Janis Hetherington – Part 10: "Split personality"

Donaldson's alter ego was a wet fish merchant called Henry Root

Donaldson’s alter ego was a wet fish merchant called Henry Root

Janis Hetherington was the first UK woman in an openly same-sex couple to be artificially inseminated… In this, the tenth part of her exclusive autobiographical series for Biscuit, Janis fondly remembers her friend/partner in crime Willie Donaldson…

Mulling over my promises to you luverly readers in my last article to “dish the further secreted dirt”, when it came to Willie Donaldson (aka Mr. Root) I was left with a dilemma.

What could I reveal that wouldn’t have a (collective noun please) plethora of writs winging their way to Biscuit’s hallowed halls?

Wouldbe ponce Willie was more like Willy the Wonker Wanker. Not an evil bastard as his fantasy would portray him but a classic voyeur with all a peeping Tom’s instincts. Born into a vastly wealthy family with a classic public school education, he reckoned his greatest achievement (apart from punting in the dosh for Beyond the Fringe and starting a theatrical revolution) was having his cherry plucked (such an elegant term) by a whore in his mid-teens.

All is revealed in his various scribblings and still available through Amazon. I met him at an orgy where I was very kindly offered his wife (no she can’t sue) whom I proceeded to bang with a ginormous strap-on whilst being watched through the obligatory two-way mirror. I, being the well -mannered personage I am, offered to take said wifey to lunch the following day at one of my favourite eateries in Chelski – obviously expecting a bit of nooky to follow the pêche flambée.

The Donaldson Pad in Ranelagh House was creepily film-settish to say the least. Even though this was the latter end of the 60s and hessian walls were de rigeur, the Turkish harem feeling was way over the Topkapi top. Donaldson – or Mr Bear as his wifey called him – appeared like a cadaver peering in through the curtains as I was in mid thrust. Having commanded him to make himself useful and fetch me some champagne to lubricate the proceedings he dubbed me COUNTESS and the soubriquet stuck.

So the COUNTESS and Bear set up a grand rapport indulging in many a naughty jape. Our language was always faux Victoriana and the outward respectability of our appearance and seducing haunts did indeed require a multi-personae to accomplish our tasks.

Looking for a hook on which to update this ramble I was floundering around like a sausage without its skin, when finally the solution appeared late on Wednesday evening (the 28th May) at a highly respectable do near my old stamping ground in Portland Place.That odd bit of Londininium that defies gentrification despite its proximity (or perhaps because of) to the Beneficent Beeb. It never made the toffiness of stone’s throw distance Regents Park where I gambolled away many a happy hour playing tennis whilst trying to seduce a whole coterie of excited ladies in their pristine white shorts. Golly, I can feel a fantasy coming on… take a deep breath!!!! Dwelling on those reminiscences gave me such a sexual upsurge I thought it only just to share them with you, dear reader.

We spent a respectable evening at the Langham hotel...

We spent a respectable evening at the Langham hotel…

To set the stage. The luverly Lottie (illustrious editor of Biscuit) and I had spent an evening of complete respectability at the Langham Hotel celebrating the 40th anniversary of the beautifully manicured magazine The Middle East. Surrounded by marbled pillars and cut glass chandeliers we had quaffed shampoo and drunk copious toasts. Just the sort of soiree the Bear would have loathed unless excited by the prospect of picking up a vestel virgin who was cowering in some ornate corner. We were always challenging each other to seduce the most unlikely ladyes in the opulence of the Ritz or Dorchester. He was equipped with a fairly large “member” which was only employed in our reveries as a show-off piece of paraphenalia and not required to be of any other use than ornamentation. I could just imagine him lurking behind one of the immaculately turned out waitresses and mouthing the words “Go for that, one Countess!” whilst I was much more interested in peering down the vast bosom of a dowager who might be drivelling on about her lack of brood mares. The spur was how to combine these two unlikely couplings into a fantasy scenario in which we could participate. WOT A JAPE COUNTESS,he would have chortled.

I was mulling over this long gone scenario, and pining in vain for the joys of those halycon days when age had not sent my skin and body into a mixture of wrinkled decline and my once exhausting energy into exhausted inertia, when to perk myself up I thought a trip down sensual memory lane might be just the Tonic for the olde Countess… and segue nicely into my Biscuit blurb.

Willie has popped his clogs yonkeroonies ago having succumbed to a surfeit of crack cocaine and the effects a million tons of Lebanese Gold (heavy weed, for those thinking of nuggets). Trundling home on the train (gone are the days the Countess could summon up a private plane with a swish of her riding crop!!) to refined Oxfordshire – where I keep my gold plated zimmer frame and gallons of asses milk in which to supple my leathered flesh – I thought a quick secret orgasm could do nicely to while away that hour of avoiding the grim faces stuck to their small screens as if searching for the answer to Armageddon.

I had neglected to insert any fun balls but am well practised enough in the art of fantasy climaxes to appear to be sitting quietly apparently absorbed in some elusive crossword puzzle (I kid you not) whilst securing myself a sexual thrill that is quite satisfactory until I can indulge in more physical activity – gnarled joints permitting!!

My delicious act of delight focused on the boiling hot summer day of 69 (yes really, and not because of that sometimes most uncomfortable sexual position) when with sweat pouring off my tanned torso I was showing off my lobbing skills to a much older but quite handsome Ladye in the aforementioned tennis  courts. It transpired she had oodles of acres and lived in white splendour in one of the most prestigious houses that adorn Regents Park.

The fact she was married with two nearly teenage children (at Eton and Benendon, of course) certainly didn’t bother MOI. I was after a mercy hump not an engagement ring (a nice present after breakfast though was always acceptable!!) when it transpired through a chitty chatty that Ladye (her family were indeed titled) H was looking to indulge a very naughty fantasy she’d been chomping at the bit to persuade someone to perform with her years. “Bit-chomp no more,” said I. “Your wish is my command. Just rub my magic lamp with a wad of mooli and ALL your desires will be fulfilled”.

In fact it was a relatively tame request by my standards but not without its charm. The setting was to be a wonderful Elizabethan manor house in Surrey that had been turned into a luxury hotel. Ladye H would be playing the role of 1st year University student (she had gone to Girton) and I was to be her lecherous female tutor (whom she’s futilely lusted after for years) and whose every demand had to be satisfied before she (that is I, of course) consented to fully seduce her. All common enough fodder for the Countess. The slightly quirky part lurking in the background had to be some shady cove who was supposedly engineering the whole scenario .He had to adopt the role of Bad Uncle Leo, the millionaire side of the family who in reality did in fact lust after Ladye H and whom she would occasionally indulge with a thrashing when the estate in the country required repairs. The oddest part was that Uncle Leo would indeed be in attendance (well hidden) but I had to find a suitably trustworthy cove to play his part in the scenario. Strange indeed. A play within a play so to speak. Certainly a challenge the Countess was up for and who better to do the deed than bad old Willie (Bear Donaldson). A blissful treat indeed.

By the time my train had rumbled past High Wycombe I was halfway through my second orgasm, reliving the joys of total domination and silk panties being pulled to one side. That is as far as I can indulge you dear reader… I shall leave the rest to your fertile imagination and just hope there is enough scope to give you an urge to indulge your latest fantasy to full fruition.

As the Bear would have said… “What a very pleasurable night you naughty Countess. TTFN!”

TTFN indeed dear Bear… Grand japes.

 

 

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Janis Hetherington

Outrageously, rebelliously outspoken. Sexually incontinent. Avid supporter of lost causes: ever hopeful they will be transformed, ever fearful that once they are they will become the monsters that trampled them. Janis is the author of "Love Lies Bleeding: Memoirs of a Sexual Revolutionary".

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