"The Boy" is a short fiction piece I wrote, literally, in my sleep. I was dreaming this right before I woke up this morning, in almost these exact words, as nearly as I can remember. Parts of it recall George Gordon, Lord Byron, but it isn't strictly historical fiction. It's only a dream.
What am I? A poet, some would tell you. A monster, others would say. They call me “monster” because they have never known one like me. What they call badness I merely call enjoying the full range of pleasures bestowed on me by my Creatrix.
I traveled with a man-servant I was in the habit of calling The Boy, because he had been in my service since, when he was eleven, his aristocrat mother turned him out of the house, deciding he should make his own way in the world. That was nearly a decade ago, and he was certainly a man now, with a beard and a physique any Classical sculptor would have killed to reproduce in stone. Not that I thought of The Boy like that…until the occurrence at Lillian’s.
Lillian is my grandmother’s first-born grandchild, my cousin, and blessed with all of the privileges of a first-born. She possesses a superior intellect and beauty beyond what any painter has ever captured in oils. She was my friend and confessor, naturally my lover, and occasionally my drinking partner.
We had just finished one such drinking binge and were lounging carelessly in the large, luxurious tub of one of her bathing rooms. She was sitting on my lap, and though penetration was quite out of the question given our drunken state, I was nonetheless admiring the shapely form of her buttocks and enjoying the feel of her skin caressing mine. That was when The Boy walked in, despite my explicit instructions to the contrary.
I hurried from the tub, quickly wrapping Lillian in one of her fine towels, though I took no measures to cover my own nakedness. I upbraided The Boy, then turned to Lillian and apologized to Lillian for her embarrassment.
“No matter,” my lovely, nonchalant cousin replied. “I was about to go to bed anyway.”
“Sweet dreams,” I said, kissing her. “Dream about your future husband, who I am certain will be a great scientist with whom you will make many bold discoveries.”
“Only if you promise to dream about your future wife, who I’m certain will be a charming aristocrat without a thought in her head, whose immense wealth you will recklessly squander.” We laughed, and she went off to bed.
When she’d left the chamber, The Boy turned to me with fire in his eyes. “You know she is your cousin.”
“And what difference does that make to me? I’ve done the same with three of my four sisters.”
“I want you to do with me what you do with her,” came The Boy’s bold reply.
“No,” I answered flatly. “What you are talking about is called sodomy, and they put men in prison for it.”
“Then let them put us in prison, where we’ll be alone together to do it again and again.” With startling speed he closed the space between us and pulled me into him for a powerful kiss. The Boy’s inclinations came as some surprise to me, as he had never before shown interest in any of my romantic entanglements, either with women or with any of the other men. Still, the drunkenness seemed immediately to clear from my mind, and my erection sprang to life, vying for space against The Boy’s solid cock.
Perhaps this is why they call me mad and dangerous, and why I am unwelcome in most any society I visit, but I threw all caution to the wind. I sent The Boy to my chamber to fetch the special ointment I keep for such occasions, then bent him over the edge of the bathtub and applied the ointment liberally to his entrance. If The Boy felt any pain from the taking, he made no sign of it, though his cries of enjoyment were loud and frequent. Though I had never thought of The Boy like that before the occurrence at Lillian’s, he was to be the love of my life.