The Feluca

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Humor  |  House: Booksie Classic

Honest Goodcharity is a gay man in his menopausal years leading a fusty old life in Somerset, England. This is all about to change when he commits an act of fraud & heads off to Egypt. Whilst in the land of the pharoahs he leads a life that can only be described as interesting, but not as interesting as what is about to happen.
Honest and his alter ego Blasphemy antichrist are about to discover the real gems of Egypt.....its males!

Chapter 1 (v.1) - The Feluca

Submitted: May 01, 2009

Reads: 218

Comments: 1

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Submitted: May 01, 2009



His skin was the colour of caramel, eyes of amber, and his hair dusty and sea-washed. A flimsy off-white vest clung to his taut body, his muscular legs clad in taupe trousers. He stood a little over five feet tall. He sat on the front of the feluca, wind blowing through his hair. He spoke few words and yet his eyes told a thousand tales. And so, I dedicate this to Samara. Sah-mah-rah.


Chapter one

I were born Honest Goodcharity Simplejew, a name that fit Me like a glove and revealed My humble upbringing. My mother, Ilzbeta Freinberg-Simplejew was a seamstress of Jewish extraction and My father (who I never met and never particularly wished to) was a simpleton. It must be remarked that, despite My meagre roots, I was always a distinguished personality, of refined language and exquisite tastes. My interests included silent films, archaeology and literature. I also enjoyed a pedicure or two.

 From the age of 11, I resided in Weston-Super-(night)Mare with My grandmother, Rosanna, a red-haired firecracker of a woman, who encouraged Me like no one ever did. By encouragement, I mean she allowed Me to dress in her old clothes, fling beautiful pearls around My neck and dabble in androgyny. She taught Me about fine art, and also the art of grotesque sarcasm. She was without a doubt the key to My closet.  At age 12, I came out as Gay.

  Naturally, when she passed away I was gutted. However, her death marked the beginning of a new Me, a dark, hidden Me: Blasphemy Antichrist. You could call it an alter ego; you could even call Me a schism of personae. Whatever it was, this new character was beginning to come into its own. Regarding Honest, from the age of 19, I began to study at the Weston Community College, where I took up Egyptology (a subject that always fascinated me). I worked part-time in the local library, a job that suited Me just fine, as I worked in the reference section - which required utter silence, and minimal communication with as few persons as possible. I lived a bland, fusty old life, like that of a man at least 40 years My senior. And for the majority of My life, I managed to convince Myself that I liked it that way. But let’s face it, how could I?

  Anyhow, one must confide in My double life. At night, I worked in a salon… yes, a salon. Here I was a nail technician; it was oh so much fun creating intricate patterns on nails and perfecting cuticles. I say I, but by “I”, I should really say “Blasphemy”. For it was not Sir. Goodcharity who worked in Outrageous beauty salon, but My alter ego, Sir. Antichrist. Blasphemy was loud and proud, experimenting with different looks and hairstyles. Blasphemy was blunt and sarcastic and, ironically, painfully honest. Few people knew of My double life, since My two personae were utterly different, both in appearance and character. At night, one could say that I filed Honest away in My top drawer.

  Despite holding down two jobs, I was still morbidly poor. I could only ever afford the cheapest, tackiest makeup, a prospect that deeply shamed Me. Nevertheless, every Friday afternoon, on My lunch-break, I would splash out on a piece of higher-end makeup. Oh, how I adored My flesh-coloured Chanel lipstick! Oh, the memories! My only vacation was a college-sponsored trip to Latvia, where I met My first love… which I will tell thou about later. On appearance, most would consider Me a wealthy gent of noble stock… but how wrong, oh, how dreadfully wrong. When My dear grandma deceased, I was forced to move to a bedsit by the black Somerset sea, where My view consisted of fat persons wobbling down the beach with their cottage cheese thighs on display. It was this that helped bring forth My depression, an incredibly black stage of mine, which…. Which I wish to cease talking about to be frank. I have far too much pride. But it was this that urged Me to do the following:

  At 45, after completing education, I committed an act of fraud and I eloped to Egypt.


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