Horizontal Lives

True Tales of the Infamous Courtesan: Persephone N. Hades and her Horizontal Life underground. How she got there, her mis-adventures and her struggle to re-surface.

Saturday, December 11, 2004

The Barrister and The Courtesan

Once upon a time, there was a Barrister who practiced Law in the Town of London in the Country of England.

The Barrister was summoned for work to the Country of America to the Town of New York. While there, he became lonely and dialed a service that rustled up a Courtesan who lived in New York and practiced the Art of Love and Sensuality.

Because the Barrister was from a Land that was a bit more educated, he was able to see the Courtesan as a Goddess rather than a Whore. And he treated her as such.

This would come to his favor in a time of need.

The Barrister, according to the traditions of his State, wore a silly white powdered wig, which no one seemed to find silly except the Courtesan. Respectful of his position, she mentioned it only in more intimate moments when the Barrister was clad only in his boxers and unable to protest.

Once a month, for a few days at a time, the Barrister would fly across The Pond to the Town of New York and spend his free time with the Courtesan. The Barrister was a big-hearted gentleman who, each time he arrived came bearing gifts for the Courtesan. Moved by his generosity, the Courtesan would show her appreciation by learning all about the Barrister and his needs and then fulfilling them.

The Courtesan had many talents but few of them marketable in the ‘real world’. However, one of her skills was the ability to listen, not just with her ears, but with every fiber of her being. It was that skill that led her to discover the shameful secret the Barrister hid from all the world. She did not think the secret shameful and that put the Barrister at ease.

Every night they were together, secluded in a penthouse suite at an exclusive hotel, they played the game that gave breath to the Barrister’s secret. The tiny Barrister lay naked and tethered to the headboard of the bed while the Courtesan sported a leather strap-on dildo and slowly penetrated the Barrister’s most private entrance. The Barrister would lose himself in his ecstasy of not only the physical pleasure, but also the psychological release of the secret that had burdened him. His legs would reach to the ceiling. His head, roll side to side as his lips chanted the words:

"Oh god. Geisha! Yes. Oh Geisha! I worship you! I adore you! Oh god. Heaven. Heaven."

There came a time when the Barrister summoned the Courtesan to England. He put her up in a five-star hotel called ‘Inn on the Park’. He left spending money and a note for her at the front desk.

The note read: Case came to trial sooner than expected. Go shopping. Enjoy Her Majesty’s Kingdom. Or you may come watch the trial, although, I’m afraid that may bore you. Either case, I will join you for dinner and play after.

The Courtesan did not want to shop. She was poor and preferred to keep the money to save her financial future. She rang the voice mail of the Barrister and requested to attend the trial.

The Barrister left a message back giving location and time for the trial. Included was the instruction that she should behave properly and dress accordingly.

The Courtesan chose not to take this personally.

The trial, to the Courtesan’s sensibilities was hilarious and it took all her will power not to ‘bust-a-gut’ during the proceedings.

It seems, a woman lived in the attic apartment of a five-story building in London’s Chelsea District. It was an unseasonably warm evening and she went to sleep with her window open. Sometime past midnight, the woman was awakened by a noise. She opened her eyes and saw, perched on the threshold of her windowsill, a man, clothed only in an open overcoat with his hand on his very erect penis.

Terrified that he was about to enter her bedroom and rape her, she grabbed at a vase of flowers that sat on her nightstand and pitched it at the man. It was a direct hit and the man tumbled five stories to the ground. He was not killed. Only severely injured. The man was now suing the woman for his medical bills, and pain and suffering.

Of course, the main question implied in the case was whether the woman had a right to throw the vase. And the answer would depend on whether he had actually entered her apartment or not.

Let me explain in my layman’s understanding as best I can. In America, we have the right to defend ourselves against potentially dangerous intruders. This is good and bad. In England, however, the rules are not so clear cut. So it was job of the Barrister, to defend the woman and prove she had a right to defend herself because indeed, the man had entered her apartment and indeed, proved a threat to her life and well being.

Every morning and afternoon, the Courtesan sat in the visitor’s section, watching grown men in white wigs, stiff jaws and bloated language, argue the rights of both parties. The Barrister was secretly delighted at the Courtesan’s appearance and attributed it to her interest in him.

In actuality, the case was so ribald; the Courtesan couldn’t stay away.

In the evenings, the two dined together in London’s finest restaurants and discussed the case. One night, over a fine bottle of wine and a sensuous meal, the Barrister confessed he was stumped as to how to proceed. He had to prove the man had physically invaded the woman’s apartment, yet the man was merely roosting on her windowsill. The Courtesan could tell it took all of the Barrister’s pride to ask her, her opinion.

The Courtesan: Why are you asking me?

The Barrister: I’m asking you because…Because you seem to know a great deal about people. About me. About sex.

The Courtesan: Why do you say that?

The Barrister: You were able to uncover my secret.

The Courtesan: And aren’t you glad?

The Barrister: I’m grateful. I thought maybe you might have seen something, some in-road I hadn’t noticed.

The Courtesan: (dying to finally speak about all she's noticed) I think it’s simple.

The Barrister: Simple?

The Courtesan: Yes. How wide is the windowsill? What size are his feet? How much does he weigh? Where was the hand that was not on his prick—his stabilizing hand? And finally, how long is his cock, erect?

The Barrister: And these measurements will reveal?

The Courtesan: Whether his erect member had entered her apartment.

The Barrister: Ah! But a problem. How do we discern how long his erect member is?

The Courtesan: (sitting back in her chair, taking a sip of the aphrodisiac red wine,) Ah my dear Sherlock. You simply ask him.

The Barrister: Ask him?

The Courtesan: Or you can officially measure it but I doubt if that would be a practice in merry ole England.

The Barrister: Ask him!?

The Courtesan: Yes. When he’s on the stand, you ask him.

The Barrister: Not only would I lose my dignity, I would be assured to lose the case as well if I inquired on such a topic.

The Courtesan: I guarantee you, he will have to say he is at least 8 inches or above. No self-respecting man would say less.

The Barrister: Not when there are millions up for claiming.

The Courtesan: Even then. I know it. It is the only thing I know. But I know it.

The trial the following day is sagging away from the Barrister. The Courtesan is getting bored and becoming afraid that she will have to console the Barrister on his losing after the day is over.

Suddenly, the Barrister asks. He asks. He courtroom falls into a shocked hush. The Courtesan moves to the edge of her seat, holding her breath. She can feel her pounding heart moving her blouse outward and back.

The man is in shock on the witness stand.

No one can believe what they have heard.

Finally the man speaks:

"Let me state," he says, "that I have never formally measured myself in a state of erection. However, if I were to venture a reasonable guess, I would have to estimate that my length, in arousal, is at least 12 inches."

The man looks triumphant.

For a moment.

Until he realizes.

He realizes. The court realizes. The jury realizes. The spectators realize. That if indeed, his erect cock was 12 inches, then it actually had entered the bedroom of the woman and thus, she had every right to defend herself from what is now established as an intruder. Or an intruding member. Case closed. Everyone out of the pool.

At dinner that evening the Barrister toasts the Courtesan.

The Barrister: How did you know?

The Courtesan: Oh my love. I don’t know much. But one thing I do know is Men.

(Footnote for those reasonably curious: This case does exist in the journal of cases presented before the courts in England. Look in the microfiches dating back to 1990.)

(P.S. And yes, the Courtesan was I. Hee hee.)


At 3:30 PM, Blogger ali said...

Studying for finals this afternoon ... came across this little snippet and had to post it on your site.

"Today it is sex that serves as a support for the ancient form -- so familiar and important in the West -- of preaching. A great sexual sermon -- which has had its subtle theologians and its popular voices -- has swept through our societies over the last decades; it has chastised the old order, denounced hypocrisy, and praised the rights of the immediate and the real; it has made people dream of a New City." - Michel Foucault, We 'Other Victorians'

Even Foucault thinks it's church.

At 9:08 PM, Anonymous Anonymous said...


At 3:45 AM, Anonymous Anonymous said...

Thanks to Brit (B.S.) for the mention...
See his blog at:


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