aka THE YEARNING YEARS
It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of a standard size covered wagon, an axe and a burning ambition to travel West of the Missouri to hew out a life of unremitting hardship in the unremittingly harsh terrain of the unremitting unorganised territories, must be in want of a wife.
I – Ares Heyes – a single man in possession of the above-listed gifts, do not have a wife. I consider how ripe for matrimony I am. My devastatingly handsome brow furrows beneath my gloriously silken hair, as I dwell on my ripeness. My meltingly gorgeous brown eyes grow even more meltingly dark, as I dwell on my ripeness. My superbly muscled breast heaves with a manly sigh at my single state, as I dwell on my utterly bursting, nay overflowing, ripeness.
The vigorous, virile beast, rearing with sudden powerful potency between my steel strong thighs, forces me to stop dwelling. “Steady, boy,” I caution. “…Steady Eros!” My beautifully tapered fingers pat the neck of the magnificent plunging stallion beneath me. “Ah, Eros,” I tell him. “You and I are both raging powerhouses of primordial passion, foaming founts of masculine yearning. Let us assuage our bottomless ardour with a reckless gallop across the grounds of my family’s recently replicated ancestral home, here in the pastures, meadows and clouded hills of Massachusetts’ green and pleasant land!”
I gallop across the beautiful heather strewn moors, across the verdant rolling downs, across highlands, through lowlands, past thatched cottages, past hay-wains, past dark satanic mills, along the glorious white cliffs. Eros, my trusty steed, gallops with me. I turn around and gallop back the way I came. Still my mind is a tormented, teeming torrent of tortuous troubles. I do not even notice that along our gallop can be seen fine specimens of Acacia, Acer, Alder, Apple, Ash, Aspen…
SOME MINUTES AND SOME MILES – EXCEPT THAT HE RODE THERE AND BACK, SO THE NET MILES TRAVELLED IS ZERO – LATER
…Walnut, Willow, Witch-hazel and Yew. Finally, I rein in my horse and tether him next to a deep pool. Still foaming with barely understood masculine yearning, I strip off my beautifully tailored jacket and plunge head-first into the cool waters to quench the raging passions gripping my manly frame. I swim the breadth of the ten-foot pool and stride out upon the far bank. My wet linen shirt clings to every contour of my finely sculpted upper torso. My equally wet, snugly fitting, riding breeches cling to every contour of my equally finely sculpted lower torso. Diamond drops cling to my glistening hair and trace gleaming paths over my tanned skin, down the column of my strong neck to the delightful nooks of flesh in my throat and over the swell of my manly chest. My meltingly dark eyes widen in surprise, as I see I am not alone. A young woman of bewitching beauty is watching me stride out of the pool. Her meltingly dark eyes also widen in surprise.
She modestly lowers her eyes from my face to hip level. “Phwoar!” she exclaims.
This maidenly behaviour causes wild emotions to surge in my heaving breast. I ejaculate:
“In vain have I struggled – it will not do! You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you! Will you travel with me to the unorganised territory west of the Missouri and be the angel of my hearth in the unorganised log cabin I intend to build there, with the unorganised, honest toil of my finely tapered hands?”
“Sensible as I am of the ridiculous nature of your proposal,” she replies, “…and the folly inherent in setting out for a location not yet open to settlement, far from any recourse to the benefits of civilisation, when we have neither the agricultural, nor domestic skills required for a life of self-sufficiency; the present sopping wet condition of your completely transparent linen shirt and the incredibly revealing, close-clinging state of your breeches – make me welcome your invitation with gratitude and esteem.”
In a modest and maidenly fashion, she flings herself into my manly arms.
I ejaculate (again):
“Dearest madam, will you do me the ineffable honour of letting me know your name?”
“Mary-Psued,” she replies, showing her worthiness as a fitting help-meet, by kindly helping me out of my wet clothes, “…of course, the ‘D’ is silent in speech.”