Clockwise Cat Strikes Back

One morning, at Wandsworth, sitting in the garden and trying to render Ovid's Ars
Amatoria into English hexameters with little success, he saw one of the wenches walking
toward the stables. "Hey there, marry wench," he called out in the manner of Fawkener,
"where beest zou off to?" The wench turned around and said, "Come along then, little
man, and I'll show you a thing or two."
"What ho!" Voltaire exclaimed, not believing his good fortune. He got up so fast
that he tipped over his inkpot and got a nasty stain on his britches. "Merde," he said and
trotted after her.
She was waiting just inside the stable. He embraced her passionately, whispering
words like "ma petite" and "ma jolie," but getting his bony fingers entangled in her many
skirts when he tried to slip them between her legs. "Merde!" he said again.
"Come on then," the wench said impatiently. "I haven't got all day."
"I shall tup zee presently," Voltaire replied. Finally he mounted her and it was
over in the twinkling of an eye, for the little man screwed the way he wrote, at breakneck
speed.
"That's no way to diddle a lady," the wench complained.
"Zou aint no lady," Voltaire rejoined, and got a smart slap for his trouble.
Afterwards he went back to the house for a snack. Country life was making him
soft and lazy. It was definitely time to move on, so a few days later he bid farewell to
Fawkener and took the coach to London, dragging along a trunk filled with manuscripts
and dirty underwear. As luck would have it, he found himself seated beside another
comely wench, though this one too was far from being a lady. He had been reading Moll
Flanders and thought immediately of the adventures they might have.
"I say, buxom miss, art zou traveling alone?" the little gentleman inquired.
"Anyone can see that," the wench replied. "Would you care to join me then?"
The vicar sitting opposite the pair eyed them disapprovingly though he had a
hard-on too. Voltaire winked at him and squeezed the wench's thigh.
"That'll cost you a pretty penny," she said with a mirthless laugh.
"We'll see about zat," Voltaire said.
Upon arriving, the little man escorted the wench to her lodgings in Swinetown
and then found lodgings of his own, promising to visit her soon. The historic meeting
between Voltaire and Pope took place a few evenings later, in a brothel of all places.
Pope came to watch. He had a peephole with his name above it and paid for it by the
month. Voltaire stood beside him and tried to strike up a conversation but the renowned
poet waved him away, saying only: "Get a load o' them boobs, my boy/That's the biggest
pair this side of Pomeroy."
"May I have a peep zen?" Voltaire said.
"Peep away," Pope replied.
"Sacré Dieu!" Voltaire exclaimed.
"You took the words right out of my mouth," Pope rejoined.
Afterwards they had something to drink at the busy coffee house on Cockspur
Street. Pope was grotesquely deformed and wore a powdered wig. From time to time he
picked his nose and stared at the result. Sometimes he belched and occasionally he farted.
Voltaire, who was no great prize himself, had never in his life encountered such a
disgusting creature. They made some small talk. Voltaire asked him about the