Palm Beach residence. Robert D. Huntington, residence on Travellers Way, master bedroom, to bed, Samuel H. Gottscho, photographer

I’m not sure what drew me to this bedroom. Yes, I was a little curious about the colors of the parrots, as well as the bed’s covers. And how would the bed be to lie down upon? Would I hear the squeak of springs, the susurration of the sea, were some sturdy fellow of the era making love to me? I didn’t really expect that, but there he was, his cock upright and of good size. I asked him what he was doing there, and he said it was his place, and what was I doing here? “You’re not any maid I know,” he added. “But you weren’t in the picture,” I blurted. “What picture?” he replied. “I just wanted to see the color of the parrots,” I said. “What parrots?” he said. I pointed. “Those? Green and yellow for goodness sakes.” “So you can see colors?” I asked. His mouth opened at that. But then he recovered and asked if there was anything else I wanted to know. “Is the bed comfy?” He smiled, said sure as shootin’ and we became, for an hour or two, friends.

The bed, I suppose was comfy enough. The springs squeaked or maybe that was the parrots’ squawk. The sea slapped the shore, or maybe that was his belly slapping mine as we fucked. He’d fingered me first, front and back. Fucked me front and back too. His cum, what leaked out, was, in black and white, the same color as the sheets. What will the maid think, if there is one?