I was a homosexual once you know, of course it was before the war.
I had always felt a wistful longing when I saw the odd pack of nancy boys sashaying down the Oxford Streets, twirling their neat moustaches and squealing delightfully. At the time I was engaged to be married with a smashing little filly from down in Sussex, whose name I don't think I ever knew, and being very much in love I drew a veil over my unholy fascination and turned my attention to the study of my beloved antimacassars.
When my fiance was killed horribly whilst fighting a pig I found myself all alone and rootless, all my relatives having died from various fantastical forms of suicide, with only my loyal Heeler, Mr. Turps, my aged batman, Robin Thruttleshank, (my father had had him), and my seventy two staff and the villagers on my estate to keep me company.
Sad to relate, Melancholy o'ertook me, and I wandered as the proverbial, my only comfort being gin and opium, (fortunately the cellars still held several tons of mithridatium - a present from a grateful nation following the first opium war.), often spending days away from the house with only seven or eight of the lowlier underfootmen's cook's scullery boys for company.
It was on one of these wild perambulations, blitherated from my cranium, that I noticed the rather shy way that one of the scullery lad's had of looking upon me, a wild and pure disgust that fired my long dormant bumming fever, and with the cunning of the truly romantic I contrived to occasion his presence in my rooms that evening. I entered my chamber, (having decoyed the rest of the staff by setting fire to the menagerie), and upon spying the boy with a come hither look, leaning seductively upon the window ledge, my fevered brain allowed the all-conquering lust to fill me and I dashed forward into his willing embrace.
I was discovered several hours later, befouled with emission, upon the graveled courtyard beneath my window, a shattered campaign chest beneath my lacerated loins and my face bearing an expression of profound satiation. Days later, having been nursed back to a semblance of health, I came to see that in my dope addled state I had mistaken the travelling furniture my staff had borne whilst following my frenzied wanderings, for a sweet, bashful, possibly five-foot seven, gem eyed young man, and consequently all my deviant lust had been for a wooden travesty, absolving me of the sin of 'batting for the other side'.
As you may know I was later to cut a scandalous gash through the ladies in later years, but there is a rather odd postscript to relate. Ten years later I began to suffer a rather odd pain in my gentleman, and fearing the worst I shot off to the cock doctor in Harley Street who, by dint of careful surgery, (I had my service pistol to his temple), manage to extract from my end-section a tooth. Moreover it was the tooth, (verified by the chaps at the British Museum), of a boy of seventeen and had been embedded there for about ten years!.
P.s. I did think about having the tooth made into a pendant, but I couldn't be bothered and threw the blasted thing away.
PP.s. I never did get to the bottom of it all.
