The fox and the wolf, the other children call them.

None of this I knew when I was writing the story. You make it up, and it still turns out to be true.

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.)

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.

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?

Because we want to see you.