Dirty Ol’ Dahl

S.J. Chambers uncovers a sexy side to the dark-witted author of CHARLIE AND THE CHOCOLATE FACTORY

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When people think of sex, childhood author Roald Dahl is probably the last thing that comes to mind. With hits such as CHARLIE AND THE CHOCOLATE FACTORY and BFG, it would seem Dahl’s territory was innocence, but there is a flipside to Dahl where children are almost nonexistent, and grown-ups get nasty in versatile ways. Dahl’s adult dossier is slim, but is filled with trademark nuanced and memorable characters like Dahl’s fictional Uncle Cornelius Hendryks Oswald. Introduced as copulating on top of pyramids and stealing pheromones in the short story collection SWITCH BITCH, Oswald’s philandering career gets the full treatment in MY UNCLE OSWALD.

The eponymous novel is an excerpt from Oswald’s diary, preserving his entrepreneur tale of hoodwinking, drugging and stealing from early 20th century geniuses. Cornelius Oswald was to a manor born with excellent connections, but was left little in the trust fund. Already destined to become “…the greatest fornicator of all time” by 17 (in 1912), Oswald knew what he wanted from life—international women, vintage wine, the finest cut clothes and the fastest automobiles. He would need to become a millionaire by 30 to maintain his extravagant life. He needed a scheme. Luckily, one appeared in the form of an old family friend, The Major, who tells Oswald a bawdy story of the legendary Sudanese Blister Beetle (Cantharis sudanii), said to be the world’s strongest aphrodisiac. Ground into a powder, a single pinhead amount would be effective for hours. The Old Man attested to the potency, having swallowed an entire Blister Beetle that fell into his whiskey while in Khartoum:

“ ‘…the paralysis didn’t last very long. But when I came to as it were, the first thing I noticed was a burning sensation in the region of my groin. ‘Hullo,’ I said, ‘what the hell’s going on now?’ But it was pretty obvious what was going on. The activity inside my trousers was becoming very violent indeed and within another few seconds my member was as stiff and erect as the mainmast of a topsail schooner.’ ”

The Major’s story piques Oswald’s curiosity, and when he is sent on a pre-collegiate tour in Paris, he sneaks off to Khartoum, procures 5 lbs of Blister beetle powder and tests its success among the insatiable Parisiennes.

Oswald knows this is good stuff and processes the powder to sell as pills. He targets his father’s limp, old ambassador friends, gives them free samples and charges them thousands when they come begging for more the next day. Oswald is worth £100,000 by the time he is settled at Cambridge,

But this is just how Oswald got his start-up money. The real enterprise comes after World War I when a battle-worn Oswald returns to Cambridge and discovers that a beloved friend, Professor A.R. Woresley, has made groundbreaking discoveries in spermatozoa preservation and artificial insemination. Innovation begets innovation. A deceitful and lusty plan is concocted in Oswald’s mind: how much would rich women pay to have the spawn of dead geniuses? Hundreds of thousands, even millions!

With Woresley’s new preservation method, insemination was easy, but collecting the precious semen without giving the living donors a cut was trickier. Oswald knew of only one solution: slip them the sudanii. Of course, a decoy would be needed to do the drugging and stealing. Enter the irresistible Yasmin Howcomely, an intelligent and exotic beauty who loves romping as much as Oswald and goes after her famous prey like a child chasing butterflies.

The trio goes into business and what ensues is an epic lark: Oswald and Yasmin go on a series of spermatozoa expeditions, drugging royal and ingenious victims such as Monet, Degas, Einstein, Proust and Freud with sudanii-laced chocolates. Whether they are elderly, celibate, wheelchair bound or prefers buggering boys the Blister Beetle has them all distracted and smiling like Enzyte Bob. At Yasmin’s will, she’s able to slip onto their monstrous erections a black rubber condom that collect the booty after they’ve collected hers. Within a matter of months, the sperm bank is built.

Because of each donor’s sexual idiosyncrasies, the novel is a delicate weave of intrigue. Once you’ve heard the punchline, it’s not as effective. For that reason, I’m resisting the urge to tell you the one about Shaw and celibacy, or about lazy sex with kings. I don’t want to be a tease either, and should point out that this novel is not graphic enough to be considered erotica, and it is easily a steampunk forerunner with its line-toeing between historical and science fiction.

To me, the piece is nostalgia. There were no worries of AIDs in 1979 and the 1920s, when Oswald was published and roughly set. Yasmin’s use of a hatpin to stab multiple overzealous partners strikes me as quaint in light of how we think of blood transfusions and needle exchange today. The romping is guiltless and carefree, which makes it relaxing to read. Sure it isn’t down and dirty, wet or arousing, but it is innocent fun that won’t be regretted the next morning.

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