The whole debacle can be traced back to my blasted cousin Claude and his fascination with the male... well, the male anything, truth be told. Anatomy and whatnot, and the display of the same to best advantage, not to mention ravishment of said m. a.
It all started that dashed sunny spring morning when this Wooster made his merry way to the Drones Club, whistling melodically, for a spot of fun and games and maybe even lessons in Gussie's newt dance. On arrival, however, one was greeted by something of a melee, one might even say a crowd, crowding - as crowds are wont to do - around one Claude of one's bloodline.
"What ho!" chirped I.
Unlike the expected parting of the crowd, however, I received no acknowledgment - verbal or otherwise - at all, which resulted in much scratching of the old bean and some small measure of irkedness.
Eventually, my cousin's golden-locked paramour waved me over with a luminous smile and a, "Here, Bertie!"
I stealthily homed in on the cause of all the commotion and found to my utter astonishment that it was a book, laid open upon my cousin's lap. He and said book were being showered with giggling and snickering the likes of which I had never hitherto seen outside my aunt Agatha's sewing room.
"I say, Claude. What's all this about then, eh?" I peered as best I could over assorted shoulders, and when finally one pair separated from the next to furnish a channel for yours truly to sail forth into the midst of the gathering, I could do little else but croak, somewhat undignified, "I say!" I swallowed, and tried again, with all the force due this event. "I. Say!"
Claude grinned up at me stupidly, eyes every bit as shiny as Anatole's glazed carrots. "I got it at the British Museum, Bertie."
"Did you indeed, Claude?" I continued to boggle.
"Yes, it's a catalogue, and it goes with an exhibition they have on at the moment."
"I daren't ask."
He smirked. "The Male Anatomy and its Depiction since Ancient Greece. Isn't it marvellous?"
I gazed upon the pages open in his book with deer-like eyes, feeling any number of strange ways. I like to think the old Wooster bean has wrapped itself around a thing or two, but the statue in Claude's illustration - or rather, the somewhat scandalously entwined pair of statues - was quite unlike anything it had ever encountered.
"I can see you're wondering about the chaps' state of undress, old cous," chirped Eustace off to the side. "Well, it's art, you see--"
Overcome by a sudden urge to consult with Jeeves, I made my excuses to rally homewards, spending the entire blessed trip, it shames me to say, contemplating the previously uncontemplatable.
Jeeves, unaware of the young master's preoccupation, seemed somewhat taken aback when his deep bow and deeper-voiced, "Sir," were greeted with an undignified squeak and said young master's sprint into the adjacent bedroom.
What was it about Jeeves' usual Jeevish appearance that had disturbed the famed Wooster composure, you might well ask? Well, of course, it was all to do with that blasted book of Claude's.
I must admit that I had hitherto never dared to contemplate seeing the magnificent, brilliantined Jeeves head venture into the Wooster nether-regions, but now that the idea had been aroused, so to speak, in the old bean, said i. was becoming rather hard to shake loose again.
"Sir? Are you quite well, Mr Wooster?" Jeeves boomed from the doorway.
Not turning around where one sat clinging onto one's dressing table with a white-knuckled death grip, the words, "Perfectly, Jeeves," piped forth, though in a rather husky tone.
Jeeves' brow rose intelligently. "I am relieved to hear you say so, sir, but you'll pardon me if I bring you a stiff drink all the same? You do look somewhat peaky."
"Peaky, yes," I parroted. "Drink. Capital idea, Jeeves."
He nodded and glided from the room, only to return in an exceptionally brief jiffy, bearing a tray with a fortifying tonic, with which he proceeded to approach.
A certain degree of girlish faintness made itself known in the old equilibrium, don't you know, when Jeeves leaned rather inappropriately close while placing the tray upon the dressing table. The close bit was not all that had the balance all asunder, mind you. There was the rather potent combination of Jeeves being both close and close-shaven, as he has the somewhat head-turning habit of following a close shave with a musky and fresh - rather fresh indeed - aftershave.
Altogether, I felt that my man Jeeves was not being quite fair to the young master.
"I am having a rather trying day, Jeeves," said I, pouting becomingly.
"Are you really, sir? I am sorry to hear that," Jeeves responded solicitously. "May I ask--?"
"No! No, absolutely not. I could not possibly speak of it." The mirror before me quite unnecessarily confirmed that I had turned an alarming shade of red.
"Very well, sir," Jeeves said, about to retreat.
"It's my fool cousin Claude, Jeeves!" I ejaculated, unable to hold it in another moment longer. "He showed this book 'round at the Drones Club. It goes with this show, he says, at the British Museum, and--"
"The Male Anatomy and its Depiction since Ancient Greece, sir?" Jeeves guessed rather uncannily.
"Hum... yes, er..." I babbled.
Jeeves cleared his throat. "A most aesthetically pleasing exhibition, I gather." Here he stopped, and gave the young master an uncomfortably long, deep, penetrating stare. "You found the notion a trying one, sir?"
I gaped, fish-like, for some moments, and he offered, rather forwardly but well within the feudal spirit, "Perhaps you would care to attend it with me this afternoon, sir? We could contemplate its unsettling nature together."
I gulped, then croaked, "Ah, yes, Jeeves. That would be... erm... delightful."
"Very good, sir." Jeeves sported a decidedly smirkish looking smile as he turned to depart my boudoir.