Chapter Text
21ST FEBRUARY
It is with great dishonour, readers, that I must confess I am addressing you all from a state of utter depravity and sloth. It is half ten in the morning, a brisk seven degrees out in the bustling suburbs of Blighty, and drizzling miserably - all the while I am nestled under a heaping mound of duvets, on my third cup of sugary Darjeeling. Some hours ago, I was luxuriating in an armful of docile, morning-fresh boyfriend. He's off at the coal-face now, having saddled me with the torment of making reservations for tonight at our favourite Italian restaurant. Verily, some brave soul must sally forth and face all that carb-loading and romantic candle-light.
I do hope that my gloating isn't too loathsome - I'd hate to think that my happiness came at the expense of some of you losing your brunch. But, truth be shouted from the rooftops, the past few months have borne a rather gratuitous spell of giddy delight, pounding hearts, and other such soppy ballyhoo that's got me lookin' so crazy right now. The reason for this excess of ecstasy? That tall, magnificent dream known to all and whatsit as Reginald Mandeep Jeeves.
How can one explain such bliss by using something as dull as language? Shall I describe the wicked charm of his half-smiles, the taste of his lustrous, rolling bass? Shall I diminish with words the way he can make me feel extraordinary and precious, through all manner of gestures, actions and loving glances? Shall I try to evoke the startling sensation of such a man, such a marvel, such a prince, having lain his hat at my brogues and announcing: 'Wooster, you're just the chap for me'?
Not to mention the absolutely mind-blowing sex. The blighter is a stallion, I tell you.
I can sense that the collective desire to pelt cold toast at me has reached critical mass - and I, for one, cannot blame you. A year ago, I was not quite so keen on the old tender pash, having not yet met my ravishing raja. I would have readily joined in the maiming of any gooey-eyed sap who went into such raptures about their boyfriend. But love enacts a curious alchemy upon one's good sense. Now, I simply wish that all of you may one day experience the same euphoric loss of tact and sanity as I have.
Valentines Day was, as you can imagine, especially ridiculous. I fed him up on a rich helping of the rogan josh we had shared on the fateful night of our first meeting, followed by Orchestra Reserve seats to see 'Carmen' at the Royal Opera. He was met at home by a bubble bath, a fruity merlot, a box of dark Belgian truffles and a bed full of Wooster with a vigorous second wind. Such trappings may seem cliche, but damn it, for the first V-Day I would know wrapped in his balmy embrace, I wanted to make an impression. Lord knows the man deserves to be spoiled.
I think it was the third or fourth recounting of the above activities that finally impelled Aunt Dahlia to say: 'Perhaps you should be putting all of this down in that blog of yours, young pustule.' I concede that perhaps I'd been wearing on her nerves a tad.
Speaking of which, I must apologise for my lapse in blogging - I think the above readily explains what has been keeping me so occupied these past few months. (Well, that and my starring role in Roly-Poly Productions' staging of 'Legally Blonde', as the first ever drag Elle Woods. Video excerpts are up on my Youtube channel for your pleasure.) It's just that my normally haphazard life has experienced a period of such clemency - the cozy sentimental fluff of a fool in love is hardly the stuff of compelling narrative. My days of late tend to follow a predictable pattern:
- Morning sex with Reg. Fantastic.
- Rise at 10 or so for eggs and b. and perusal of social media.
- Meet my fellow Drones for coffee and idle chinwagging.
- Fritter away the afternoon on some small scale project, e. g. babysit Madeline's dog Piglet, make beautiful music with Reg, assist Catsmeat with learning his lines, bake sweet puddings with Reg, be lectured by Aunt Dahlia, afternoon sex with Reg, etc etc.
- Dinner with Reg. Marvellous.
- Evening shift at the piano bar, noodling out old chestnuts like 'I've Got Rhythm' and 'Despacito' for a few hours.
- To round off the night, more sex with Reg. Bloody stupendous.
Hardly epic poetry, do you see?
That is not to say I am the sort of ignominious pillock who looks a unicorn in the snaggle-teeth. Dear me, no. I recognise my astronomical privilege in being caught in such a feedback loop of intoxicating joy. The moment I am in the presence of my beauteous Reg, I am overwhelmed with the desire to bring a half-smile to his handsome face: to rub his back, pour his tea, make him laugh, and so much else besides. His happiness feeds mine, and likewise compels him to please me in word and deed, and so it escalates. I feel wonderful, he is wonderful, and by crikey it's all just so bally wonderful! I can't help but wonder how
Ah. It appears, dear readers, that the ever mercurial Deus has finally made its presence known ex machina.
In the preceding five minutes, I have answered an unsolicited phone call - a rather shrill one, at that, from which my ear has acquired a dull throbbing ache. The upshot is this - instead of gorging myself on fettuccine alfredo and the light in Reg's resplendent eyes, tonight I am required at the table of my Aunt Agatha. Her tone of voice did not seem to impart that this is to be a relaxed affair. No doubt some thankless and wholly repulsive duty awaits. Well, at least there's likely to be an anecdote or two to come for your patient regard. So much for staying in bed. Dulce et decorum est Pro Bertie's Blog mori.
And now, to top it off, I just suffered a heinously bad leg cramp, dash it all.