'I'm afraid not,' I replied. 'But it really doesn't matter a bit.
I enjoyed the fucking immensely and I don't have to spend every time.'
This truthfulness caused him to frown. 'Yes, it jolly well does matter,' said Kenneth. 'I am sure that achieving peaks of pleasure at the same time is what we are supposed to aim for, and I must be doing something wrong if we don't manage it.' I tried hard to assure him that he was wrong but he refused to be comforted. Please, Doctor Jonathan, will you add your voice to this debate as he reads your column religiously and does take heed of your wise words. Yours in hope, Margaret Finchley Bedford Manor Dunstable December, 1894 DOCTOR JONATHAN REPLIES:
My poor girl, I do feel so sorry for you! Of course there is no point whatsoever in working towards simultaneous climaxes. If they occur, jolly good luck, but there is absolutely nothing to be gained in labouring diligently and holding back or forcing forward merely to achieve such a situation. One can become obsessed with timing and become so involved that everything else is forgotten. In any case, climaxing at different times allows one partner to concentrate on exciting the other which is far more important. Yes, it can be fun to spend together but as far as I am concerned it's a very minor matter, and I hope Mr. Watkins will soon forget all about it.
Sir,
Your readers will be aware that in almost every country in Europe today there is either war or rumour of war between employers and workmen. Not a week, scarcely a day passes but we witness determined struggles between those opposing bodies, the workers demanding better conditions, and the employers resisting these demands. Strikes and lock-outs are so Common that it would be difficult to find a manufacturing town in Great Britain of any importance where one or more such struggles are not now being waged. This situation indicates a terrible discontent, and I do not hold to the view of those grandees who care to pretend that it is all due to the work of a few mysterious agitators who refuse to let well alone. Neither does my old friend Lady Henrietta Hughes, who I visited at her lovely country house in the Kentish village of Orpington recently. Although cruelly widowed at the early age of thirty-two after Sir Roger succumbed to a fever whilst in India, she retains a delightful bloom with her gold-dusted light brown hair, expressive large eyes, rich ruby lips and pearly white teeth. 'My dear Count,' she said as we sat taking some refreshment in her garden after a leisurely ride round her estate on a delightful summer morning. 'In my opinion the lot of the working class will be eased not in one isolated phenomenon but as a necessary corollary of other changes which have been gradually and steadily modifying the social history of Europe. There will be a political change, hopefully not of a revolutionary character, based upon the social, educational and economic changes which have already taken place. The political machinery of the country will be adjusted to fit the altered social conditions of its inhabitants.' 'You mean that we will turn to Socialism,' I asked, sipping my coffee.
'Whatever that may mean,' she agreed. 'Above all, there must be a change in social attitudes between the so-called aristocracy and the working classes. It will happen, mark my words, even in a class-dominated country like England. 'Do you know that my neighbour, Captain Botley, was over here yesterday and in the course of conversation said casually that he didn't know whether working class girls had hair on their cunnies! He was so ignorant of his fellow citizens that he imagined a proportion of them to be of another race!' 'Hasn't he ever fucked a serving wench?' I enquired.
'No, I doubt it. He has been involved since he was a young man with Mrs. Archibald Leach, who once told me that he could only get it up very infrequently, poor man. Doctor Tong of Harley Street, London has prescribed him some pills but little seems to work. He asked me to suck him off to see whether that would help. I did my best-for one should always come to the aid of a neighbour-but even tonguing around his helmet could not arouse him, poor man. 'Anyhow, I do not harbour such prejudices as Captain Botley,' she added, smoothing her hands down her thighs which were encased in her tight riding breeches.
'I am sure you do,' I teased. 'How many butlers have you had in your bed, Henrietta?' 'None, I prefer page-boys,' she smiled back wickedly. 'I see I shall have to demonstrate this to you or you will not believe me, you old rogue.' In fact I would have taken her word for it but it was obvious that she was keen to show off her latest conquest (for she is inordinately fond of fucking) so I did not demur. She stood up and beckoned me to follow her to the very back of her garden, which is well-shaped by umbrageous elms of a venerable age where, facing the south, a summer-house stood under the trees by the side of the small lake. 'Lawrence, are you in the summer-house watering those plants as I asked you to?' she called. 'Yes, ma'am,' came back a youthful voice from inside the well-constructed erection. 'Please bring out three large shawls, as we would like to sit on the grass,' she instructed. Out came Lawrence, a handsome youth of sixteen or so with the shawls and two pillows. 'I thought you might like these as well, ma'am,' he said. Lady Henrietta took the pillows from him and he spread the shawls out on the ground.
She then bent down and deliberately flaunting the rondeurs of her beautifully formed backside to the lad, bent down to arrange the pillows. She fiddled around for a few moments, plumping them up until she straightened up and said quite coolly: 'Lawrence, I detect that you rather enjoy looking at my bottom. Do you like what you see?'