coitusy of the united states

    “A spent lover always says ‘Excuse me’ when practicing the art of coitusy.”
    —Ron Barrett, “Politeness Man”, National Lampoon

He opened the door, shut it, and leaned back against it, his head raised as if for air. My God, he said, the fucking Queen of England. I mean, I’m—somewhere in the back of his memory, in one of those disorderly trunks of unfiled information, he fished out the law that specified the remaining crimes for which hanging was stipulated and recalled something dating back to the Treason Act in the fourteenth century about “violating” a royal figure. Great God, thought Blackford. What about when you—he could not bring himself even to think of the word under the circumstances—do it with… the goddamn Queen herself!
    He sat down and, briefly, began to laugh.

OAKES, Blackford. Foundation official. Born, Yellow Springs, Ohio, December 7, 1925. Schools: Scarsdale H.S, Yale (’51). Executed, 1952, for viol. fornication provisions of Treason Act of 1351.

He thought, suddenly, of Dr. Chase. The piquancy was more than he could bear. Dr. Chase! And Rufus. “Well, Rufus, sir, I got in about as far as I could get, and…” He started to laugh again but stopped himself and became briskly efficient. He drew the curtain. He stripped, took a shower, and put on a dressing gown. He lit the light in the bedroom, left the door slightly ajar, and turned out all but one light in the living room. He reached into the ice bucket always left out for him and pulled out a bottle of champagne, which he decorked, taking two glasses from the cabinet just as he heard the faintest knock. He moved swiftly to the door, which was unlocked, opened it, and Caroline, fragrant, walked by, wheeled about, and kissed him passionately as, with his right hand, he slid the safety latch on the door. They went hand in hand to the sofa at the end of the room. “Light the fire,” she said, and he did so, and came back to her with the glass of champagne, which she took, looking him always in the eyes, and sipped at it until it was half empty, when she put it down and said, “England has taken the initiative.”
    He rose, extended his hand, and brought her silently into the bedroom. She pulled away the covers, dropped her yellow gown, and lay on her back as with her left hand she turned off the bedlight. The flames from the fireplace lit her body with a faint flickering glow. She arched back her neck and pointed her firm breasts up at the ceiling, and he was on her, kissing her softly, saying nothing. Her thighs began to heave, and she said in a whisper, “Now.” He entered her smoothly, and suddenly a wild but irresistible thought struck him, fusing pleasure and elation—and satisfaction. He moved in deeply, and came back, and whispered to her, teasingly, tenderly, “One.”
    And a second,
    And third,
    Sixth—her excitement was now explicit, demanding, but he exercised superhuman restraint—
    Eight—she was moaning now with pain—
    and, triumphantly, nine!
    And they collapsed into each other’s arms in silence, with animated sobs coming from deep in Caroline’s throat. Blackford drew out and in a voice kind, but gently stern and mocking, he whispered to her:
    “Courtesy of the United States, ma’am.

They lay together in silence, but Caroline kept her eyes on Black, and when the fire began to die down she told him to put in another log. Getting out of bed, Black reached instinctively for his dressing gown.
    “No,” she said, “go as you are.” He did, and her eyes shone with pleasure as she watched his lithe body walking into the living room, lifting a log, inserting it deftly, and stirring the embers—his rhythms, Caroline thought, were never disharmonious, in talking, in walking, in bed. He turned around to come back to her. She opened her arms to him again and, this time wordlessly, took over, and guided his erection; after which Blackford, excited, but also amused, remarked to her softly, “England has recovered the initiative.”
    “Britannia, Blackford, still rules the waves.”
    They lay there, studying the changing shapes of the fireshadows on their bodies, when she said to him, “Blackford?”
    “Yes.” He could not, then, call her ma’am; to call her Caroline could, just could, ruin it all.

    —William F. Buckley, Jr., Saving the Queen: A Blackford Oakes Mystery, Doubleday, 1976, pp. 236-239

The minimum punishment is two strokes, with three as the average for first offenders. Repeated wrongdoing may merit six of the best whilst the maximum permitted under school regulations is nine strokes. However, the approval of the Headmaster must be obtained before a boy can receive this maximum punishment and it is important that it is reserved for the most serious offences.

Caning in Singapore