Sir Oliver Vincent Hogarth III let out a gratified sigh as his pudgy hands twirled his non-existent goatee.
A forty something Sir Oliver Vincent Hogarth III, one hundred eighty-third in line to the throne had a yen for ‘exotic’. Whether the foods, goods or sexual interludes, everything had to be avant-garde. He often lamented, that he been duped in marriage – his ‘new’ twenty-three-year-old wife being the most pasty, boring and prudish figure in the town (the earlier one -bless her soul- was fairly adventurous, but had expired of pox four years ago). In the initial days, he had attempted conjugal adventures in bed with his new bride, that ended with her blaming him of fornicating with devil and locking her chambers with a heavy bolt ever since. Interestingly, despite her apparent horror at his cohabitation preferences, she clung to the marriage like muck to the shovel, refusing to grant him his freedom. On their first marriage anniversary, he tried being romantic, filling her chambers with the rare Asian orchids. But she broke into hives and complained to her pater of an attempt on her life.
He left her alone ever since.
Exasperated, sexually starved and wanting to make his wife envious, Sir Oliver Vincent Hogarth III on the second marriage anniversary had indulged his fantasies in a famed establishment with a well-known ‘lady of the night’ – a rendezvous his trusted butler had arranged.
For a moment, he shut his beady eyes and relived the treacle-colored vixen with red curls and a pert derriere. He felt the blood rushing to his groins at the memory of things he had made her do. “What a way to finally celebrate the second anniversary”. He shouted, making sure his frumpy wife heard of his escapades. True, he had paid through the nose for ‘services’, but then the la petites morts in succession had been worth it.
Or maybe not.
The initial rash was insidious, almost too small to notice. Naturally, he pretended to be nonchalant and blamed the pustules, which had flourished over his abundant backside, to the rigorous horse rides, poorly aired breeches or even an accidental contact with poison ivy. A month after the anniversary, the rash had congealed into a crusty sore over his pizzle, steadfastly refusing to respond to his best salves and saltwater washes. Abashed, he had finally confessed to his butler, threatening him with flogging and unemployment since it was his ‘reference’ that had landed him in this predicament in the first place.
“But sire.” His Butler was as wiseacre as ever. “Your blood sire, hums with the power of the noble and the royal blood. The afflictions of Aphrodite cannot lay a finger over your buttoc…I mean your body. I know of a healer, who deals with these hardships. With his prescription, you shall be better in no time.”
They both pretended not to hear a snigger from the bolted chambers next door.
Sir Oliver Vincent Hogarth III waited anxiously in a shadowy den, bent naked over a metal table second time since the night of his second marriage anniversary. The ‘medicine man’ examined his scytel, poked at his wares and placed a light brown leech on his ballocks, that hungrily sucked his nether regions cleansing his ‘affected blood’. Then he dispensed an evil smelling concoction. “Horse gametes mixed in finest vinegar. Apply this to the affected area twice a day while you squat in the afternoon sun for the next month.”
After paying a robust price for the demeaning experience, Sir Oliver Vincent Hogarth III left the premises, hoping that the delicate situation was behind him.
Unfortunately, massaging the vinegared equine fluids over his nether regions did not abate his sores. If anything, he now smelled like a week-old uncooked meat. “I think the lesions look paler though.” The Butler quipped with a sage face as Sir Oliver Vincent Hogarth III squatted naked in the afternoon sun cursing his fates.
Another week passed in agony. The treatment had caused his jewels to further crust and ooze. His wife took great delight in confiding to her ladies, every now and then. “He dresses in frocks.” Sir Oliver Vincent Hogarth III felt like he was mortally wounded over, under, front and aside. The exotic experience had transpired into a hellish, itchy nightmare, so much so, that putting his breeches made him cry out in pain.
About three months after his ‘second anniversary’, Sir Oliver Vincent Hogarth III had finally had enough. He visited the ‘madame’ whose prodigy had put him in this predicament. One look at his gait and she had scribed down an address for a doctor in Birmingham.
The doctor was an austere man with icy blue eyes and small hands. He took one look at the sores, raised his eyebrows and diagnosed, “Its syphilis, the cupid’s disease. You must have some exotic choices.” Looking curiously delighted, he brought out an evil looking contraption filled with yellow liquid, fitted with a huge needle. Stabbing the royal buttocks of Sir Oliver Vincent Hogarth III, he gave a long satisfactory sigh. Later, he dispensed a salve made of antimony and asked his patient to follow up every fortnight for the next eight shots to be taken on alternate buttocks.
It was six months after the ‘second anniversary’, before Sir Oliver Vincent Hogarth III was cured. His wife finally signed the annulment (the only silver lining to this cloud) and went on to tell everyone who listened that his genitals looked perpetually like a purple prunes infested with mildew. To add insult to the injury, those injections ensured; he never again sat comfortably on a poorly stuffed couch for long.
Since that incident, Sir Oliver Vincent Hogarth III swore off everything imported, including French wines, Italian leather and Belgian chocolates. When his acquaintances tried to cheer him up, saying “All’s well that ends well” he would cringe, mentally picturing his scarred ‘ends’ and shake his head in denial.
Author: To be Revealed on 06/12/21