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Boy Hoey's Pilgrimage

by Steven "Prometheus" Hoey

The young lad lay languorously in the well-appointed courtyard
Reading G.Q., cutting a line, and slamming port hard.
He looked over at his friend David sitting by the pool.
Ray Bans on, Speedos off,— the image of Californian ‘cool’.

He was strung out from four years of nothingness at Harvard,
Looking forward to two more years of the same at Stanford.
He was tired of the bad coke his dealer Rip sold him by the ton;
Bored and listless — the boy was in need of some fun.

So he filled out some forms and flashed a winning smile.
‘The interviews were easy,’ he exclaimed, shovelling more b.s. on the pile!
But going down on the committee left his jowls quite sore;
And that wasn’t the end of it — he sussed putting hands and knees to the floor.

Lo! In the end the committee came through
But he was sure they would: winning this way was nothing new.
Going down sent him up to the University of Oxford
To dine and drink; bonk and bleat with lamb and lord.

Wearing an O.P. T-shirt, Sperry top-siders and black 501’s
He came up to Trinity hoping to fondle Brit. bums
Imagine his horror, his terror, his dread
Upon waking that first morning tied to his bed!

’Twas the work of the scouts — a nauseating pair;
They tied him and plied him — then stripped themselves bare;
They put on his Ray Bans and each took a turn
’Til the manner of their contagion caused his loins to burn.

There they left him: glistening head-to-toe in furniture spray.
But all was not lost, for Danny Henrey came to save the day.
And after he was finished he untied the boy
All sweaty and joyous at finding a new American toy.

Seems poor Danny had been without one for weeks,
Ever since the mighty M.J. last went down on Lord Henrey’s sweet cheeks.
The new boy was grateful; he and Danny hit it off.
The lad’s only problem now was to avoid being buggered by his Prof.

He spent his days quaffing and stroking fuzzy yellow balls
His nights were paeans of praise to the Gods Morrells, Oddbins and Halls.
Alas, his work suffered — what little he did;
What’s worse, his excesses took his last quid!

But he feared not as he was a clever dick.
He groped ’round London’s deb circuit for a rich chick.
He charmed one and wooed her with Byronic grace;
Then he was upon her, removing her panties of lace.

After it was over she lay there all aglow,
While the boy begged for money whilst nibbling her toe.
She giggled and wriggled as he stroked her fair back,
The lass soon consented and others followed at 300 quid a crack!

He met a man from Durham whose schlong was quite long,
Who stood out amongst many — 3 inches beyond the throng;
My man-lad George showed prodigious flexibility,
Though if he had a fault, ’twas his lack of shaft rigidity.

Back in form, looking cool and well into the black,
The lad celebrated with twenty choirboys in the sack.
They were all good fun, but he soon tired of gowns,
So he hopped into his Ferrari and headed out of town.

He partied in Windsor with the notorious Lord Barrington,
Who referred him to the services of one Rob Harington.
It was said that Rob was cursed with a passion insatiable —
To him, all manner of food was in any combination palatable.

Although this was the case, Rob remained svelte and slim,
A century on the pitch and a wench in the ditch kept him trim!
Having exhausted himself on court and river in Oxford,
This gregarious lad needed a break (and two weeks in a pox ward).

Losing a pair of 501s in each city and village in Europe,
Steve made many friends doing kinky things in Sweden with syrup.
A brief sojourn in the States was a must to be had;
A few weeks to build a tan and buy Rip`s coke, which was still pretty bad.

Soon he longed for the verdant lawns of Trinity;
A new lot of freshers coming up — all squeaking clean in their virginity.
Upon his return he was assaulted by the Senior Tutor.
Stony-faced and ramrod straight, he had thought her neuter.

A stickler for detail and lover of discipline,
She soon gave him a taste of her regimen.
Then came mink-lined manacles to put him in his place.
Next came the gag and blindfold, preceding whip and mace.

O how he did writhe! O how he did squirm!
O how Senior Tutor squealed as she lashed his buttocks firm!
Many hours later, the lesson well learned,
She gave him an alpha minus for red marks well-earned.

His academic performance improved soon after that,
With the Senior Tutor marking his scripts he aced every paper he sat.
He was lucky to land one hell of a job too!
He was soon to consult management of whom and how to screw.

Informed of the lad’s good fortune by Frank ‘Who’s Your Buddy?’ Luntz,
Young Todd raced to the lodge to book some more punts.
‘It’s a party,’ Todd said, ‘Given for you, thrown by me!
I’ve gone all out and bought Champagne, truffles and Zabaglione.’

The lad was surprised knowing Richard’s reputation for being tight
(Luntz had told the lad all about it when Todd had stayed the night).
Frank said Todd was lubing me up for O.U. donations next year,
‘He’ll be rich,’ said Todd, ‘I’ll suck him dry, make my name, become a Life Peer!’

On the punt was a bloke known for going down down under;
Grant grabbed a bottle, downed ’tin one with nary a chunder.
Masato chomped sushi, sashimi, french-fried octopi;
While Juliet and Fiona nibbled salmon and cucumber on rye.

Suddenly the air was split by a fanfare of post horn and sackbut,
A train of punts of ebony slaves wearing jewels from the tomb of Tut.;
Three punts held Loch Lomond sheep crowded bow to stern,
Each bedecked in silks, bathed in oils and adorned with fern.

Another blast of the horns signalled the arrival of the Emperor’s punt.
The choir from King’s joined the Mormon Tabernacle in a heraldic vocal stunt.
His royal highness Oakley sat upon an emerald-encrusted dais.
His features were noble, though veiled by incense-laden haze.

Chris was surrounded by a host of beautiful boy-cherubs,
Each munching a pecan pie, downing it with spare ribs.
He was chanting a Vl’Hurg battle cry, stroking the head of a famous Welsh treble.
Coughlan leaned to me to say, ‘They say he’s a genius, albeit an anarchic rebel.’

Chris placed an Ankh to his forehead, incanting in monotone;
He sported an ancient Trinity jumper ’neath robes of herring bone:
Danny overcome with awe, leapt into the Cherwell towards the punts;
Juliet covered her ears ’gainst the assaulting sounds of baas, bleats and grunts.

The young American was shocked, amused, disgusted and turned on.
And in a fit of Byronic passion looked for man, woman or beast to hit ’pon.
Alas and alack, all the Byronists had boarded the punts and mounted,
The moans, the cries, the howls, the sighs were more than could be counted.

Soon it came time for the boy to go down,
Oxford was great, but he couldn’t stick around.
’Twas back in the States and Rip’s cut drugs,
To breathe New York smog and get worked over by thugs.

So on summer nights while sitting next to his penthouse pool,
His Ray Bans on, Speedos off — smoking a cig and looking cool,
The lad will remember fondly those Oxford days, his days of glory,
And that, my dear Byronists, is the end of my story.