Johnson isn't bad either.
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Against All Odds: A Gilded Age Romance
- Thread starter Barbaria1
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- humour punishment romance sex
Why am I suddenly thinking of an Austin Powers movie?Johnson isn't bad either.
Migoz2
Senator
Fossy
SEXPIOGENTUS
Possibly up there with "Syphon the Python ..."Best euphemism I heard for a visit to the gents:
'I have to go and point Percy at the porcelain'.
windar
Teller of Tales
Chapter 6.
After that bad experience at the burlesque theater, Stan felt the time had come to reevaluate his dealings with the opposite sex. Obviously, such illicit thrills carried a certain level of risk to both his pocketbook and his liberty, risks that he might be well advised to keep to a minimum.
That didn’t mean he had to totally forswear visiting Rose Callahans’s fine establishment for an occasional evening spent in the delightful company of the well-endowed Brigid. Rose was discrete and had been in business long enough that Stan felt comfortable continuing to patronize her place of business.
But, he knew that was only a temporary solution to dealing with his physical needs, which, being a young and healthy man, could become quite urgent at times. No, he told himself, the bachelor life would have to give way to domestic bliss at some point and he could see that point was fast approaching.
But where were his prospects? The idea of marrying Brigid wasn’t completely ridiculous-what man wouldn’t like to spend his nights resting his head on those two luscious pillows? But, as much as Stan liked to push the limits of social convention, marrying a prostitute was perhaps a bridge to far.
There was always the possibility of contracting with a matchmaker in the Lower East Side, who could doubtless find an acceptable bride among the recent Jewish immigrants who populated that neighborhood. That wasn’t out of the question as an ultimate course of action, but, for the moment, Stan preferred to see what he could achieve on his own.
For, to be quite honest, his lustful attention was focused for the moment on the woman from Delmonico’s a few nights ago. Stan was experienced and perceptive enough to know that he wasn’t imagining that something had passed between them. Women didn’t just wink at strange men in restaurants the way she had winked at him.
He couldn’t rest for the moment without at least making a solid attempt to find out who she was. But where to start? The only contact he had was the restaurant. The Delmonico’s where he had seen her, at Fifth Avenue and 26th Street wasn’t the one he normally patronized. He and his colleagues had chosen it because of its proximity to the theater where they had seen the ill-fated Oriental spectacle.
No, the Delmonico’s that he typically dined at was the one on Broad Street, right near the Stock Exchange, convenient to take clients to. There Stan was well known.
So, after work, he left his desk at the stockjobbers and strolled over to the restaurant. As he entered, he was greeted effusively by the Maître D’, a sallow-complexioned, serious-looking Frenchman.
“Bonsoir, Monsieur Goldman,” the man greeted him. “Are you dining with us tonight?”
“Not tonight, Robert,” Stan replied. He was suave enough to pronounce it “Ro-bear”. “I’m here hoping that you can help me with an affair of the heart.”
Robert looked at him curiously and smiled, something he only did on special occasions. “Monsieur Goldman, to a Frenchman nothing is more important than an affair du coeur. But, how can I help you with such a matter?”
“On Friday evening, I was dining at your restaurant on Fifth Avenue and 26th Street and there was a young lady at the next table with whom-this is rather embarrassing to say, Robert-I felt a certain spark pass.”
“Do not be embarrassed,” Robert replied. “With love, that is how you know she is the one.”
“That is indeed so, my friend,” Stan said. “I was hoping that you could speak with your colleagues there and see if they know who made the reservation for that table.”
“But of course,” Robert replied. “Perhaps you would enjoy a glass of wine, while I telephone over there?”
“That would be wonderful, Robert,” Stan replied, taking a seat at the bar. Robert poured him a generous glass of Burgundy while he went off on his errand. Stan crossed his fingers and thanked Providence for the wonderful invention of Mr. Alexander Graham Bell.
Robert returned in a few minutes. “Desolée that I cannot tell you the name of the young woman, but I can tell you that the table was reserved by a Monsieur Houghton-Duffield. I am guessing that you know that name.”
“Who doesn’t?” Stan replied. Houghton-Duffield was an important importer and exporter. Many of the goods that came into or out of the harbor passed through his warehouses in lower Manhattan, Brooklyn or across the river in New Jersey.
“He said when he made the reservation that he was entertaining guests from out of town, a man and his daughter, but, alas, he did not share their names.”
‘So they were father and daughter, not husband and wife or lovers,’ Stan thought. That was indeed most auspicious for him.
“Thank you, Robert,” Stan said, handing him two silver dollars. “That was most helpful. What do I owe you for the wine?”
“On the house, Mr. Goldman. And, bonne chance.” Robert winked at him. Stan hadn’t received so many winks in quite some time.
He strolled out into the night. ‘Out of town guests,’ he thought. ‘Presumably the father is rich, because the Houghton-Duffields didn’t associate with riff-raff and the young woman’s dress was not an inexpensive one. And where would rich out-of-towners stay in this fair city?’ There were a few possibilities, but if Stan were betting-and he often was- his money would be on the Plaza.
And so it was that Stan made his way to the station for the Sixth Avenue elevated train and rode it up to its terminus at the southern end of Central Park. From there it was a short walk to the Plaza, stopping along the way to pick up a copy of the Times at a news kiosk.
Entering the hotel, he installed himself in the lobby, in a comfortable armchair facing the elevators. He figured that, it being near the dinner hour, the chances of the out-of-towners descending to have dinner either in the lobby or somewhere outside before the hotel management became suspicious of him were reasonable.
Hiding behind his newspaper, he kept one eye on the elevators. Several times, a car descended, causing the bell to ring, and various people emerged into the lobby, none of whom were the man and young lady from Delmonico’s.
He was getting nervous, not wanting a scene with one of the hotel detectives, and resolved to give his errand five more minutes before abandoning it and trying again another evening. Just at that moment he heard the bell and saw the door open. Peering around the newspaper he saw her, accompanied by the man he now knew to be her father.
His heart skipped a beat. She was wearing a different dress from the one she had worn in the restaurant, but equally fashionable. They strode out of the hotel and got into a waiting hansom cab, which headed out into the evening, perhaps to dinner with the Houghton-Duffields or some other wealthy and prominent couple and their son of marriageable age.
Stan waited a minute or so, then folded his paper and approached the front desk. The man on duty wore a liveried uniform with a badge that said “M. Pellegrino”.
“Yes, sir, may I help you?” he asked.
“That man and his daughter who just left the hotel, who are they? I am sure I recognize them,” Stan said.
“I’m very sorry sir,” the man replied with just a hint of an Italian accent. “I cannot divulge the names of hotel guests. You may leave a note with me and I will make sure that they get it.”
Stan considered this. How could he be sure the man would give the note to the young lady rather than her father? He could not. He reached into his pocket, pulled out his billfold and extracted a $ 5 banknote, then leaned in close to the desk clerk. “Mr. Pellegrino, he whispered, “I have urgent business of a confidential nature with these guests. Surely you understand my drift.” He slipped the banknote into the pocket of the clerk’s vest.
The clerk whispered, “I sincerely would like to help you, but hotel policy, you see. I don’t want to lose my job.”
Sighing, Stan reached into his billfold for another $ 5 and stuck it in Pellegrino’s pocket. “I will be most grateful for your assistance,” he said.
“I will deny ever meeting you on a stack of Bibles.”
“Understood,” Stan replied. “So will I.”
“James J. Moore, of Duluth, Minnesota,” Pellegrino said.
“And the girl?”
“His lovely daughter, Barbara. And you had best stay away from her. She’s trouble.”
“No doubt,” Stan said, turning to leave.
It was a good distance back to Stan’s apartment in Greenwich Village, but it was a lovely evening and the walk would give him time to think. He knew the name, James Moore. Who in the world of business did not?
The man owned most of the resource rich land in the northern half of his home state. His mines supplied much of the iron ore that Mr. Andrew Carnegie turned into the steel that was building this country into a great nation.
And like Stan, he had come from nothing, even less than Stan had begun with, and he had built it into a great fortune, far greater than Stan could ever dream of achieving. No doubt he was in New York to marry the lovely Barbara off to the scion of a family that could extend the reach of his empire and certainly not to a stockjobber and horse bettor, such as himself. Not to mention, a Jew beside all that. The idea was quite laughable.
Still, she had looked thoroughly bored and even peeved with young Houghton-Duffield and she had winked at him. Stan’s head was swimming as he reached the bohemian confines of Greenwich Village, a part of the city that James Moore would almost certainly not permit his precious daughter to set foot in.
Stan reached the corner of his street. He was about to make his way to the house that contained his apartment. Instead he turned and headed for Rose Callahan’s. He couldn’t reasonably aspire to ever find his way into the arms of the lovely Barbara Moore, but Brigid was always available as long as he had a few dollars in his pocket.
After that bad experience at the burlesque theater, Stan felt the time had come to reevaluate his dealings with the opposite sex. Obviously, such illicit thrills carried a certain level of risk to both his pocketbook and his liberty, risks that he might be well advised to keep to a minimum.
That didn’t mean he had to totally forswear visiting Rose Callahans’s fine establishment for an occasional evening spent in the delightful company of the well-endowed Brigid. Rose was discrete and had been in business long enough that Stan felt comfortable continuing to patronize her place of business.
But, he knew that was only a temporary solution to dealing with his physical needs, which, being a young and healthy man, could become quite urgent at times. No, he told himself, the bachelor life would have to give way to domestic bliss at some point and he could see that point was fast approaching.
But where were his prospects? The idea of marrying Brigid wasn’t completely ridiculous-what man wouldn’t like to spend his nights resting his head on those two luscious pillows? But, as much as Stan liked to push the limits of social convention, marrying a prostitute was perhaps a bridge to far.
There was always the possibility of contracting with a matchmaker in the Lower East Side, who could doubtless find an acceptable bride among the recent Jewish immigrants who populated that neighborhood. That wasn’t out of the question as an ultimate course of action, but, for the moment, Stan preferred to see what he could achieve on his own.
For, to be quite honest, his lustful attention was focused for the moment on the woman from Delmonico’s a few nights ago. Stan was experienced and perceptive enough to know that he wasn’t imagining that something had passed between them. Women didn’t just wink at strange men in restaurants the way she had winked at him.
He couldn’t rest for the moment without at least making a solid attempt to find out who she was. But where to start? The only contact he had was the restaurant. The Delmonico’s where he had seen her, at Fifth Avenue and 26th Street wasn’t the one he normally patronized. He and his colleagues had chosen it because of its proximity to the theater where they had seen the ill-fated Oriental spectacle.
No, the Delmonico’s that he typically dined at was the one on Broad Street, right near the Stock Exchange, convenient to take clients to. There Stan was well known.
So, after work, he left his desk at the stockjobbers and strolled over to the restaurant. As he entered, he was greeted effusively by the Maître D’, a sallow-complexioned, serious-looking Frenchman.
“Bonsoir, Monsieur Goldman,” the man greeted him. “Are you dining with us tonight?”
“Not tonight, Robert,” Stan replied. He was suave enough to pronounce it “Ro-bear”. “I’m here hoping that you can help me with an affair of the heart.”
Robert looked at him curiously and smiled, something he only did on special occasions. “Monsieur Goldman, to a Frenchman nothing is more important than an affair du coeur. But, how can I help you with such a matter?”
“On Friday evening, I was dining at your restaurant on Fifth Avenue and 26th Street and there was a young lady at the next table with whom-this is rather embarrassing to say, Robert-I felt a certain spark pass.”
“Do not be embarrassed,” Robert replied. “With love, that is how you know she is the one.”
“That is indeed so, my friend,” Stan said. “I was hoping that you could speak with your colleagues there and see if they know who made the reservation for that table.”
“But of course,” Robert replied. “Perhaps you would enjoy a glass of wine, while I telephone over there?”
“That would be wonderful, Robert,” Stan replied, taking a seat at the bar. Robert poured him a generous glass of Burgundy while he went off on his errand. Stan crossed his fingers and thanked Providence for the wonderful invention of Mr. Alexander Graham Bell.
Robert returned in a few minutes. “Desolée that I cannot tell you the name of the young woman, but I can tell you that the table was reserved by a Monsieur Houghton-Duffield. I am guessing that you know that name.”
“Who doesn’t?” Stan replied. Houghton-Duffield was an important importer and exporter. Many of the goods that came into or out of the harbor passed through his warehouses in lower Manhattan, Brooklyn or across the river in New Jersey.
“He said when he made the reservation that he was entertaining guests from out of town, a man and his daughter, but, alas, he did not share their names.”
‘So they were father and daughter, not husband and wife or lovers,’ Stan thought. That was indeed most auspicious for him.
“Thank you, Robert,” Stan said, handing him two silver dollars. “That was most helpful. What do I owe you for the wine?”
“On the house, Mr. Goldman. And, bonne chance.” Robert winked at him. Stan hadn’t received so many winks in quite some time.
He strolled out into the night. ‘Out of town guests,’ he thought. ‘Presumably the father is rich, because the Houghton-Duffields didn’t associate with riff-raff and the young woman’s dress was not an inexpensive one. And where would rich out-of-towners stay in this fair city?’ There were a few possibilities, but if Stan were betting-and he often was- his money would be on the Plaza.
And so it was that Stan made his way to the station for the Sixth Avenue elevated train and rode it up to its terminus at the southern end of Central Park. From there it was a short walk to the Plaza, stopping along the way to pick up a copy of the Times at a news kiosk.
Entering the hotel, he installed himself in the lobby, in a comfortable armchair facing the elevators. He figured that, it being near the dinner hour, the chances of the out-of-towners descending to have dinner either in the lobby or somewhere outside before the hotel management became suspicious of him were reasonable.
Hiding behind his newspaper, he kept one eye on the elevators. Several times, a car descended, causing the bell to ring, and various people emerged into the lobby, none of whom were the man and young lady from Delmonico’s.
He was getting nervous, not wanting a scene with one of the hotel detectives, and resolved to give his errand five more minutes before abandoning it and trying again another evening. Just at that moment he heard the bell and saw the door open. Peering around the newspaper he saw her, accompanied by the man he now knew to be her father.
His heart skipped a beat. She was wearing a different dress from the one she had worn in the restaurant, but equally fashionable. They strode out of the hotel and got into a waiting hansom cab, which headed out into the evening, perhaps to dinner with the Houghton-Duffields or some other wealthy and prominent couple and their son of marriageable age.
Stan waited a minute or so, then folded his paper and approached the front desk. The man on duty wore a liveried uniform with a badge that said “M. Pellegrino”.
“Yes, sir, may I help you?” he asked.
“That man and his daughter who just left the hotel, who are they? I am sure I recognize them,” Stan said.
“I’m very sorry sir,” the man replied with just a hint of an Italian accent. “I cannot divulge the names of hotel guests. You may leave a note with me and I will make sure that they get it.”
Stan considered this. How could he be sure the man would give the note to the young lady rather than her father? He could not. He reached into his pocket, pulled out his billfold and extracted a $ 5 banknote, then leaned in close to the desk clerk. “Mr. Pellegrino, he whispered, “I have urgent business of a confidential nature with these guests. Surely you understand my drift.” He slipped the banknote into the pocket of the clerk’s vest.
The clerk whispered, “I sincerely would like to help you, but hotel policy, you see. I don’t want to lose my job.”
Sighing, Stan reached into his billfold for another $ 5 and stuck it in Pellegrino’s pocket. “I will be most grateful for your assistance,” he said.
“I will deny ever meeting you on a stack of Bibles.”
“Understood,” Stan replied. “So will I.”
“James J. Moore, of Duluth, Minnesota,” Pellegrino said.
“And the girl?”
“His lovely daughter, Barbara. And you had best stay away from her. She’s trouble.”
“No doubt,” Stan said, turning to leave.
It was a good distance back to Stan’s apartment in Greenwich Village, but it was a lovely evening and the walk would give him time to think. He knew the name, James Moore. Who in the world of business did not?
The man owned most of the resource rich land in the northern half of his home state. His mines supplied much of the iron ore that Mr. Andrew Carnegie turned into the steel that was building this country into a great nation.
And like Stan, he had come from nothing, even less than Stan had begun with, and he had built it into a great fortune, far greater than Stan could ever dream of achieving. No doubt he was in New York to marry the lovely Barbara off to the scion of a family that could extend the reach of his empire and certainly not to a stockjobber and horse bettor, such as himself. Not to mention, a Jew beside all that. The idea was quite laughable.
Still, she had looked thoroughly bored and even peeved with young Houghton-Duffield and she had winked at him. Stan’s head was swimming as he reached the bohemian confines of Greenwich Village, a part of the city that James Moore would almost certainly not permit his precious daughter to set foot in.
Stan reached the corner of his street. He was about to make his way to the house that contained his apartment. Instead he turned and headed for Rose Callahan’s. He couldn’t reasonably aspire to ever find his way into the arms of the lovely Barbara Moore, but Brigid was always available as long as he had a few dollars in his pocket.
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windar
Teller of Tales
The Lower East Side is, as you might imagine, on the lower east side of Manhattan, spread along Delancey Street, where the Williamsburg Bridge crosses the East River to the Williamsburg neighborhood of Brooklyn. It was traditionally the first stop for new immigrants. In the 1840s it was mostly Germans (it was called Kleindeutschland), then, by the time of our story it was largely Jewish and Italian with enclaves of Greeks, Poles, Russians, Ukranians (the latter two may have fought each other even there). This picture is from around 1910, but captures the flavor pretty well.
Living conditions were terrible-crowded tenements in which disease spread very quickly. These were documented by Jacob Riis, in his famous expose, How the Other Half Lives. This is one of the photos he took for the book. Among the famous people who grew up there were the Al Jolson, Irving Berlin and the Gershwin brothers, George and Ira.
By the 1960s the Lower East Side became heavily Hispanic, mostly Puerto Rican and Dominican and was know as Loisaida. More recently it has become quite gentrified and might even be a place James Moore would want to live...
Living conditions were terrible-crowded tenements in which disease spread very quickly. These were documented by Jacob Riis, in his famous expose, How the Other Half Lives. This is one of the photos he took for the book. Among the famous people who grew up there were the Al Jolson, Irving Berlin and the Gershwin brothers, George and Ira.
By the 1960s the Lower East Side became heavily Hispanic, mostly Puerto Rican and Dominican and was know as Loisaida. More recently it has become quite gentrified and might even be a place James Moore would want to live...
Fossy
SEXPIOGENTUS
Another terrific piece Windy. You are both capturing the essence of the time so well that I have felt moved to begin watching the new TV show "The Gilded Age" - it's HBO produced and so you may have seen it already in the US. Initially I felt in might a little too bland for me, but reading your tale thus far has motivated me to begin watching. They too capture the time brilliantly - Central Park in 1882 and the Centre of NYC ... I am finding that I am able to use the sexual aspects of your story to find erotica in the TV show where there is really no erotica to be found ... except inside my own mind - so thank you Barb and Windy for that
I captured a few stills from he show which I thought I would share ...
I captured a few stills from he show which I thought I would share ...
Loxuru
Graf von Kreuzigung
A clear warning!
Goldman fails to mention his name, Pellegrino does not inquire for it. Some missed 'click'.
Thanks for that Fossy. I was unaware of this HBO production. Now I am curious.Another terrific piece Windy. You are both capturing the essence of the time so well that I have felt moved to begin watching the new TV show "The Gilded Age" - it's HBO produced and so you may have seen it already in the US. Initially I felt in might a little too bland for me, but reading your tale thus far has motivated me to begin watching. They too capture the time brilliantly - Central Park in 1882 and the Centre of NYC ... I am finding that I am able to use the sexual aspects of your story to find erotica in the TV show where there is really no erotica to be found ... except inside my own mind - so thank you Barb and Windy for that
I captured a few stills from he show which I thought I would share ...
View attachment 1149593
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windar
Teller of Tales
Which will, of course, be ignored!
Of course, Pellegrino already knows from Barb, but he is very crafty
I haven't watched it, partly because I don't want to be accused of stealing! The street scenes were not filmed in New York City, but very near where I live in Troy, NY, which has a very well preserved Victorian Historic District. The streets were blocked off for many days last June when the crews were here.Another terrific piece Windy. You are both capturing the essence of the time so well that I have felt moved to begin watching the new TV show "The Gilded Age" - it's HBO produced and so you may have seen it already in the US. Initially I felt in might a little too bland for me, but reading your tale thus far has motivated me to begin watching. They too capture the time brilliantly - Central Park in 1882 and the Centre of NYC ... I am finding that I am able to use the sexual aspects of your story to find erotica in the TV show where there is really no erotica to be found ... except inside my own mind - so thank you Barb and Windy for that
I captured a few stills from he show which I thought I would share ...
View attachment 1149593
View attachment 1149594
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As far as eroticism to some extent that is in the mind of the reader/viewer. I can think of many works not intended as erotica that are and quite a few that are intended as such and fail to arouse me.
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twonines
LIMERICUS
Like you, started watching the first episode, but found it rather bland. Perhaps it would improve if watched in tandem with "Against all Odds."Another terrific piece Windy. You are both capturing the essence of the time so well that I have felt moved to begin watching the new TV show "The Gilded Age" - it's HBO produced and so you may have seen it already in the US. Initially I felt in might a little too bland for me, but reading your tale thus far has motivated me to begin watching. They too capture the time brilliantly - Central Park in 1882 and the Centre of NYC ... I am finding that I am able to use the sexual aspects of your story to find erotica in the TV show where there is really no erotica to be found ... except inside my own mind - so thank you Barb and Windy for that
I captured a few stills from he show which I thought I would share ...
View attachment 1149593
View attachment 1149594
View attachment 1149595
Examples?
Fantastic, Fossy! I suffer a bit, to not having good material for manips/backgrounds.Another terrific piece Windy. You are both capturing the essence of the time so well that I have felt moved to begin watching the new TV show "The Gilded Age" - it's HBO produced and so you may have seen it already in the US. Initially I felt in might a little too bland for me, but reading your tale thus far has motivated me to begin watching. They too capture the time brilliantly - Central Park in 1882 and the Centre of NYC ... I am finding that I am able to use the sexual aspects of your story to find erotica in the TV show where there is really no erotica to be found ... except inside my own mind - so thank you Barb and Windy for that
I captured a few stills from he show which I thought I would share ...
View attachment 1149593
View attachment 1149594
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twonines
LIMERICUS
Shake hands with the wife`s best friend?Possibly up there with "Syphon the Python ..."
Fossy
SEXPIOGENTUS
I actually took these as still pics from a TV on pause Mads ...
windar
Teller of Tales
That's sort of how we envisioned Mario Pellegrino, isn't it, Barb?
Boris has killed that one for all time, I think...