The exhibition lasted for about an hour and a half and consisted of several different films, some of them allegedly taken from real life among the apaches of Paris and which ran the gamut of every imaginable sexual indulgence and perversion. Another, based superficially on the question of whether or not it is a physical possibility for a man to be raped against his wishes, had as its theme the sequestering of a young man on his wedding day by a group of jolly, fun-loving friends.
Snatched from the side of his bride of a few minutes, he is carried away, stripped of his clothing, and chained against a wall in an upright position with his arms elevated and his legs separated.
Under these undignified circumstances he is turned over to the mercies of a bevy of girls who, with lewd acts, dances and other artifices, endeavor to make him have an erection. For a while this modern St. Anthony is able to subjugate any erotic reactions and successfully resists the wiles of the sirens. But alas, the flesh is weak, and despite his determination to withstand the impure temptations, Satan, in the guise of a beautiful young girl with nimble fingers, forces his cock to awaken from its lethargic slumber and raise its head in obeisance to the powers of Evil.
With this disaster, the battle is practically lost, for once a man's cock is turgidly erect not even the chaste determination of a Galahad can control its subsequent actions nor stay the course of lascivious Nature.
Raising her dress, the temptress turns around and stooping over, with her hands on her knees, backs her round, white bottom up against the rigid spike. Closer and closer she presses, until the treacherous obelisk, following the narrow road downward between the plump cheeks, reaches and penetrates the natural haven between her thighs, and naught remains to complete the victory of sin but the slow, weaving circular movement of her bottom. “By hand frigging, by sucking, and by other lascivious arts the unfortunate victim is subjected to further depletions of his sexual vitality as the sirens, one after another, drain him to exhaustion, until at last his cock is reduced to a state of unconsciousness and inertia from which no seductive feminine enticements on earth could arouse it, and when this is apparent, the luckless (?) groom is released and permitted to go on his honeymoon.
The entertainment terminated with a horrific exposition of a girl and a diminutive Shetland pony. It was incredible, unbelievable, but the evidence was there, clear, distinct and indisputable in the moving photographic reproduction upon the screen.
When the show was over we returned to the car and half an hour later were at a restaurant where a small private dining room had been reserved for us. We enjoyed a nice dinner, followed with exquisite wines, over which we lingered, joking, teasing, and otherwise enjoying ourselves. After the dinner, we would part company, Monty and I going our way and Zippy and Carlota another.
But it was very pleasant and comfortable in the little dining room. We were all in the roseate state of semi-intoxication in which everything is just right and everything that is said excruciatingly funny. So we dallied, telling naughty stories, rumpling each other's clothing, and indulging in all kinds of lascivious nonsense, while Monty and Zippy continued to drink until they had passed the half-way stage of intoxication.
“On an occasion of thish nashure,” declaimed Zippy, taking advantage of a lull in the conversation, “ish an invariable, not to shay an inviolable cushtom for each guesh to relate in hiah own crude way the chircumstances and detailsh of hish or her firsh sexual experiensh.”
“What he meansh,” interrupted Monty, condescendingly, “ish: everybody tell about their firsh fuck!”
“I believe I… hie… made myself clear without… hie… the necesshity… of an… interpreter!” protested Zippy with great dignity.
“You're half intoxshicated!”
“I resent that insinuation! I insist that I'm not half intoxshicated. On the contrary, I'm half sho… sho… sober!”
“Shut up, both of you! You're both intoxicated! If you start any arguments, Carlota and I are going to beat it!”
“What wosh thish argument about in the firsh playsh?” interrogated Monty, scratching his head in perplexity.
“Oh, Zippy had an idea for each of us to tell about our first sex experience, and you interrupted him.”
“That wosh a good idea. I mosh humbly beg hish pardon for my intrushion. It would be mosh interestin' to learn under what unforshunate chircumstances you two young ladish losh your maidenheadsh. I nominate you to tell the firsh story.”
“Oh, no!” I protested, laughing, “it happened so long ago I can hardly recall the circumstances. Let Carlota tell hers first. While she's tellings hers, I'll try to remember mine! That is, if you two men will stop drinking. There's no fun telling stories to people, who are too drunk to listen.”
“I shecond the movement,” interposed Zippy solemnly. “Everybody lishen now, while Carlota tells ush about her firsh romansh.”
“Ah,” murmured Carlota dreamily. “Until now I have kept the secret of my misfortune and the circumstances under which my ruin was accomplished locked in the innermost recesses of my heart, nor did I think ever to reveal them.
She paused and remained pensively silent for a long time.
We waited expectantly.
“I was the only child of wealthy parents who showered upon me every care and blessing which loving hearts could devise,” she began. “We lived on a beautiful estate in the country where the art and handiwork of man was supplemented by every beautiful and exotic creation of Nature. Close to our home was a charming wooded fairyland in which wild flowers abounded in bounteous profusion, and through which a little brook of clear, limpid water rippled on its way to the distant sea.
“Prom my earliest days I recall with what delight I wandered through this miniature forest, listening enraptured to the lilting songs of the birds which lived in its green boughs, gathering a scented flower here and there, watching the big black and gold bees as they skimmed the blossoms in their eternal quest…”
“Thersh too many birdsh and beesh and flowersh and not enough fucking in thish story…” growled Zippy discontentedly.
“Hush up, Zippy! Let her tell the story in her own way!”
“Up until the time I was fifteen years old,” continued Carlota, unabashed by the interruption, “I was as pure and innocent as driven snow. My parents had carefully shielded me from every contaminating influence; I knew nothing; I was ignorant of all the true facts of life…”
“Terrible mishtake parentsh make,” observed Zippy sadly.
“To that lack of knowledge, which I was old enough to rightfully possess, I ascribe the fact that my pure innocence was trampled in the mire of lust and my fresh young girlhood blighted forever,” continued Carlota, her voice husky with emotion.
Monty wiped away a tear and Zippy turned his head to cough suspiciously.
“I shall never forget the day; it is burned into my soul with letters of fire. I had just passed my fifteenth birthday; I was a woman in body, but an innocent, unsuspecting child in all else. I thought that babies were brought by fairies who left them upon the doorstep in baskets woven from flowers and vines.”
Monty was sniffling audibly. Zippy reached surreptitiously for a bottle and succeeded in pouring himself a stiff drink before I could wrest it from him.
“Got to have some kind of stimulation,” he protested aggrievedly, “thish story ish breaking my heart.”
“I had discovered a limpid pool among the rocks into which the water eddies so gently that the sandy bottom could be seen through the crystal-like depths. Several fish inhabited this little pool and it was my delight to Tie on my stomach and watch them swimming lazily about, with the sunlight, which penetrated the translucent water, causing their iridescent scales to shine with all the colors of the rainbow.