I’m a Doodle Yanking Dandy

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Four men with similar interests come together for an All Hallow’s Eve private party to include something completely different. These extraordinary men of the world embrace one more new experience.

I’m a Doodle Yanking Dandy
by Angela Rasch

The night had grown from one of idle All Hallow’s Eve frolic to higher purpose with commemorating and planning for the future. Ben had seen to that. The men celebrated the successful conclusion of a Constitutional Convention. . .a respite from the constant struggle of revolutionary ideas . . . and ideals.

Ben had promised “gracious company” when he invited the four of us to Philadelphia. He flatly avowed that he and his three friends were the most open-minded people we would ever meet. Although none of them used their last names, I recognized their sense of duty and unmistakable fervor for the future good of all. They could only be the great ones, whose names had been argued as either the biggest traitors, or the most wonderful patriots, conceivable.

When I first met Ben in Madame La Doux’s Parisian parlor he had been previously unaware of those like me. He had been instantly taken by the charms we had been so carefully taught to bestow, on our evening’s companions. He cleverly described us as “concubines,” and thereby unwittingly matched us to the Eastern roots of our vocation. Had he pushed the issue he could have partaken in a fairly elaborate tea ceremony . . . one of our learned talents.

He was rumored to be in his late fifties, but his sexual appetites and physicalities were those of someone my age . . . about half of his. Two of the others were in their young fifties -- and the baby of the group, Tom, couldn’t be much more than forty. Given their political power and immense self-confidence, they had to be the four most attractive men who ever lived.

Besides, I know from my time with him in Europe, Ben’s reputation for invention does not stop at the door to his bedroom. I cannot wait to fill myself with him.

His fingers traveled the inch, or so, across my red, leather face patch. I worried not that he would dislodge it, for I had been lavish with gum. It concealed a horrid pockmark from a childhood affliction. Beatrice hid a similar scar with a huge fake mole.

“I cannot get over the softness of your skin,” Ben whispered.

A flush passed over me . . . despite years of training to accept forward compliments, without overt reaction. “Thank you . . . Ben.” I smiled, displaying teeth that had been cleaned furiously twice daily, with a pointed stick, to remove all offending food particles.

Had George taken such good care of his teeth he would not be saddled with those dentures. At least, he has the wealth to afford ivory. So many make due with wooden teeth.

The unbridled lust in Ben’s eyes spoke to my success in creating an exterior that matched my inner being. Little things like a daily witch hazel regimen kept my facial skin at its best. I had started using it to counter the frequent shaving I once did -- but realized it worked miracles on acne.

For no reason other than to display the high, curved heels of my silk brocade shoes, I sashayed to the corner of the room. My multiple petticoats rustled with each dainty step.

I would have loved to tell Ben of the hours I had spent soaking in cream baths and applying hog lard, but we were rightly forbidden to speak of what we had gone through to prepare us to delight our male “companions.” Some of what we did daily, such as drinking copious amounts of boiled mare’s urine, would make poor conversation, yet the pleasing changes to our bodies made it worthwhile.

I daily said my thanks to the long-dead monk, Friar Premarin, who discovered the amazing properties of mare’s urine, which allowed the four of us to naturally provide feminine curves for the exquisite gowns we wore.

I’m not sure what term applied to my physical and mental state. Some said we were “indentured servants” who were financially bound to those who had paid the francs and pounds necessary to help us free our souls.

I didn’t waste time thinking about the “who” or “what” of my existence, preferring to live in the wondrous “now” of fineries and exquisite food and drink.

It was enough to have crossed into what had been wrongfully denied to me by chance at birth. I had willingly joined . . . nay I had arguably fought my way into . . . the Society of The Cornbury Ring.

The Cornbury Ring had no direct connection, other than name, to the once Governor of New York and New Jersey, who had often dressed in public, in women’s clothing, in order to look as much as possible like his benefactor and cousin Queen Anne. The Society I joined wished to promote, and profit from, those men and boys who loved to dress as women and those men who would pay to have their favors.

John’s nose was buried in Beatrice’s neck as he murmured loudly enough for all to hear. “If Abigail were to smell so beguiling, our new nation would have had one less patriot to challenge the King. I would never have left her bed.”

He sighed and then continued. “It is a devil’s league we’ve reached. The solicitor in me sees the loophole. I vowed never to lie with a woman, other than Abigail. It’s only my religion that gives me pause. It would be the best of all possible worlds, if there was no religion in it. Beatrice. . .the word ‘toothsome’ was coined for only you.”

Beatrice arose elegantly and curtsied.

“Ben has already paid for the evening,” George intoned. “Nothing is a greater stranger to my breasts, or a sin that my soul more abhors, than that black and detestable one . . . ingratitude.” His gaze found Jonelle.

Ben chuckled. “By buying in bulk, I was able to contract for four, at the price of three. A penny saved is a penny earned.”

The other three men clinked their glasses in a silent pact that was heavy with purpose and at the same time paid tribute to the delicate scent of the rosewater Beatrice had lavished over her body.

The newspapers had once spoken of their “treason” and the deathly penalty they could have paid for their actions and words. Although they were of quite ordinary physical stature, except for the magnificently tall George, I felt as if I was spending the evening with giants.

We were all drinking from mass-produced, clear glass mugs. Since they had become fashionable, lager had become more popular than ale. Ale is made from a process that places yeast at the top — eating away at the malt sugars and creating a frothy “barm.” Lager uses a bottom-fermenting mixture, so the liquid is much nicer to look upon — an impractical attribute, in the day of earthenware mugs.

The innkeeper whose private dining room Ben rented had provided venison steak and rabbit quarters, which had been browned and served over rice. It was all topped by grated cheeses and tomatoes.

It’s enough to challenge the integrity of my stay.

I had recently put aside my beloved panniers for the more up-to-date “bum-pads.”

If I do not stop devouring the cheese, I will not need them. Still, given the spirit of All Hallow’s Eve I must taste the pumpkin tart.

“Are not tomatoes poisonous?” I queried. My sainted mother had sternly cautioned against eating any member of the dreaded nightshade family of plants.

“Do not fret.” Ben patted my hand. “Tom is an eminent scientist and explorer. He both grows and consumes tomatoes, with regularity.”

Tom smiled at me. “You are indeed clever to mind your food. A strong body makes a strong mind. As to the species of exercise, I advise the gun. While this gives moderate exercise to the body, it gives boldness, enterprise, and independence to the mind. Games played with the ball, and others of that nature, are too violent for the body and stamp no character on the mind.”

For a moment, he allowed his eyes to caress the mounds poking from the low-cut top of my dress, before turning to Ben to finish his thought. “Let your gun, therefore, be your constant companion on your walks.”

Ben’s handsome face broke into a grin. “Exercise . . . hmmmmm? A life of leisure and a life of laziness are two different things. There will be sleeping enough in the grave.”

His eager face betrayed his advanced years. “Carly. . .,” Ben asked me courteously, “. . .would you favor us with one of those new tunes so popular in France?” He escorted me to the four-octave clavichord and assisted me in arranging the folds of my Brunswick gown, so that I displayed its ornate brocade handwork to full advantage. I worked the keyboard to amuse the men.

Ben expertly accompanied my efforts on his guitar.

My mass of curls and a heat-trapping straw hat covered lavishly with ribbons and silk flowers caused me to glow from exertion.

I proudly allowed Ben to enjoy the aroma of lavender escaping from my powdered bodice.

The many years the four of us had spent in training have been well worth it. How else could have four paupers from Boston been introduced to a life of such leisure and grace?

We four “special lasses” had been damned as children, to the inevitable hell that awaits those of our sweet nature. In a world, that allows great respect and adulation for those with broad shoulders and massive physical strength, we had been handicapped with fine features and innate softness. The very attributes that kept us from ever having full bellies as children, now were at the heart of our fortune.

“I did once state that a little rebellion now and then is a good thing. And, I know it is considered bad form to speak of the “reality” of . . ..” Tom’s voice trailed off as he searched for a polite way to discuss the unspeakable.

“One must not drag those ‘details’ into the chandeliers’ illumination,” Ben chided. “Surely, Tom. . .you who have tasted the sweetness of the darker meat. . .you must know that to speak of certain things serves no one. I can assure you that all of Europe has stamped their eminent approval on these ‘ladies’ and their talents.”

“As you know. . ..” Tom’s deep, masculine voice rumbled -- causing me to remember the years I had spent learning to keep my own tones soft and modulated. “. . .I’m not one to foist my personal religious beliefs on others. We’ve taken great pains to keep any of that Puritanical nonsense, out of the Constitution.”

John rose to speak.

The wags gossip that the pants in his family are worn by that women’s rights advocate he had chosen to marry.

He spoke. “The government of the United States is not, in any sense, founded on the Christian religion. Let the human mind loose. It must be loose. It will be loose. Superstition and dogmatism cannot confine it.”

Ben peered over his glasses. “Will not the holier-than-thou crowd seek to amend our work?”

“They are welcome to the task,” Tom stated with authority. “But why would the people want to restrict their own freedom?”

John chuckled. “Are we to be assaulted with more ornate words defending the need to separate church from state? My goodness, if you added every nuance to that document, our new constitution would stretch from here to the Tower of London. Give it a rest, Tom. . .some things are simply self-evident.”

Tom stood and walked to the fire in the corner, thoughtfully warming his hands before continuing. “I fully intend to enjoy the wonders of this night. I think it wise that we’ve entered into a mutual agreement that all four of us will succumb to carnal pleasures, so that none of us might have public remorse in years to come. Our silence will be assured by our fears.”

I stirred. My rosebud puckered in anticipation of the penetration that would surely follow. I had been cautioned to keep such physical thrills to a minimum so that my ardor would not fade . . . even though I yearned to be physically cherished. It was a matter of financial gain. Men pay top fees for the rare . . . and we were considered the rarest. We simply could not have sex for pleasure and pleasure alone.

“The aristocracy of the Old World has its faults,” George said. He had been the first to open many topics in the men’s discussions, as if he had always been and would always be . . . their leader. “I have to compliment those in the courts of France and England who have set aside social taboos. My loins have been afire all evening at the very thought of . . ..”

His eyes traveled the length of Jonelle’s frame. “Although Martha will always be the one for me. . .I’ve never doubted that it was the camp followers that kept my armies from disbanding, as much as the want of a free country. Life is full of that which makes us wonder.”

He raised his mug, in tribute to our beauty and grace.

I silently shook my head. Ben had laid claim to me. Otherwise, I would have moved heaven and earth to undo the cords that held up George’s breeches and got on with the evening’s climax.

“I promised my Martha. . ..” Tom said looking into George’s face. “On her death bed, I promised I would marry no other. And . . . I will not . . . marry . . . any other. But one need not be married to. . .enjoy another’s body.”

“The King of France suggested these four with specific instructions,” Ben said with fervor. “He said the ‘States’ need to take ourselves a bit less seriously. We need to understand that life is not all about high-minded selflessness. These four laddy/lasses were plucked from South Boston, several years ago. Their natural inclinations were nurtured and ripened. I’m told that while they’re not virginal. . .,” he stopped and cleared his throat. “I’m told they’ve only been. . ..”

I placed a hand on Ben’s swelling member and gently squeezed. “Ben. . .. Dear. . .. The four of you could talk a crow into a pie. I could listen to your soaring oratory for hours and never grow weary of your tales of accomplishment. But the night is moving into the wee hours and the chambers upstairs beckon.”

They had given so much. It was time for down comforters to cover secrets that would never be part of future history books. I had spent such an evening with Ben in Paris and wished, even though I knew him to be one of the world’s best lovers . . . so ardently wished . . . I could be in all four bedrooms, at once, servicing each of the four heroic men.

Fortunately, my three friends will see to it that George, Tom, and John will have a night they will never forget.

The End

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Thanks to Gabi for the review and help.

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Stories available through Doppler Press on Amazon:
Shannon’s Course
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All Those Things You Always Pined For
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Basketball Is Life
Baseball Annie
The Girl Who Saved Aunt T’s
She Like Me
How You Play the Game
Hair Soup
Imperfect Futures
The Handshake That Hides the Snake

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My dearest Jill...

Andrea Lena's picture

...I just was treated to the most delightful time reading your simply wonderful history lesson. I have come to the conclusion that I might have come at the conclusion. (blush) You may rip my bodice whenever you like, as your style and flair do so just give me the vapors!

Signed, not so Virginal in Virginia


To be alive is to be vulnerable. Madeleine L'Engle
Love, Andrea Lena

Oh Come Now, Virginia

With the layers of clothing worn in Virginia in the 1780's it would take days from point of lustiness to actually doing something about it. Imagine the boudoir chatter and the need for scissors, wire-cutters, and an ability to ignore the aroma of horse piss. It would reduce the average lover from the heights of Jefferson to closely resembling Woody Allen.

Angela Rasch (Jill M I)

Angela Rasch (Jill M I)

Just as it was getting good

laika's picture

I never understood the appeal of being a groupie before I read this, most rock stars seem like scuzzy arrogant asstards. But all that historical famousness and the democratic principles being bandied about (couched so approachably in layman's terms) was getting me hot for these founding daddies. But you went and tastefully drew the curtain on their night of revels before they got around to having continental congress with the lasses. Boo tasteful!

But yay story! The way the characters were drawn and the little details made it all strangely believable.
~hugs, Veronica

Getting Good

In order to be "getting good" a story must start off with a rather low level of non-suckiness. In all the books I've read on creating fiction I've never seen that approach advocated.

I admire your writing. I admire your spirit. I admire the shoes I imagine you wear. In the future I will endeavor to write as awful as possible until reaching a point in my story when things should "get good".

You re-created me as an author. Once I was a "Poe" white novelist. In the future people will say, "There 'Goethe' -- a rich writer."

Angela Rasch (Jill M I)

Angela Rasch (Jill M I)

Damned Yankees

joannebarbarella's picture

As opposed to Yankers.Surely the Lord would smite these sinners....if he ever found out!

Wonderful stuff, that boiled mare's urine...and wonderful stuff to read.

Thankyou for this saucy vignette, Jill,


Recipe Missing

Had I been clever enough their rabbit could have been served in a saucy vignette.

I'm glad you took the time to read it.

My guess is this is the one Halloween story you will read this year that will stick in your mind, if not for the boiled mare's urine alone.

Perhaps I did use too much gum on my face patch?

Angela Rasch (Jill M I)

Angela Rasch (Jill M I)

'Friar Premarin'

And his bishop, His Grace Progestone...lol.

The Name Game

Offline it was suggested that maybe Tom had misspoke when he mentioned his wife "Martha". Although George's wife was the better known Martha, Tom was indeed married to Martha nee Wayles of the wealthy slave trading Wayles family. Although disputed by some, Jefferson's true love may have been "Sally" Hemings -- of mixed race -- she supposedly had a four decade relationship with "Tom".

Friar Premarin is a figment, but could have existed. Church records from that time are in a shambles -- some say in an ordered cover up of yet another laddy/lass story that may or may not ever be written.

Of course -- most of the quotes attributed are accurate -- out of context, but accurate. This method of reporting history has become LEGENDARY in Minnesota and Iowa, but seems to have much less enthusiastic follower outside of the Midwest.

Angela Rasch (Jill M I)

Angela Rasch (Jill M I)

I’m a Doodle Yanking Dandy

Where is the horror?

May Your Light Forever Shine
May Your Light Forever Shine

Four Horrors Aren't Enough for U?

The story would have been much harder to write with every Founding Father mentioned along with an appropriate horror. (Is there such a thing as an appropriate horror?)

In my opinion, any story containing a politician is a horror story -- some are just better at providing false hope.

Thanks for asking. Proves you read the story to conclusion. Thanks even more for that.

Angela Rasch (Jill M I)

Angela Rasch (Jill M I)

Thank you...

Thank you so much for this "little thing". It said a lot, in just a small space. It didn't take long to recognize who the four men were. Though, your portrail of John differed a bit from others I've seen/read... Given the events you describe, I'm placing the evening in question fairly early in George's time in office - while Tom and John were still on speaking terms and Ben was still relatively healthy and active.

I also liked the reference to "Friar Premarin"! I'm sure many would have wished that he actually had lived... Rather than the wait until 1942.

Thank you for a fun read!

John and Abigail

John was a complex person who suffered for his principles. My guess would be that John would have taken from that room as if his hair was on fire. . .but then I couldn't have used his famous quote about government and religion, which was the point of the entire story. Poetic license. Since I'm wearing a full face patch you'll never see my blush.

Angela Rasch (Jill M I)

Angela Rasch (Jill M I)

Poetic License Continued...

And Jefferson didn't get back from his post in France until two years after the Constitutional Convention. But putting Gouverneur Morris in the room instead -- as much as he probably would have enjoyed the company -- does lose something.

One of the comments suggested putting this late in 1789. Physically it fits, with Franklin the governor of Pennsylvania, Washington in the presidency, Adams as vice-president and Jefferson secretary of state. (Though Philadelphia didn't become the federal capital again until 1790 -- Adams at least, as president of the Senate, would have been in New York while Congress was in session there in early fall -- it would have been close enough for an overnight trip.) But that does lose the easy tie-in to the Constitution.

Anyway, cleverly done. The conversation reminded me a bit of Steve Allen's old "Meeting of the Minds" show on PBS, though of course the setting there was slightly more formal.


Poetic license?

This story definitely gets your Poetic License renewed for the next four years!
Write on, Angela!


{I leave a trail of Kudos as I browse the site. Be careful where you step!}


{I leave a trail of Kudos as I browse the site. Be careful where you step!}

Ooh! You Bitch

joannebarbarella's picture

I just reread this and how apposite it is to the USA in this year of 2020. I don't think too many will see the connection.

But to me the best part was your own comment in answer to Stanman!

They Were Seeking

. . .domestic tranquility.


Angela Rasch (Jill M I)