Having failed to woo impressionable buxom young totty in the mean streets of suburban Johannesburg, I've relocated my philandering appetites to a house at the sea, a day-raid's distance from a provincial, oak-laned university town.
The sleepy collegiate hamlet is sardined with callow, sulky-bodied English literature students. Mousey-haired, cardigan-wearing, sun-shy Ophelias haunt the bookshops, shoplifting Brontë anthologies and crowding the Emily Dickinson section thick as barnacles on a ship hull. I've been reliably informed they can be pried off with promises of pale tea, crumpets, and an avuncular readiness to listen to their hand-wringing concerns about global warming, vegan casserole recipes, or to hear their earnest, ink-stained Emo poetry.
If I were to actually charm and butterfly net said Gwendolyn, Harriet, or Miranda, I haven't quite decided quite what I'll do with them. Perhaps begin a salon in the white house at the beach, with me as the Svengali. I'd send them out on earnest errands, like writing indignant pro-vegetarian Belle and Sebastian lyrics on the walls of butcher shops, or acting all-girl Shakespeare B-sides to the culturally disadvantaged at the local YWCA rec centre.
Leery of restless scythe and torch wielding parental lynch mobs, it's perhaps best I steer clear of any amorous interference, and limit titillation to passing my nubile acolytes on the stairs, or evenings of rising sexual tension over Scrabble and Earl Grey tea. Hyperventilating arousal could be cooled when necessary by reading po-faced Nadine Gordimer novels about white guilt, or listening to Andrew Lloyd Webber.
I have placed a personals ad on the English Department noticeboard:
"OMG! Emily Dickinson is the shizz. Seriously, dudes. Awesome! LOL! Recluse stationery fetishist (Male, 40). Possibly out of his depth with today's youth. KTHX! Box 137, Kenton on Sea."
Hope springs eternal.