Cimetierre was confined to a sick-bed for several weeks, officially over some tremendously awful but civically appropriate intestinal disorder, but really he was resting his aching and broken cock after a misadventure with the Margravine Prätzkin.
The gallant lover, certainly, entertains risks along with his amours; and had he but contracted some chancre or effusion, he would made tea for the archiater and marked his calendar. But that spectacular injury, dreaded in direct proportion (and thankfully) to its rarity, of rupturing his faithful hydraulics at the instant it bore its maximum in inches of head, to have imagined he might suffer it, let alone take precautions over it, would only have shorted his machinery. And so do all gallant lovers, mindful of poxy sluts regardless, thrust forward in wilfull ignorance of the faux pas de coit, as miners ever dash into caves without thought to their collapse.
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