A Gentleman of Stately Manner

My Mother used to make me sit at the stove front for hours. It was her way of keeping an eye on me. She was a woman of morals and discipline.

So, last night I sat round the micro-oven wondering: Just how long can a baked good go unattended before the thing smolders on into oblivion? Just then this little Auburn Bitty stumbled into the kitchen. I apologize, I cannot describe the oven in full. I can’t recall it’s name, number or even it’s color, but I remember Sarah’s name.

It was Sarah.

She was gorgeous and drunk and so very friendly. She just ambled up, and threw her arms around me.

So I did what any Man of my Stately Manner would do: I led her back to my room and forsook my silly, smoldering pizza.

I had questions for her first, though. Simple queries that any man of my caliber and regard might have.

“What are you doing here?”

“I’m just come from a thingy at… And Damien, he’s such a fuck… And Christoff, my Ex, is with this… Tramp! Whore! – What’s your name?”

“And where do you live, now, sweetheart?”

“Oh, I’m from Masa-ha. -But I live… Oh, I live… Oh, I don’t even know right now. I just don’t know anything anymore.”

“What’s your name again, sweetie?”

“Sarah.”

“Good. Now, this is this the couch, this is the bed, and that is the floor… There’s not much mush else, so what would you prefer?” I take a deliberate pause here, “ Or perhaps you might prefer all of the above?” Men of my Stately Manner do things this way. So cool, so smooth. Just like that.

She sways and slams her head into my shoulder.

My moves are working on her. Her body is now limp in my arms.

I am a love God.

She mumbles something indiscreet into my ear: “ I-weed-fhhweeple”

“Yes you do, you naughty little thing. Let me help you with that.”

This is when I lay her into bed. I can tell she’s in no mood for the flexible, freaky business. She’s no gymnast, or anything. Most unfortunate.

I start round the waist, moving my fingers beneath her shirt. All men of my particular Stately Manner move shirts off in this manner. It’s the only the gentlemanly way of doing business. Right?

I snap the fingers at the shoulder blades and the fun is in my face, but I must admit she’s not all that interested. She wants me to get down to the real doings. The serious sortings.

I know how to get tight jeans off of real hips. However, if you, my dear friend, find yourself unwise, this is how you do the thing: Hands go in at the small of the back and WHIP up through the hamstrings. If you find yourself so inclined, give those toes-ies a bit of a tingle on your way into trowing her skivvies and otherwise at the door. Remember! When she wants nothing to do with her upper section, you must attack the lower assets! This is a rule.

This is how a Gentleman of Stately Manner does things.

Anyway, our clothes are still on. Best do something about that.

Most women, especially a lady of this class, tend to prefer a man without inhibitions. We strip for her. That’s what We do.

We make it quick. We make it sultry.

The in between I leave to your own imagination. You know how it goes, and if you don’t may I suggest you make quick-step to your local gasoline retailer. There you will undoubtedly find the necessary literatures. Generally what you need comes all wrapped in dark plastic and big yellow X’s. I don’t why such fine literature comes dressed like this. Perhaps it adds mystery. Anyway, inside you will find a detailed list of instructions pertaining to what I refuse to discuss in detail. A Gentleman of Stately Manner never discusses acts of this nature in full detail. This is also a rule.

I must admit, there is nothing quite like post coital sleep. Blood runneth through the veins with wild abandon. The perspiration of a hard hour’s work lulls you into slumber, while the heavy breathing at your shoulder sets a glorious rhythm for a vibrant set of R.E.M. Dreamsies. Sometimes, if you are oh so lucky, you might even be treated what we Gentleman of Stately Manner call an Elbow Awakening.

We are just so fortunate today. My eye is bleeding and she is clawing for the couch. Perhaps she is more athletic than originally supposed.

She whips her jeans across my face. My chin bleeds.

Now why didn’t these colors show themselves last night? I would have been game for a bit on the rough slight. I smile, but can’t fully hide my disappointment. Where was all this fantastic spunk last night? My the fun we might have had.

Out the door she goes stark naked and screaming. Off, undoubtedly, to tell her friends about last nights ecstacy. Off, to another lucky gent. Off to a “nice guy”. Off again, what a gem. I could have been the best thing she ever had.

Hands behind head, legs crawling for sheets, a waft of blackened cardboard eaks into the nostrils. That must be what’s left of my poor, neglected pizza. Son-of-a-bitch, I’ve done it again. I failed to get an exact time-frame on just how long it takes a microwaveable goodie to smolder off into nothingness.

I seem to have neglected the business at hand.

A Gentleman of Stately Manner

Campion Windisch

Hollywood, United States

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