The fox and the wolf, the other children call them. They share everything, these feral boys. The fox and the wolf, the totem animals, say, the familiars of the men of the Poppy, Istvan and Rupert. The wolf, the “lone wolf,” is truly an animal who lives in, hunts in, and prefers packs; the fox is solitary. Though “The dominant male and female fox form a pair that may last for life . . . The pair travel, hunt and feed independently but occasionally meet, either briefly or for longer periods during which they play or groom each other.”
None of this I knew when I was writing the story. You make it up, and it still turns out to be true.
Here’s the inside of the card: “Sexomania”, published in Punch, 27 April 1895:
And here’s the outside:
And there are candles blazing on the cake and Champagne ready for the toast: and we owe so much to you, dear Oscar, for the gentleness of your wit and the relentless courage of your heart. Happy birthday! You will always have a table of honor at the Poppy, the Mercury, and any other place a mec may play.
(Note: you can see lots more at Fuckyeahwildeboys, so please do.)
The erotic reminiscences of the best known courtesan of the Second Empire, revealing the most intimate secrets of lovers from every level of society-even, she claims, Napoleon III himself . . . Cora Pearl discusses in the most graphic detail the sexual prowess and predilections of lovers famous and humble; tells of her erotic exploits on horseback; invents, then ignores, the motto “jamais avec les domestiques”; and describes her presentation at dinner, cream-decked, as an exquisite final dish.
Whoa. The folk at the Poppy have never even considered taking part in such a repast, which demonstrates their charming innocence if you ask me. It also demonstrates that, no matter what you make up, it still turns out to be true and then some.
On other matters prostitutical, if that’s a word: proper costuming is essential. One cannot just throw on a frilly corset and call it a day, or a night. Female or male, what matters in matters of desire is rousing the senses of the client, whether that be with feathers, flowers, masks, certain scents (pine, oddly, is considered an aphrodisiac), certain textures – not only silk or satin or rough leather – it’s a very tricky science, desire. Having recently finished a story about a decidedly fierce young prostitute (“La Reine D’Enfer,” to appear next year in Queen Victoria’s Book of Spells, edited by Datlow & Windling), wherein that science was considered darkly and anew, one must remember that the surroundings of the brothel can be as powerful an enticement as the young gents and ladies themselves, if you trick it out just right.
What do you carry, along the road of desire? Sweet memories? Harsh imaginings? A feeling that, once the foot steps from the path, everything will change?
And what do you bring, to the one who loves you?
The sign of the chimera, the gent so upright and buttoned-down, buttoned in. What does it take, to make you reach for what you want?
This afternoon I’ll be appearing at the Ferndale Library’s Queer for Books discussion group, open to everyone who’s read Under the Poppy or have it on the TBR pile (we are inclusive!). The event is 3 – 5 PM, the library is located at 222 E. Nine Mile Road, Ferndale, and if you have a sexy puppet, by all means bring it along.
One can do so much with a shadow – Peter Pan knew that, of course, as did Jung, and of course any number of puppeteers. This is another way to play with shadows in motion, or shadows and motion . . . If your shadow could talk to you, what would it say? [Photo: KK.]
You will never experience this problem Under the Poppy. Okay, the watch, maybe.
Because we want to see you.
