Golden Horse - Chapter 16 - 2 adapted from the scandalously provocative, politically incorrect Latin classic 'Asinus Aureus'

Accidentally turned into a horse by his lover (who’s a witch) a young lawyer's plan to defraud a billionaire goes wildly wrong. Destined to see the cruel crazy erotic world through equine eyes, finally he manages to escape to become an animal rights activist.

Retranslated and (liberally) adapted in today’s world (of London) from the original Latin of Lucius Apuleius (a Tunisian Roman citizen), which itself came from the Ancient Greek he wrote it in.

WARNING: The Greeks and Romans had no problem with 'adult themes' and outlooks on life (from 2,000 years ago!) which are sometimes very different from today's and may shock some readers to the core.

As Yogi Berra said, "When you come to a fork in the road. Take it."
"Golden Horse" is your fork.
Afraid of what lies on the very rocky road ahead? Then turn back.

Chapter 16-2

But in the end, and to my eternal shame, I did nothing. Life with the eunuch priests was bizarre in the extreme, but it wasn't very difficult or very hard. It wasn't as pampered as the stud farm, but neither did it involve impersonating Onan every second day. And it was decidedly better than the current alternative. Walking up and down a busy high street is a far safer bet than the knackers. I didn't dwell on what would happen to me at the end of Holy Week, when I would surely become surplus to requirements. I resolved to live in the present, to put my head down and my best hoof forward. I would do all that was required of me, which wasn't really very much.

The days followed pretty much the same pattern, with very little variation. The sermon, the procession and the collection. The priests were earning a very tidy amount from all the flagellation and sermonizing. Who would have thought that such a niche market could prove so lucrative? My own role was pretty monotonous, but there were one or two incidents that stand out. For example, on the Wednesday of Holy Week, we stopped for lunch at a biggish house on The Green, owned by a sluttish woman, who was somehow known to my new owners. On the face of it, they seemed the most unlikely bed-fellows, but they got on like a house on fire. The proverbial fag-hag, she played Barbara Windsor to Father Simon's Ronnie Kray.

Our hostess seemed to have an endless supply of tales of romantic intrigue, mostly staring herself and her long suffering husband.
For instance.
Only last week, it was, when hubby dear had safely left for work and I was hard at work, too, with that Pakki who works down the junk shop by the level crossing. So there we were, having another go at number 52, which isn't easy, let me tell you, especially with my joints. Anyway. We were just at the point of penetration - the position is actually meant to last a couple of days, with the emphasis very much on something called seminal retention. Well, I don't go in for all that. I much prefer an old fashioned squirt up the fanny or even the odd facial, but Krishna is all for emphasising the spiritual side. It's his major draw back, I'm afraid. But while he's meditating, I catch up on Woman and Home. I was just settling into an article about piles and the menopause, when we hear hubby's key in the lock. Quick as a flash, Krishna pulls his key out of my lock. I bolt the bedroom door and stuff lover-boy into the wardrobe. As it happens, a very nice, early Victorian piece. Polished walnut with a flush mahogany trim.

Having somehow persuaded the silly old fool that a locked door was a sign of chastity and fidelity ('You never know who might burst in unexpected. Especially around here.'), I was then lost for a moment or two as to which line to take. Should I embrace the scrawny old bird, lead him to bed and allow Krishna to make his escape unnoticed, or should I try an abrupt change of subject and beat the poor sod with some timely home truths. I decided on the latter and was soon laying into him like a regular harridan:
'And what, may one ask, are you doing back as this time of day, you lazy hound? What honest, decent man has time to visit his wife's bedroom at 10 in the morning? You've never done a proper day's work in your life. There's always a reason to skive. Last week, it was a broken leg. The week before, it was bank holiday. What is it today? The end of the world? And here I am, stuck here all day, shopping, cooking, cleaning. Morning, noon and bleeding night.'

And so on and so forth. When I paused for breath, the old devil had the nerve to say that the boss was in court (no surprise there, wink-wink, nudge-nudge, say no more) and had given them all a day off. But I was not to fret my pretty self about the loss of earnings. Not five minutes ago, he had finally managed to find a buyer for Auntie Nancy's wardrobe. Cash in hand.

This was, of course, the very wardrobe in which the seminally retentive Krishna now lay hidden. This was rapidly becoming a very sticky situation. And I don't mean my Vaseline-smeared whatsit. I had to do some very fast, very clever thinking. Well, thought I. Cometh the hour, cometh the woman. Judith, old girl, I said to myself, you like a challenge. So let's see what you're made of when the chips are well and truly down.

'Not so fast, Del Boy. You're not the only one who can strike the nail on the head. You know that Pakki who keeps the junk shop down by the level crossing? Well, he reckons that right now there's a lot of mileage in Victorian furniture. All the rage, so he says. All over the Antiques Roadshow. The public can't get enough of it. It looks as if your aunt's Dark Satanic Furniture might be about to make us few bob. And while you're skiving off once again, other men are hard at work. As we speak, Mr Patel is actually inside the wardrobe. Examining the goods. Checking for woodworm.'

As this point, Father, I had the foresight to raise my voice and alert the terrified lad to developments in the outside world, as it were, and give him time to dress. It's lucky that he had only had to pull on one of those dress things, because - quick as a flash - Derek opens the door and finds him inside. On his hands and knees, tapping away at the crumbly wood-work.

Kris then tells Derek that he's the lucky owner of a very fine piece of early Victorian furniture. He twitters on for that long and in such detail about dove-joints and dowels that even I'm convinced. In the end, he comes to the point and offers a ridiculous amount for the piece of crap, providing it's fully cleaned out and delivered to his shop by lunch time. COD.

Rubbing his mean little hands together, my mean little husband readily agrees. And while he's safely inside the cupboard, polishing and sweeping, Krishna and I can conclude our side of the deal. Even he realizes that time is of the essence and we substitute seminal retention for its opposite, much more satisfactory twin.

Father Simon and the others roared with laughter. It was just the sort of thing that he and the others loved. Despite their Oxford Divinity degrees, their books in Greek and Hebrew and despite a minute and meticulous knowledge of the most arcane lores of church ceremonial, they had an extremely childish sense of humour. Every night, after a surfeit of gay porn - (after all, one cock and arse look much the same as another and there's only so much variation on the one basic theme) - they would sprawl out on the sofa and watch Carry on Matron, Les Dawson and Dick Emery. Their hostess was so very much of this music-hall, mother-in-law jokes, smutty-innuendo ilk that she was guaranteed an appreciative audience. Personally, I couldn't see much to laugh about in this rather sad story and was almost relieved when the afternoon shift started.

© 2017 Mimi L. Thompson

The continuation will be posted tomorrow

For previous chapters (some of which are posted as nsfw because of 'adult themed' content not photographs) please visit my blog page. Your support is much appreciated and comments are most welcome

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