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     For the rest of my days off I did the “tourist thing.”  Taking in the Tower of London, I was honestly so blown away by the armory – with all its suits of armor and racks upon racks of various weapons – I never got to see the crown jewels. 
 

     Tower of London.

      King Henry VIII’s armor. Note testicle “protector.” Or was the King just boasting?

      The Imperial State Crown. Which I missed.

     At the National Gallery - with over 2,300 paintings dating from the mid-13th century to 1900s – once again I was thunderstruck by the richness and pageantry of England’s history. 

     The National Gallery.

     In between these events I had the privilege of taking in several plays and musicals in the West End - discovering that theater tickets were roughly fifty-percent cheaper than Broadway in New York; a most pleasant surprise indeed.

      The Noel Coward Theatre.

     And then there were the pub-crawls – literally stumbling across a gem of a pub, called “The Salisbury,” at 90 St. Martin’s Lane, near the Leicester Square underground.  It was a superb establishment for a pre-theatre drink, when catching a stage play around the corner at the Noël Coward Theater.  The atmosphere it possessed was that of a true, etched-glass, carved-mahogany, polished brass, sagging beamed Victorian pub.  I’d usually slip in through its side entrance, off Cecil Court, where I’d find this cozy, separate barroom with window seats and a small fireplace.  Settling in with a coffee and double brandy when it rained – daydreaming at the hypnotic fire – I’d sense the North Sea chill pleasantly vacating me bones.

     The Salisbury Pub.

     On my last night in London, I was in the mood for a little female companionship.  So I struck out for Soho and a gentleman’s club, called “Chaplin’s,” I’d heard of - dressing for the occasion in a tweed sports coat, dark slacks and turtleneck pullover. 

     Chaplin’s Gentlemen’s Club.

     When I arrived - positioning myself at the bar with a bourbon - I was glad I had dressed correctly.  Turning my back to the bar – leaning against it on both elbows – I scanned my surroundings.  There was literally a bevy of smartly-dressed, attractive young ladies of all types, shapes and races wandering freely in the posh, dramatically-lit supper club. 

     At that moment the twelve-piece orchestra struck up “Fly Me to the Moon” – making me think I was on a movie set from the fifties – as couples took to the dance floor.  They didn’t stand in one place – shuffling their feet and shaking their butts like at a disco – instead they properly ballroom danced. 

     Gees, dear reader, was I ever relieved Mom made me take all those ballroom dance lessons when I was a kid.  At last the social function had arrived – just as she prophesied – when I’d need them.

     As I studied these extremely attractive ladies - trying to determine if they were actually on the “game,” and how I should approach them without getting pinched by a constable – a strikingly, petite Black lady sidled up to me.  Her delicate features were finely chiseled, framed by straightly-styled ebony hair, and she wore a figure-hugging, red pantsuit – revealing perky breasts sans a bra.  I ascertained her compact dancer’s body to be both exotic and erotic.

     She easily chatted me up in a proper British accent – indicating a good education – and as I bought her a champagne cocktail, I learned she was originally from Jamaica, but had been raised and educated in London.  Her name was Isabel – therefore her mates nicknamed her “Issy.”

     The orchestra struck up “I’ve Got You Under My Skin” – at her suggestion we went for a “spin” on the dance floor.  You can tell a lot concerning a person sexually – as to whether or not they’ll be a good lay – by merely ballroom dancing with them.  As in good sex – it takes rhythm, timing, and sensing what the other person needs.  At once I suspected Issy had professional training as a dancer.  Which I later discovered was true – she had danced in various revues – only when dance-gigs dried up did she occasionally go on the “game.”

     Issy was also sizing me up – evidently my youthful ballroom training paid off – for we seemed to click.

     After a few drinks and spins round the dance floor, I asked Issy if she were hungry.  “I’m famished,” she replied.     

     Judging by her lack of fat, and bird-like ribs I felt under her silk dress, dear reader, made we wonder when this kid had last experienced a square meal. 

     We got a table, ordered starters and salads, followed by a beef Wellington for two – washing it down with a decent bottle of red wine.  In between courses, we continued to dance.

     I can’t begin to describe how civilized it was, dear reader.  I had been long overdue for this.  So far this was turning out to be the perfect birthday treat.

     It was 1:30 A.M. when we left the club, caught a cab, and wound up on a quiet, tree-lined street not too far from Knightsbridge and my hotel. 

     Issy led me to a quaint “B&B,” and we got a second-floor corner room, containing a king-sized bed.

     As we got undressed, I circled the room, turning off the lights, and opened up the hefty drapes on two corner bay windows. 

     As I did this, Issy said, “Don’t turn off too many lights.”

     I paused, and asked, “Why not?”

     She answered, “I’ll disappear.”

     We both laughed.

     Even so, as I finished and turned around, I saw this amazing pattern of speckled light - spilling over Issy’s naked, polished mahogany body - from the streetlights outside filtering through leaves on the trees.

     I kid you not, dear reader, the beauty of which gave me a royal hard-on, as I stood there agape.  This birthday treat was getting better and better.

     After kissing and caressing that beautifully sculpted dancer’s body – taking my sweet time – I went down on her.  Sliding back her clitoral hood – exposing a perfect, pink pearl of a clitoris – I massaged it with the tip of my tongue and sucked on it with relish.  Gradually, as she moaned, her abdomen went rigid – causing the six-pack of her abdominal muscles to appear - accentuated by the speckled light reflecting off her polished mahogany body.  The sight of which got me exceedingly hard.  Finally, Issy came – writhing with each wave of pleasure – again and again.

     I held and caressed her for a while – allowing Issy to enjoy her afterglow. 

     While Mr. Meat Puppet remained rigid as a board, dear reader, jealously demanding: “My turn! My turn, dammit!”  

     Apparently Issy’s feminine radar picked up on Mr. Meat Puppet’s frantic cries.  For the next thing I knew, she rolled me onto my back, climbed aboard, buried Mr. Meat Puppet deep within her, and rode me cowgirl-style!

     Yeee Haaaw!

     Issy was definitely underweight.  In that dim light, she resembled a 14-year-old as she rode me hard, with perky breasts and tight abdominal muscles rhythmically reflecting points of light.

     I had to tell myself, dear reader, over and over that I wasn’t a pedophile – this was a 24-year-old woman!

     I struggled not to come – mentally reviewing the procedure for landing a 707 in a crosswind – desperately wanting this erotic experience to last.  I held out too long.  Issy abruptly shuddered...froze...then shuddered again.  She had another orgasm - and eventually collapsed on my hairy chest. 

     After letting her catch her breath, I rolled her off me and entered her from behind; doggy-fashion.  Plunging into that perfect, polished derriere – with the muscles along her fabulous spine flexing and arching – was about all Mr. Meat Puppet could take.  Again I thought of the 707 – fighting for this sexual pleasure to endure.  However, when Issy reached back and dragged her immaculately-manicured fingernails over my tight, hairy balls – Mr. Meat Puppet’s head exploded inside her!

     In no big hurry, thoroughly enjoying each other’s company, we talked at length between each carnal bout – performing the sexual act twice more before the night was out.  Bottom line...it got better and better.

     During one of these conversational interludes, Issy asked what I did for a living.  When she found out I flew for SAUDIA, Issy confided an intriguing story.  Two years earlier she had been dancing in Paul Raymond’s Revue.

      The “King of Soho,” Paul Raymond and his revue.

     When she was spotted, and courted, by a dashing young Saudi.  His family owned the JVC franchise for the entire Kingdom, due to a connection with a Saudi Prince.  Since the Kingdom had some 3,000 princes at this period in line for the throne, everybody in the Kingdom seemed to know a prince.

     So tell me, dear reader, what does a third world country do with 3,000 princes?  I feel this is a bit ludicrous.

    To make a very long story short; Issy married this dude, was exported to Riyadh, where the family patriarch locked her up in the back end of the mansion, with the other women, and took away her passport.  Because of her skin color she was relegated to being another maid – cleaning toilets.  After three months of this enforced servitude - Issy managed to escape to the British Embassy – thence back to London. 

      Issy (left) hidden in Riyadh.

     Thinking she was shining me on, I asked pertinent questions concerning the old Riyadh Airport, the city and Saudi family life.  Issy passed my interrogation with flying colors – she had most certainly been there. 

     Eventually we decided to call it a night, and had a shower together.  I took great delight in soaping down every square inch of her beautiful ebony body.  And - before I could say: “Jack be nimble, Jack be quick” - TWANG!  Mr. Meat Puppet was rigid as a board again! 

     I rinsed Issy off – now it was my turn – she soaped me down really good.  When she got to Mr. Meat Puppet, without a moment’s hesitation, she began massaging his head, while dragging those perfect, stiletto-nails over my compact nut-sack once more.  Causing my eyeballs to roll back in their sockets...and KAPOW!  Mr. Meat Puppet shot another spindly load!

     I truly wish there was a way, dear reader, in which I could donate Mr. Meat Puppet to science.  I swear – it’s not normal - his having a mind all his own.  I just can’t seem to control the little fucker!

     Issy slipped on this tiny top and shorts – wearing them under a topcoat – placing her pantsuit and heels in her large handbag.
     We dressed, I settled the hotel’s bill and, as the staff were fast asleep in their beds, Issy took me back to the kitchen where she fixed us eggs, coffee, beans, fried tomatoes and sausages. 

     Previously we had agreed on 150 pounds sterling for this night’s sexual activities.  Contrary to this arrangement - out of gratitude for her performance above and beyond the call of duty - I slipped Issy 200 pounds instead.

     It was after 6:A.M. when her taxi arrived.  Issy asked if she could give me a lift; I declined.  Being so wound up and well fed, I felt like walking back to my hotel in Knightsbridge. 

     I gave Issy a kiss and a hug, wishing her all the best, and never saw her again as she disappeared in that black London cab; dissolving with the dawn.

     On the journey back to my hotel, it commenced to drizzle – actually it was more similar to a heavy mist without any wind. Stumbling across Hyde Park, I took a shortcut through the southeast corner of the park.  As I wandered amongst the trees, totally vacant of any life forms, I heard the approaching strains of a military brass band.  I glanced at my watch; it was approaching 6:30 A.M. 

     This was preposterous, dear reader!  Why would any band be up at this hour?

     Hypnotically, I moved towards the approaching music.  Breaking out of the trees, I stepped onto a dirt track running along the south edge of the park. 

     At which point, dear reader, in the local vernacular, I became “gob-smacked!”

     From out of that misting-drizzle rode Her Majesty’s Household Cavalry Mounted Band. 

     They were led by the Drum Horse – a magnificent, black and white Clydesdale cross at 16.3 hands – bearing a huge set of silver kettle drums. 

     The rest of the horses that followed were big Irish-Draughts at 16 hands – all midnight black save for a row of greys carrying the trumpeters.

    The regiment wasn’t in their fancy parade dress – rather they wore olive-drab uniforms – obviously what they normally rehearsed in. 

     All the same, as they rode smartly past me, the sight of them, coupled with the stirring march they played, made my Scots-Irish-Welsh blood want to shoulder a Lee-Enfield rifle and fall in behind – marching off to war! 

     And as they vanished into the mist, dear reader, leaving me all alone on that dirt track, I honestly sensed my ancient ancestors welcoming me “home.”

     Over the next decade, I was fated to experience many lay overs in various European countries.  To this day, England has always remained my favorite.

     On 21^st July, 1982, the following year, I landed at Istanbul and, as we had an hour on the ground before returning to Riyadh, I plopped myself down in a first class seat and opened up the The New York Times.  Thinking I’d check up on the war between Iraq and Iran – verifying it hadn’t spilt across the Saudi border yet.

     Immediately I was distracted by a front page photo, which smacked me between the eyes like a pistol shot!  Seven regal Irish-Draught horses lay dead on South Carriage Drive in Hyde Park!

     Yesterday, at 10:40 A.M., a nail bomb exploded in the trunk of a parked blue Morris Marina.  The bomb comprised 25 pounds of gelignite and 30 pounds of nails.  It exploded as soldiers of the Household Cavalry, Queen Elizabeth II's official bodyguard regiment, were passing.  They were taking part in their daily Changing of the Guard procession from their barracks in Knightsbridge to Horse Guards Parade. 

     Badge of Her Majesty’s Household Cavalry.

     The mounted Blues and Royals.  

     Changing of the Guard. 

     The Blues and Royals’ horse, the magnificent Irish-Draught at 16 hands.

     Four mounted Blues and Royals soldiers were killed along with seven horses.  The bomb had been planted and remotely detonated by the Provisional Irish Republican Army (IRA).

     Later that day, at 12:55 P.M., another bomb exploded underneath a bandstand in Regent's Park.  Thirty military bandsmen, of the Royal Green Jackets, were performing a free concert before 120 spectators.  Seven bandsmen were killed outright - the rest were wounded along with eight civilians.  The IRA bomb had been hidden under the bandstand and was triggered by a timer. 

     Map showing Regent’s Park and Hyde Park.

     Location of the bombing in Hyde Park.

   Location of the bandstand bombing in Regent’s Park. 

     The bandstand right after the bombing.

    Tears of rage welled up in my eyes, as I remembered the horses’ wet coats glistening in the mist with perfection as they passed by me last year - I had never before witnessed such noble beauty.  At last the IRA had shown their true face to the world – revealing themselves to be a calloused, brutal, cowardly group of thick-as-brick thugs - absolutely impervious to tradition, history or beauty.

      IRA assassination in Belfast. Priest giving Last Rites.

     Is it any wonder, dear reader, why these mongrels keep assassinating each other in Ireland?

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