Rupert Mountjoy - The Intimate Memoirs of an Edwardian Dandy, vol.III

Mary and I arrived in good time for the first house at the Alhambra. Truthfully, I always preferred the second house which was usually noisier and jollier, but this evening, even the first house was crowded, though I did manage to buy two good seats in the fourth row of the fauteuils as the front stalls were grandly known.

'I've never sat in the posh half a crown seats before,' said Mary, as she looked up admiringly at the plush velvet curtains which would soon be raised for the first of the evening performances.

We both enjoyed the deft juggling of the talented David Kent (though I inadvertently made Mary choke with giggling when I whispered, 'How on earth does he keep his balls in the air like that?') and we 'oohed' and 'aahed' in amazement at the clever conjuring of the Continental illusionist Simon Barber who produced rabbits out of a hat and white doves out of his inside jacket pockets.

Yet whilst I appreciated the surprisingly clear voice of Seamus O'Toole, a bibulous Irish tenor whose staggering gait convinced me of my initial impression that he was definitely performing in a semi-drunken state, the cloying sentimentality of his songs about lost sweethearts and poor old mothers way back home bored me. But I did perk up after the interval when a twinkling little 'naughty but nice' soubrette named Suzanne Moserre came on and sang Roly Poly For Mr.

Moley and You Can't Give Mother Any Cockles and I joined in the choruses with gusto. Fred Karno's troupe acted out a hilariously funny series of sketches and Mary and I laughed till the tears ran down our faces. After we applauded the company off the stage, I suggested to Mary that we skip the Bioscope and leave before the crush. She agreed and we walked the short distance up through Piccadilly Circus to the Jim Jam Club in Great Windmill Street. I signed Mary in as my guest at the Jim Jam, though I could not help thinking to myself that bringing a girl to the Jim Jam was like bringing coals to Newcastle, for a chap who could not find a female companion at the Club had to be soft in the head-and for good measure, soft in the cock as well! But the reason why I wanted to take Mary to the Jim Jam-though I still feel slightly ashamed about it- was that despite its louche reputation, the Club had a strict code of conduct by which its patrons had to abide. For example, all male members who wore a red pocket handkerchief in the top pocket of their jackets or female members who wore a red rose on their dress or in their hair, signified their wish to remain totally incognito and would thus not be acknowledged or approached even by their best friends. Needless to say, I was sporting a handkerchief of the brightest red! 'Shall we dine in the restaurant or shall we have supper in one of the private dining-rooms?' I asked Mary, and she immediately plumped for taking our meal in one of the salles arrivee. I ordered whitebait, mulligatawny soup, roast chicken and the chef's fruit compote and whilst we waited for our room to be prepared, we drank glasses of ice-cold white wine. Mary revelled in seeing in person such 'toffs' as Sir Roger Tagholm, Bernard Osborne-Stott, Louis Highgate and all the other men-about-town about whom she had read in the weekly illustrated magazines. Do the men only come here to play cards or billiards? They are all walking about unaccompanied,' she remarked, but even before I could answer, her face broke into a sweet, dimpled grin and she said, 'I suppose this is a place where they can meet their sweethearts and make mad passionate love in the upstairs bedrooms.' I returned her laugh and said, 'You may not be far from the truth, Mary but how did you know there are bedrooms at the Jim Jam?' 'I just guessed as much,' she retorted gaily, 'and Sir Roger Tagholm looks as if he will need one unless the lady he is talking to so intently is a known cock-teaser.' Looking across the hall I saw Sir Roger engaged in deep conversation with Lady Elizabeth Stompson who was wearing a blue dress with one of the most daring decolletage I have ever seen. Sir Roger, who was a foot taller than Lady Elizabeth, was peering down at the ripe swell of her breasts with undisguised lust as he whispered something in her ear which made her shriek with laughter. 'This is a really ritzy place, Rupert,' said Mary (I had earlier asked her only to address me as 'sir' in the house). 'But what goes on at the Victor Pudendum contest I see advertised on the noticeboard?'

After she had promised not to reveal what I was about to tell her, I explained to Mary that the Victor Pudendum is a contest of elegant fucking that is held monthly in aid of a deserving cause. In this current year, all monies raised would be donated for the Society for Providing Comforts for Poor Families in the East End of London and the total could be quite a substantial sum, the highest being in 1906 when the Club collected?12,500 to send hundreds of slum children to the seaside for a summer holiday. Quite simply, entrants (who are restricted to Club members or nominated guests at the discretion of the Victor Pudendum Committee) are required to fuck their lovers in front of a specially invited audience. An entrance fee of one hundred guineas per pair was payable together with an extra twenty five guineas if a gentleman preferred to partner a demimonde from Mrs.

Wickley's establishment in Macclesfield Street or Mr. Baum's bar just off Soho Square. The couples were awarded marks for style, grace and originality by a distinguished panel of judges and a gold cup and a purse of two hundred gold sovereigns was presented to the winner of each monthly contest. The entrance fee to watch (which included a bottle of champagne and light refreshments) was twenty pounds for a double ticket and reservations usually had to be made at least two months in advance to ensure getting a table. 'How wonderful,' breathed Mary, who had listened with ever widening eyes to my explanation. If you ever fancy entering, do let me be your partner.

I'm sure we would do very well and I could certainly make good use of the money if we won!' A uniformed flunkey sidled up and murmured to me that our room was ready so I escorted Mary up the stairs, nodding to the Prince of Mitten-Derinen who had beaten me in the second round of the Club lawn tennis tournament held at Hurlingham in July, but who was now coming downstairs with his arm linked with that of a young, buxom blonde who I recognised from the Daily Mirror as the winner of the recent national swimming contests held at the Crystal Palace. The room was tastefully furnished with a table and chairs and also in the darkened corner was a bed with beckoning fluffed up pillows and the sheet invitingly turned back. But we were now quite hungry and we ate a tasty meal washed down with the fashionable new Buck's Fizz. After the waiter had cleared the table, set down a bubbling pot of coffee under a spirit lamp and finally retired, Mary stood up and said, Thank you for my lovely supper, Rupert. I've had a splendid time. The only slight problem is that I'm feeling rather warm-would it bother you very much if I took off some of my clothes?'

'Not in the slightest, my dear,' I said, also rising to walk across to the door and lock it. 'As it so happens, I'm also feeling very hot, so if you don't mind I think I'll join you.' We swiftly stripped to our underclothes and I was clad only in my underpants when, dressed only in her knickers and a slip, Mary sat down next to me on the side of the bed. 'I do hope that Miss Carrington didn't tire you out at lunch-time,' she giggled as she slid her hand in the slit of my drawers to bring out my fast-stiffening cock. 'I've heard what goes on at that house what with the black man and his gigantic prick.

Is it really as huge as they say?' It has always been a source of wonderment to me how one's staff pick up all the gossip which circulates around one's friends and acquaintances. I rather suspect that much of the material one reads about in the columns of the popular newspapers is furnished from paid informants in some of the wealthiest and influential houses-but heaven forbid, if a change in fortune meant that I had to wait upon some of the nincompoops who treat their servants like a lower species of homo sapiens.