with her umbrella. He uncurled like a coiled spring that is suddenly released, and stood bolt upright, his hands instinctively seeking his hair to see if it was neatly brushed.

“My dear Madame Karl,” he ejaculated, “a thousand pardons for the condition of the men in the Moon, but it is the day after publishing day, you see, and we are taking a well deserved rest. Will you come with me into the next room?”

I followed them rather reluctantly, for I was anxious to see what the little man was like when awake. We came into a comfortable little room wherein sat a young lady who was doing her hair before a glass, on the table before her lay several envelopes addressed to the editresses of ladies papers.

“This is Lilly,” said Mr. Annesley, “Lilly of the Valley,” we call her, because she toils not, etc., but it is not quite fair, because, though she does not toil, and probably, if you set her before a spinning wheel she'd think it was sort of a new bicycle, yet she spins the most excellent yarns to undesirable callers.”

“Oh, Mr. Annesley,” said the girl, “you do tell them,” and finishing the tying of her hair with a determined twist, she left the room. Almost immediately we heard the sound of a smart blow on flesh followed by a short boyish cry.

“That's nothing,” said Mr. Annesley, that's only Lilly's way of telling the boy to go and stand outside while she sits in his chair. And now, Madame Karl, I am very much at your service, what can I do for you?”