The Erotica of P.G. Wodehouse

I have sent this to the only two places that I thought might possibly like this even a little. It was rejected outright both times. So I hand it over to you. I apologize in advance.

The Erotica of P.G. Wodehouse

I had just arrived at Aunt Agatha’s place at Woollam Chersey for a lengthy visitation that I was not looking forward to. Particularly because it was the aim of my auntie to marry me off to some old school chum’s daughter named Petunia Woddle. I do not mind telling you that I would have rather been playing cards down at the Drones Club.

That night I lie in my room wondering what exactly I was to do about this maddening situation. All of a sudden the door opened slowly. Right away I thought it was my faithful valet, Jeeves. “Jeeves, is that you?” The figure said that they were not. “Are you a ghost then?” It’s always best to ask that right up front.

The figure then said, “It’s me, Petunia.” I turned on my bedside lamp, and I must say she looked a sight more striking in the shadows than the broad daylight. I will confess I was driven quite mad by the sight of the young woman sans stockings. It was quite clear she meant business, and was not going to wait until brandy and cigars to discuss it. I too was quite ready and un-did a few buttons of my pajamas as a sort of mating dance. Then straight away, she began to fumble her way about the foot of my bed, and then, it appears, she began to siphon at the old pump. I was quite taken aback. I wished to ask her what impulse moved her to this act, but my school days at Malvern House instilled in me a habit of not asking a guest questions while their mouth is full.

She then asked if I could make an entry. The old relative would practically split in two if she knew such a thing were going on, particularly under her own roof. However, we Woosters are made of fine stuff, and never fail to rise to an occasion. I cast my lot. Throwing in the line to a most serene pond. All participants were in rare form. It was a fine showing. Let it not be said that Bertie Wooster was a slouch when it came to the old dirty teeter-totter. My fencing is rusty, but thrust and parry never leave the old brain. She complimented me on what I can only politely describe as a favorable appraisal of the skill set that made me a finalist in the darts championship down at the Drones.

Midway through the proceedings she asked if I could, “Attempt from behind.” I was a bit confused by this request and could not help but ask, “From behind where? The davenport, perhaps?” Straight away the foolishness of my inquiry hit home and, with an indulgent sigh, my guest assumed the position. I had not attempted this form of leapfrog before. Had I known it was a mixed doubles sport, I would have capitulated, surely.

She asked if I might tug at the follicles of her well-coiffed mane and I did so until she yelped with a sort of pleasure I hadn’t encountered before. There was quite a bit of noise in my chambers. Appreciation and coercion ringing out. All sorts of whack and paddle of the old headboard dining out through the east wing. While I had been convinced Petunia was no ghost, I can only imagine my aunt thinking there were banshees about the place and sending straight away for a priest. I, in turn, thanked her for being a welcoming and solicitous host. One is afraid of overstaying their welcome, but time and again she insisted that I gad about just a bit longer.

If this were not enough, she then requested a ride. Before I knew it I had been thrown on my back and Petunia had positioned herself upon the old p once again! This was no ladylike side-saddle ride through the country, but a leg on either side and a passionate insistence on part of the rider. It’s a bit like that old story about that American chap, Revere or something. The one that galloped about yelling, “The British are coming! The British are coming!” Oh, and they were indeed. Leaving one all sorts of spent and exhausted.

Right afterward we lie there with the old heads swimming, when who should make entry but my good man Jeeves. “What ho, Jeeves!” I cried out in surprise. “My apologies, sir.” He replied. “It’s quite alright, I was just leaving.” Petunia rose and re-entered her dressing gown, a slunk off more ghostly than she had arrived. A few moments later, Jeeves reappeared.

“Should I draw a bath, sir?”

“Yes, please. Uh, Jeeves?”

“Yes, sir?”

“This remains between us, yes?”

“Of course, sir.”

“Jeeves? I must say, I was quite thrown by the lady’s insistence on riding the old p!”

“Indeed, sir.”

“What do you make of this?”

“It is not my habit to weigh in on matters of casual, if you’ll pardon the expression, husbandry.”

I recoiled. “Oh, Jeeves, not the H word, not before breakfast.”

“My apologies, sir. In any case, I think you’ll find that this what the youths call a ‘booty call.’”

“Oh, quite right, Jeeves, a booty call! And most decidedly, not a collect one.”

Originally published at http://christopher-duvall.com on July 26, 2021.