From: davistrell@aol.com (DavisTrell)
Subject: Walter: Call me Sir!
Date: 28 Jun 1996 07:02:02 -0400

Walter.Adventures in The New World.
by davisttrell@aol.com

 Sir Walter Raleigh was a fine figure of a man. He walked down 
our cobble stone street and I put down my coat down for him, so he 
wouldn't have to step in the rain puddle. He was a sea-faring man, 
most famous for bringing back the potato, tobacco and anal sex, back 
to England. And in the coffee houses and ale-shops the new "American"
vice enjoyed a distinct popularity. I shook Master Will's spear 
frequently and was entertainingly sodomized regularly by Chris 
Marlowe, the notorious rake. I tried Ben Jonson but he was vehemently
"straight" -a new word he'd coined.  He did  show me though how to 
hang a lambskin sock around my willy.
 "It's called a penis, boy, and wear my "Cumdon" whenever you 
partake of this new fangled love-making. There are pestilent, 
virulent diseases that rot men's minds and atrophy the body. The pox,
boy, beware the pox!"
 I was one of the boy-players at the Globe and now at eighteen 
was allowed to take on the heavier roles. One night, cocksucking with
Will, he told me he had written Cleopatra for me, and I was to play 
her like a whore. But he didn't tell me how many fucking speeches 
there'd be.
 But there would be fame, and I could sleep my way up the court, 
if the nobles would come round and be backstage sugar-daddies. Sugar 
being a sweet condiment imported from the West-Indies, I'm told, far 
off in the New World where the natives run naked, and men copulate 
with men, as a form of population control. But the land is so big, so
empty, and will remain like that always. An Edenic paradise with no kings
and queens or landlords or bosses.
 Sir Walter cut a dash and avoided soiling his feet by stepping 
on my coat.
 "Why thank you, sirrah. A most courteous gesture." He swished 
his cape and gave me, an urchin, a bow.
 He was not so old, but the way he looked in my eyes, he tried to
steal away my youth. It wasn't possible, but I knew how to achieve 
the next best thing. Before standing up, I flashed my bottom, to test
the waters.
 "You're one of Will's lads, aren't you? You were a very wicked 
Lady Macbeth, if I remember."
 Rumour hath it that Sir Walter was the true author of what goes 
on as "Shakespeere" plays, but hides under Will's name as the Queen 
would not be amused. I wondered if I could discover the truth? 
There'd be a pretty sovereign to be made here, no doubt.
 "Sire, thou'rt kind, too kind, it's the eloquence of the words 
that are magnificent, I merely a parrot for them, falling on the deaf 
ears of the groundlings."
 I spied the parrot Walter had brought back from the Indies and 
took everywhere on his shoulder. The black eye patch and the wooden 
stump, replacing his leg from the knee down, and holding himself up 
with a crutch, the dreadful wounds of war, his leg amputated, and his
dick circumcised by the short-sighted jewish doctor, during a naval 
encounter, near the Seychelles.
 If he had indeed written these words, I knew this flattery would
 drive us assuredly unto to his bed-chamber.
 "O, that this too, too sullied flesh would melt, thaw, resolve 
itself unto a dew..." I slumped into his arms as if stricken by 
sickness. Fainteth clean away.
 "Young sir, ar't thou okay?" He used an americanism that I'm not 
familiar with, but I think it meant he wished me well.
 "The quality of mercy is not strained, sir, it droppeth like a 
gentle heaven-sent rain."  
 He'd kindly bundled me up in his carriage and we were borne 
along the filthy London streets, filled with homeless people and 
folks who peddled that dreaded, more virulent strain of tobacco, that
sadly the Queen's counselors have deemed wise to outlaw. I like the 
stuff, it gets you high and takes the edge off reality, like having 
your cock sucked, in a carriage, borne by four husky, well-hung, 
under-employed layabouts, being sucked off by a man twice your age 
plus seven. 
 The carriers won't go to Whitechapel, it's too scary down there.
 The 'weed', as it is known, was another thing brought back from 
the Americas by Sir Walter, and the thought cheered me up, I felt 
grateful, and joined in the sex act with more vim and gusto as he 
tickled my balls.
 Beside the play-bill announcing the coming attraction at the 
Wooden O, was a picture of me, dressed up in a slinky, sexy tight, 
balls-revealing costume, as Portia, the legal slut of a lawyer in 
that  Shylock thing. They called my portrait a pin-up, and men would 
drool over my sexy thighs. I wanted to play it in a broad way. Will 
said I was going over the top. That's rich, coming from him, a 
bottom. I told him what it meant and he says he'll use the name as a 
character in the next play. The one about the gay fairies, based on 
real life adventures in Hyde Park, in the woods, of a weekday night, 
staggering home, pissed on porter, singing sea-shantys from that 
famous pub, the Boar's Head. He's gonna call it Midsummer Night Moon 
Madness or something.


Walter 3/3 davistrell@aol.com

 I'd never seen a penis shaved of it's foreskin before. Its 
cock-like head was naked and bald but wore a helmet reminiscent of 
the soldiers in good King Harry's day that fought that day  at Agincourt.
I felt privileged to see the only man who would ever have had this done,
so I gave it special attention. But he was too excited, so I tried to
prolong his pleasure, and I rubbed him with my hand instead. Up and down,
down and up. He squirmed beneath as if he didn't like it. But he did.
A peasant I know calls this "Wanking", and peasants know, and until I hear
a better, that's how I refer to the rubbing motion. 
 "Do you have a word for what I'm doing, sir, no one has learned me yet.
It excersises my hand real good."
 Sir Walter corrected my grammar and asked my name.
 "Bates, sir."
 "Well, Master Bates, you do raise a good point. It would have tobe a 
noun and a verb, combined with an 'ing,  making a gerund. Like fuck and
fucking. Like buggering and sodomizing. Th-ings I'd like to do to your
bottom. With its shape like a barrel-butt, we'll call it butt for short,
and these round melons...butt-cheeks. We'll call them..."
 "What are you going to call this hole? Yes, where you've slippedin your
fingers... "
 "Anal cavity, I think, it has a rich resonant sound, don't you 
agree? And I will slip my penis deep inside..."
 "Can't you come up with something better than penis...its such icky
word."
 "Well you said my head looked like a cock. so let's call it 
that." And he crowed like a rooster, an upstart crow.
 He pushed his -new word- cock, inside my anal cavity, as I 
savoured the words, and the sensations of lust set off in my body.
 "Once more into the breeches of a dear friend, once more," he 
howled, "Come,crack open your cheeks for my manly hurricano."
 His speech made him comical he acted like a fool, but he does 
have a way with words and I had no right to leer.
 And he filled me up, copulating like the beasts in the field do. This
stance, we called it pony style, as he fucked me, as if riding a small
horse. He turned me over on my back and entered me beneath. I liked it
best this way, as you can watch. I could see my pecker wave like an
English flag.
 "A drum, a drum, Macbeth doth come." quoting himself.
 Burbage, another Richard, another Dick, who plays the scottish king, was 
my favourite bedmate; who talks with a funny accent but he does what Sir
Walter is trying to do, but does so much  better. He holds my dagger
before him as he sucks on it, kneeling, a sort of role reversal, a parody
of the knighting ceremony, I don't quite get it. 
 Sir Walter  eventually shot off white-snot into the lambskin 
dongle I'd given him. Although I enjoy being penetrated in my behind, 
and the spasms, inside when he cums, but I don't like the liquid 
trickling inside me, like girls do. I don't want to have a baby at 
this stage of my career. I want to fuck as many men as I can, make a 
lot of money, and then I'll settle down. But not with Sir Walter, no 
thank you, he's getting too old.
 "Good night sweet prince and may flights of angels go with you." 
his way of saying goodbye, as I left the room and I fucked around with
the American for a couple of hours before going directly home.

 Sir Walter did have one pretty thing about him though, his cock 
was shaped like a swan on the Avon.

Any complaints of the innacuracies in the quotes can be ascribed to my
use of the First Quarto and NOT the Bad Folio. And the American English of
today is closer to Queen Elisabeth's day than contemporary U.K. English.
Even if there is another Elizabeth on the throne now, to makethings even
more confusing. And of course the influence of Sir Walter Raleigh.