My enemies shrank from battle, in this, what I hope is my last summer—denied me the glory of a gory end. But that is another tale.

Baltimore recently had a short cold snap and I began to hobble, limping into the well of decrepitude that had swallowed me this past Autumn, knowing that it will yawn deep and empty for me again with the coming of another winter.

So, when former wench of mine Babelicious Capri let it be known that she was once again in need of having the honor of wearing the Khan's saddle, my inner patriarch of old, encouraged by Big Ron dropping me off in front of her hut and saying, "You need to throw her some..." decided that it was time to stress-test the faulty hip.

Hours later, once again acclimating myself to the doe-eyed submission of the conquered, the thought of re-sheathing the hammer of the Khan in last nights work strap had me concerned about cleaning it. This was not a problem. Soap, without perfume, is the best, under hot water and rinsed and wrung thoroughly. But without my Sumo brand jock strap rack to dry them on—being on the road and in the saddle so to speak—how was I to dry the very device that kept me from tripping over the family jewels every time I lifted more than 20 pounds?

One needs a source of driven air.

As the soft clinging embrace of the conquered clued me into the fact that I would not be taking directly to a non-air conditioned bus and there able to hang it out the window, I was vexed with the need to find this source in the wench's humble dwelling place.

Aha!

There was a fan, a simple floor fan, obviously engaged to do its work on behalf of the recently slaving mare.

To dry such a thing in her dryer would ruin the gonad-preserving elasticity.

Now, seeing her fluff her hair before the artificial breeze, I was reminded that aging pleasure wenches keep a great stock of grooming substances, lotions, etc. on hand to repair the damage wrought by such an encounter. I found two quart-sized bottles with hand pumps, spaced them a foot apart in front of the fan, looped the thigh straps twice around each nozzle, and the sacred carrying device of the Khannic gene pool would stay suspended regally off the floor.

Yes, in days of yore, some castrated boy would have been sent off to run around in circles, his lord's strap held high until dry. But such is the poverty of these times, that wenchly devices must be used to preserve the honor of the khannic hammer.

So be it.