In Search of Pleasure Island:
The Manly Travails of the Masculinists
by Don Juan
 
 
 
Act Two, Scene Juan                  (oral)
 
The vessel was a not fine one but sturdy enough to see the buccaneers through to 
their goal.  It was the first day of their voyage and all were still excited, if 
a little apprehensive as the ship rose and fell, rose and fell as did Jizelle.  
The wood creaked and the waves beat against the side of the vessel, rocking the 
ship from side to side as Jizelle slid her mouth up and down.  Each had fully 
accepted their position on board, Falsestaff’s position was at the head of the 
ship, controlling all, Jizelle’s position was on her knees, the rest held an 
equal status on board – not having had the chance to win the captain’s favour.
 
Falsestaff slapped Arsebeard on his carpeted back and belted another pint of 
ale.
 
“Jizelle sure is useful, isn’t she!” Laughed Falsestaff 
“. . . yarr god . . . yarr god yes . . . she sure is.” Managed Arsebeard, as he 
almost buckled under the pressure.
Taking another mouthful of Mavrodaphne trifle, Long Johnson cheered: “In 
Falsestaff we trust, in Jizelle we thrust.”
“Yarr to that my boys.”
“Yarr.”
“Mmm.” Managed Jizelle.
 
The loud sucking noise made it impossible for anyone nearby to concentrate on 
what they were doing.  The sound seemed to change pitch at times to their 
astonishment and mild surprise; in fact they swore they could hear bits of grit 
rattle against the sides of Jizelle’s throat.
 
All the men, sans Thordequeer, were drinking merrily and loaded to the gunwales, 
while the women were oppositely merry and melancholy.  Jizelle’s skill, her 
sense of cock, was quite remarkable especially considering what she told 
Falsestaff about having only been a prostitute for the past three days.  She was 
nevertheless, the ship’s whore and would stay that way until told otherwise; 
faithful, subservient, big-titted, Jizelle was something to behold.  ‘When you 
want a wank, who ya gonna thank?’  swiftly became Jizelle’s motto.
 
The men laughed and cheered and Thordequeer’s contribution ran so: 
 
“Mouth opening.
Cock entering.
Lips closing.
Suction starting.
Tongue swirling.
Pupils widening.
Muscles relaxing.
Deep-throating.
Head bobbing.
Muscles tensing.
Jizz shooting.
Throat swallowing.
Cock shrinking.
 
Satisfaction achieved.”
 
This only caused more cheers, shouts and yells from the rabble.  Winston was to 
be the next to enjoy Jizelle’s talent and feel the warmth and softness of her 
pillowy lips. He let loose his mighty schlong, letting his cannonball-like 
testicles swing free.  The group were seated at a table and only Jizelle was 
able to see Winston do this.
 
“Suck my balls bitch.  Suck my big black balls.” He shouted, as the rest laughed 
and cheered and Jizelle shuffled on her knees beneath the table to descend once 
more upon a column of flesh.
 
“Phwoar!” Roared his love cannon.
 
Winston tensed under the great strain of shooting into Jizelle, the chair 
creaked greatly as he did this and knees slammed painfully into the table.  He 
then rose from the table with his trousers round his ankles and his tackle 
swinging slowly, majestically in full view.  He pulled his trousers up once more 
and arranged his clothes, making himself look respectable.
 
“What the bloody hell is that?” Asked Falsestaff of Winston as he spotted 
writing scrawled delicately upon Winston’s lower torso.
“Oh that.” Winston’s reply ran.  It was clear that he was weary of the tale and 
would have preferred if it were never brought into attention.  He pulled his 
surrounding clothing up and over his head, including the trousers, to let shine 
the body art.
 
‘FUG LYF
 FUG DEF
 FUG YA MA’
 
Appeared, scored across his stomach; the number ‘69’ on his left arm; a heart 
emblazoned with ‘Mother’ and the shadow of a ribbon flying beneath, proudly 
bearing the vulgar statement ‘Fucker’; a flintlock appeared on his chest to 
complete the view from the front which did little to prepare the crew for what 
Winston was hiding upon his back.  He turned around to let the crew feast their 
greedy eyes upon a monumental awesome sight of a Negro Christ with blood-matted 
dreadlocks suspended on a crucifix and bedecked with all of earth’s treasures in 
the form of platinum chains with padlocks hanging from his neck and all manner 
of jewels and diamonds decorating his lacerated living corpse.
 
It was Arsebeard who broke the stunned silence with: “All I’d have tattooed on 
me is my motto – live by the trifle, die by the trifle.”
 
“You’re missing the point entirely.” Said Winston as he dressed once more with a 
solemn expression.  “These tattoos are tribal markings, they represent the 
history and culture of our tribe – once great until missionaries introduced 
foreign ideas and brought me down from power.  These tattoos represent who I 
once was.  I was someone great. I was sold into slavery after rising so high.” 
He finished.
“We were all someone once Winston, once.  That is exactly why we are gathered 
here on this ship, to escape from what we once were and seek anew the pleasures 
of the flesh of the likes have been lost for many years.  Like adventuring 
knights first travel we to seek and then to make love.” Was Falsestaff’s 
response, and though sobering and humbling for all to hear, it had to be said. 
“I will be great once more, some day soon I will once more be king.”
“By the Lord, I’ll be a traitor then, when thou art king.”
“We will see Falsestaff, you have only to wait.”
“Birth, blood, and ancestors, are none of ours.  You came from a tribe where you 
rose and then fell into slavery and escaped only to wind up cleaning toilets. 
The higher you claim the further it is possible to fall.”
“Let’s hear from Quickly.  She’s not said a bloody word for a long time.” Long 
Johnson declared, deftly cutting through the tense atmosphere.
 
All turned their attention to Quickly who did not pale under the eyes, which 
began to wander over her person.  She sat quietly for a moment as the rest took 
in everything there was to see of her petite frame and soft features.  She 
smiled and parted her lips, ran the tip of her tongue across her top lip before 
speaking, the dimple in her chin and the smile upon her lips brought the 
contours of her face into sharp focus.
 
“There is little to say of myself, I have to offer only my labour and my 
companionship.  What I will say is that I am Mistress Quickly of Mistress 
Quickly’s establishment, I was once a prostitute but later managed to buy and 
run a small establishment only to lose it again.  As I say, I was a prostitute 
once, but when I gave up that life I also gave up men.”
“Yarr bollocks to that.”
“Fuck. Cunt. Shite”
“Yarr you bitch”
“Yarr well,” Said Falsestaff, “it would have been nice if you had told us that 
before we set sail with only one whore on board.  Are you sure we can’t use you? 
I mean say when you’re asleep or not busy . . .”
“Absolutely not.”
“Fuck.”
 
The rabble continued to drink and curse and laugh until their debauchery carried 
them into the dark of night and each in turn returned to their cabins.