Cornwall's Cure
There are three occasions when men drink.
And only three:
And only three:
When lamenting over a woman.
When escaping from a woman.
When trying to out drink all his buddies.
It is for the first reason that men are apt to bond more strongly and come to the rescue of the one who is lamenting.
Now I never once mentioned the Singer's name to Cornwall and the other guys as we sat around the campfire filling our bellies with white lightning and the air with lewd and badly sung songs. I didn't even have to mention her name... nor even the fact I'd recently had my heart broken. They just knew. It's a thing between men that women would never understand... mostly because they're too busy all the time flappin' their lips to hear or see anything else.
Now at some point between all that drinkin' and singin' my mind gets a little fuzzy, and I just can't really remember what happened all too clearly.
"Oh Master! Oh oh ohhhh... yes yes yes!"
Behind me there was a whole lot of cheering and shouting and laughing going on. But underneath me... that belled kajira I'd seen runnin' through camp and stealing meat ever so often from the pot Mrs. Cornwall was bent over cooking in.
"Oh Master! You're the best I've ever had!"
From the time I'd been thrust upon her, until the time I rolled over and got off again, I think all of three ihn had passed. And suddenly I was being clapped on the back by all the other men... who seemed really overjoyed about it. Did they know? Could they have possibly known? I've never told a soul... because that's just not something a man admits to anyone... let alone other men.
But as I got up and staggered around a bit, tryin to hike my britches back up... I looked down at the naked wench on the ground with a bit of a grin. The best she ever had, eh?
Now I've heard rumor that some women fake it. But I could tell... she was for real! Just look at her! And I'd put her that way. That's right. Me! Kazhuye of the Tuchuks!
