Julian Vosper-Smith is a cad and a seducer, a wit and a raconteur. Every man wants to be him and every girl wants to shag him, and now you too can share in his success. Follow his amusing stories and helpful advice as he imparts the wisdom of his ample experience of sexual self-indulgence, whether it's the best systems for picking up poppets, or handy hints for escaping the wrath of jealous partners. Always ready, as suave as he is sophisticated, occasionally down but never out, Julian is the perfect inspiration for every up and coming young man about town, while some may regard his behaviour towards young ladies as somewhat discreditable, he can be guaranteed not to leave them dissatisfied.
When dispensing my pearls of wisdom I have tended to concentrate on techniques for getting into a girl’s knickers, and while that is of course the principal objective of any sensible fellow it pays to remember that there may well come a time when one is obliged to beat a retreat, and often a hasty one. It helps, I find, to consider the matter in military terms, and just as the skilled cad will plan his conquests with every bit as much care as a general, so he should be ready to retire with minimal losses when necessary.
The most important thing is to ensure that you have a safe line of retreat. This may not be what you want to focus on when steering some delightful little popsy up to her flat, and if it’s proved necessary to oil her up with a glass or two if may indeed be difficult to focus on anything at all, but the task should not be neglected. So, having got to your intended site of operations, open the window, ostensibly for some fresh air but in practise to discover what will happen if you leap through. Perhaps there is a convenient fire escape, or perhaps there is a two hundred foot drop onto a distressingly hard pavement.
If retreat is not going to be practical, then select a hiding place, under the bed if there’s room, but never the wardrobe. All but the most slovenly of men tend to hang their suit up before retiring and although one does tend to have the element of surprise when they open the door escape it not always easy. Concealing oneself behind doors or curtains carries similar risks, but a sofa is better, which brings me to my next point.
Have her somewhere other than the bedroom. Not only are you likely to be upstairs and a long way from the front door, but a man returning home in the evening is naturally inclined to make for the bedroom, so you get caught. The kitchen and bathroom are also risky, although I did on one occasion manage to finish myself off while taking a buxom young housewife from behind as she made sandwiches for her husband. He wanted ham and mayonnaise as a filling, I recall. She got pork and cream.
Another important point is not to take your clothes off unless you absolutely have to. Strip her, by all means - although personally I find a girl in a state of advanced dishevelment rather more enticing than one stark naked – but when it comes to your own garments don’t let her so much as loosen your tie. That way, when sprinting down the road with an irate husband in hot pursuit you need merely bid a polite good evening to any passers-by without having to worry about them calling the police to report a streaker. Besides, I find that girls rather enjoy the sight of an engorged manhood projecting from otherwise immaculate evening dress, or a smart suit for that matter, so not undressing is quite likely to make your encounter fruitier rather than the reverse.
All the above of course assumes that you have no intention of denying that you and the little wife were in flagrante, but the true artist not only escapes but he does so undetected, or better still after a coffee or perhaps a beer, served up by the recently satisfied wife to the husband’s instructions. That’s why I carry a selection of clipboards and folders in the boot of the Jaguar, each one loaded with a selection of literature on conservatories, religious groups, charities and so forth, any one of which can be produced at the appropriate moment to explain my presence in the house. Charity works best, I find, so much so that I have more than once left a house with a sizeable cheque tucked into my pocket.
Lastly, there is the necessity of keeping oneself in good condition, as with all the skill and experience in the world matters will occasionally go wrong, leaving no alternative but to run. There was an incident a few years ago, for example, when I was having a merry time with a quite scrumptious young redhead, up to my balls in pussy while she knelt on a coffee table at the moment we heard the front door open. Half-an-hour later I had her husband moved to tears with my eloquence on behalf of Esquimaux orphans, so much so that he reached out to find something on which to blow his nose. Unfortunately the object in question was his wife’s panties, hastily discarded in the throes of passion and left on the sideboard.
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