Victorian porn: The Saga of Abbie

The Saga of Abbie Who Is Happy And Well
And Corsetted To The Limit

(Blogger's note. I did NOT write this. I don't even know where it came from, so I must presume it's written by that ill-regarded writer, Arthur Unknown. It goes on for 101 verses. . . so hold on. . . )

1 In my hourglass corset I'm laced every day,

My little wasp waist is shrinking away.

The stays squeeze me inwards so small and so nice,

In a pattern of lacing that grips like a vice.

2 When I was a child I could never understand

Why the shape of my mother was stately and grand,

But early one morning I once chanced to see

How Dad laced her corsets as tight as could be.

3 Dad said to Mama, "You're not tightened yet",

And he pulled till his forehead was glistening with sweat,

While Mother said gaspingly, "Close them you must",

While breathing so fast in her trembling bust.

4 At last Dad succeeded, the laces were tied,

And Ma was so slender, I ran to her side,

My eyes big with wonder, my mouth wide agape

As I longingly gazed at her beautiful shape.

5 "O, Mother, O Mother", I gasped out of plea,

"O when can I have a wasp waist for me?

A real lady's corset, all lace-trimmed and blue.

I so want to be beautiful, just like you".

6 Mother smiled as she held smelling salts to her nose,

Then she said "Ask your Daddy", and pulled on her hose,

But Daddy demurred, "We need more time to think",

But Mum whispered, "Let her", and tipped him a wink.

7 That night Mother said as we sat round the fire,

"Is a nice waspy waist what you really desire?"

"O yes, Mummy, yes. Do let it be soon".

But suddenly Mummy fell down in a swoon.

8 Up jumped my Daddy and went to the drawer

And took out the scissors (I'm sure that he swore)

To cut Mummy's laces. She feebly gasped,

"No, don't cut the lace", as her waistline she clasped.

9 It did not take long for my Mum to recover,

While Dad fussed around like an overwrought lover.

He said, "Listen, Abbie, now I'm warning you

That's what tight-lacing will usually do".

10 I replied, "So I faint, but I truly don't care,

I want a wasp waist like my Mummy, so there.

O, please Mummy do try dear Dad to persuade,

To let me be corsetted. Please get one made".

11 Daddy hummed and he hawd, "So that's what you say,

You're just like your Mother; she gets her own way.

If that is the garment you're dying to wear,

Tomorrow we'll go to the corsetière".

12 My anticipation was loaded with bliss,

I rewarded them both with a hug and a kiss.

That night in my bed as in slumber I curled,

I dreamt I'd the tiniest waist in the world.

13 We went the next day to the corsetières.

And inside the shop she displayed all her wares.

So graceful the shapes of the corsets and stays,

I stood there enchanted, my eyes all a-glaze.

14 She measured me up, she measured me down,

She looked through her pince-nez, her brow in a frown.

"A wasp waisted corset? We have just the thing

To make you a lady with a waist like a ring".

15 They took me upstairs, I was in such haste,

The corset was clasped round my tender young waist.

"Now come to the mirror and see with your eyes

Your waist whittled down to its tiniest size".

16 I looked in the mirror, my heart was so full,

And then on the laces I started to pull.

I wanted the tightness, so comfy to savour;

My parents had done me the loveliest favour.

17 "Do you think you can manage to lace in yourself?"

Asked Mother. In answer I grinned like an elf.

"I love the sensation", I tugged hard with zest

Till my arms ached again and I took a short rest.

18 "How do you feel?" asked the corsetière,

"It's a lovely sensation", I had to declare.

"I want to be smaller, with bosom up thrust,

And the smaller the waist the larger the bust".

19 Then mother said, "Let me start pulling you in".

"Your arms are not strong enough for you to win".

So taking the laces she started to tug;

Oh, the sheer joy of that beautiful hug.

20 "Please pull. O please pull my little waist in,

I want to be tiny, delightfully thin".

I felt the desire to endure like a saint,

But I fell to the floor in a rapturous faint.

21 I opened my eyes, and I smiled with delight.

There, I'd had my first faint in my corset so tight.

I rose to my feet and I asked, "Where's my corset?"

Mother said, "It is here, but this time don't force it".

22 "Please Mummy replace it and wrap it round me,

A wasp-waisted lady I'm dying to be.

I'm no longer a child, I'm a woman, so there,

And when I get home please put up my hair".

23 Once more in my corset, the corsetière

Pulled slowly the laces with consummate care.

"I'll not close the corset this time", she averred,

"We don't want a faint like the last", she observed.

24 Gently she pulled the laces along,

My waist became small in the corset so strong.

The stays, readjusted less tight than before,

Were fastened, but open an inch or more.

25 Across at the mirror I gazed with awe;

I stared, and could hardly believe what I saw.

My waist was a stem, a beautiful figure,

My chest looked and felt extended and bigger.

26 I saw my breast heave I was breathing so fast,

But I had an hour-glass waistline at last;

And later as Mum and I walked down the street,

We were conscious of pride in our figures so neat.

27 Then back at home the day was to face,

With a corset so tight that I could not unlace.

At lunchtime I ate up as much as the rest,

And felt that my dinner was stuck in my chest.

28 "Don't worry", said Mum at the end of the meal,

"It's only a transient discomfort you feel;

It will all pass with patience and rest,

And in time you will tackle your eating with zest".

29 I patiently got trough the rest of the day;

My corsets felt tighter, but I felt so gay,

And upwards and downwards I savoured the touch

Of the tapering body I wanted so much.

30 My waist is reduced to an eighteen inch span,

A sight for the eyes of susceptible Man.

Be it never so tight I'll endure the squeeze,

For a lady must ever appear at her ease.

31 One lovely night I went out to a dance.

My favourite swain I sought to entrance.

A corset that measured half an inch less

I wore with patience under my dress.

32 Then David my boy-friend said, as he went past,

"Our Abbie's a grown up young lady at last",

And in the first dance, he held my hand tight,

And asked "How many dances can you spare tonight?"

33 In no time at all my dance card was filled.

This night was my night, and how I was thrilled;

And as we whirled round in the gaslight so shady

I was no more a child but a regular lady.

34 My little wasp waist felt as solid as wood,

I bravely endured it as much as I could.

The joy and excitement helped me to forget it,

A wasp waist is mine, I'll never regret it.

35 And as we went round in a lighthearted whirl,

David said softly, "You beautiful Girl".

I gently responded without any haste

And daringly guided his hand round my waist.

36 And then on the lawn outside the dance floor

He placed his two hands round my waistline once more.

We kissed and we kissed, and he held me so tight,

I very near fainted with tightness that night.

37 My next tiny corset reduced by an inch

To sixteen and a half, a regular pinch.

I'm wearing the corset, awake or asleep,

My hour-glass stem I'm determined to keep.

38 Now that I'm tight in my corsets all day,

I sometimes feel consciousness fading away.

The pain and discomfort deny me my peace,

But nothing will urge me my stays to release.

39 It's my firm intention with might and main

A sixteen inch corset my size to attain.

Said Mum, "It will cost you devotion and tears

If you want a waist measure the same as your years".

40 The new corset came and was opened in haste,

A garment in elegant beauty and taste.

A sixteen inch corset with lace white and blue

To make my desire to be smaller come true.

41 "Please, Mummy, come help me the corset to try".

"You'd better ask Daddy, he's stronger than I".

So up in the bedroom, the corset was placed

Around my slim body prepared to be laced.

42 As Daddy pulled only gently at first

I felt that my up swelling bosom would burst.

The tightening in was an exquisite thrill

As I put all my trust in his strength and my will.

43 Daddy tugged on the lace until he perspired,

And the corset was closed as I had desired.

Across to the mirror I tottered to see

My new shape reflected; oh could that be me?

44 Hips flared into curves so majestic and sweet,

My chest was so large I could not see my feet.

My waist was a sensuous curve of blue,

A tight little thread that united the two.

45 As I went to the door, I knew I was pale,

But I entered the room like a ship in full sail,

My chest, as I walked swayed from side to side

And Mummy and Daddy surveyed me with pride.

46 That night in my bed, so determined was I

To sleep in my corset I wanted to try;

But try as I might, I started to weep,

For the merciless corset would not let me sleep.

47 By midnight I just couldn't stand any more,

And I tiptoed downstairs past Mum's and Dad's door,

And there on the sideboard, because it was handy,

I took a large drop of Napoleon brandy.

48 The tot was so strong, so I staggered to bed,

I fell on the mattress and lay down my head;

But sleep was denied and just would not come,

And by four in the morning my tummy was numb.

49 To breakfast I went all tired and teary,

My wasp waist had left me weepy and weary.

Said Mother, "In time you'll not feel the pinch.

Come up and I'll let it out just half an inch".

50 The pain and discomfort transcended belief,

I was grateful to Mum for providing relief.

But I was resolved that come what may,

My stays would be closed by the end of the day.

51 To hold and keep your waist small and indented

Expansion by night must be firmly prevented.

Your corsets by night will your figure be moulding,

A seductive wasp waist is an asset worth holding.

52 When I took off my stays a new pleasure I found,

Without their support I tottered around;

My uncorsetted waist was fragile and frail,

My top half would give way like a tree in a gale.

53 On opposite walls two mirrors I've placed,

So I can admire the back of my waist.

Minus my stays, of support I'm bereft,

And in rapturous pleasure I sway right and left.

54 I see in my mirror my outstanding chest,

While my heart is a-fluttering inside my breast.

A sigh of content comes up to my lips

As my burgeoning breast overhangs my hips.

55 My sixteen inch waist I now carry with ease,

My waist has adapted itself to the squeeze.

I thought I was down to my limit in size,

But the Man of My Heart thought otherwise.

56 Now Raymond my husband you must understand

Loves to caress my waist with his hand.

He said, "Now your waist is down to this size,

A waist like your neck would bedazzle my eyes".

57 'Twas the voice of the charmer, and I as his wife

Will go to extreme for the man in my life.

To be much smaller my waist must be pressed;

I'll make him so happy, I'll give of my best.

58 A corset of half an inch smaller was brought,

A body of fifteen and a half inches taut.

That evening my husband requested to lace,

And into his hands the new corset I place.

59 "Just let me relax for a moment", I said,

You can lace me in tight as I lay on the bed".

My spouse took the laces all set to begin,

And slowly but firmly he pulled my waist in.

60 He tugged at the cords till I asked him to rest,

To close the new corset would be a big test.

With only one inch left apart to defeat,

I arose with his help, and I swayed on my feet.

61 I found if I went on my hands and my knees

He could pull in my waist with more expertise;

The flesh fell away and my body felt lightened

As Raymond pulled hard and the corset was tightened.

62 He pulled and he tugged till the corset's constraint

Became far too much, and I felt a fresh faint.

With Raymond I desired no quarrel or friction,

But my waist was protesting against its restriction.

63 A last final heave and Raymond was able

To tie up the laces as taut as a cable.

He tenderly helped me to stand on my feet,

As he clasped me around his fingers could meet.

64 I hugged him and kissed him in mounting passion

My slenderness made me exult in my fashion.

Connubial bliss we have found every time,

Is enhanced by a corset, and truly sublime.

65 "I'll never remove my corset", I said,

"Until it has moulded my waist to a thread;

It shall squeeze me and train me, that's my resolution,

I'll take it off only for regular ablution".

66 Raymond's delight and encouragement worked.

From lacing my corsets my man never shirked;

And several weeks later without any haste

Another proud inch was removed from my waist.

67 At fourteen and a half my waist was my pride,

The pain and discomfort I took in my stride.

Though I sometimes have fainted because of the pinch

I'll not ease the lacing, not even an inch.

68 My hips and my bust were a sight to be seen,

My waist was a tiny tight tube in between;

Whenever I ventured alone in the street

I felt pride in the sound of following feet.

69 My husband, enraptured, was bursting with pride

At the way people stared when we walked side by side,

And often young ladies bedizened in style,

Asked, "How do you stand it and still keep a smile?"

70 If Ray wanted something, he put on the charm;

His speech became like silver while stroking my arm,

He murmured such love, so caressing his voice,

"Please, please lace in smaller", he gave me no choice.

71 I tried to demur, even put up defiance,

My smooth-tongued charmer induced my compliance.

I had to admit as he gave me a hug,

Tight-lacing had captured me, just like a drug.

72 He gave me the corset so tiny to don,

A fourteen inch body, Could I get it on?

As he pulled came Desire, to be smaller yet.

I will be fourteen inches without a regret.

73 The corset went in with a pitiless grip,

I said, "Hold the laces, don't let them slip".

Ray answered, "I'll close it by hook or by crook.

Ah, I've done it. Now go to the mirror and look".

74 "Hold me up. Raymond, darling, my knees feel so weak",

He did so, I leaned with my head to his cheek.

My waist was compressed in its captive confinement

In superlative style and rounded refinement.

75 My mirror I love, for to see myself there

With a waist like a wasp is an ecstasy rare.

There I can admire my middle so frail,

My breathing so rapid, my features so pale.

76 He held me so tight as he stood by my side,

He knew that my knees were about to subside.

My small strangled waist could be crushed in no more,

I felt my knees give and I sank to the floor.

77 A few moments later I roused with a sneeze,

For Ray had pushed my head down to my knees.

His murmuring words were of love and of praise,

But all I could say was, "Don't loosen my stays".

78 "Are you sure you can stand it", asked he.

I answered, "That only depends upon me.

I am quite determined the tightness to bear,

And I'll sleep trough the night in my corset, I swear".

79 I slowly awoke as the dawn came to creep,

And below my wasp waist my hips were asleep.

As Ray pressed my tummy with finger and thumb,

I had lost all feeling, my muscles were numb.

80 There are many sensations tight-lacing bestows,

There's a feeling of weakness from hips down to toes.

When walking your chest sways from side to side

And your waist gives way weakly if you take a big stride.

81 These lovely sensations when felt in good measure

Will give the tight-lacer a world full of pleasure.

All men will admire your delicate sway,

The envy of women will make you feel gay.

82 In spite of the pain and discomfort I felt,

I wished that my flesh could be ordered to melt.

Now Raymond has said that he'd love me to wear,

A thirteen inch corset like Madame Polaire.

83 He showed me Polaire in a corset of lace,

With an hour-glass form of perfection and grace.

"That's only a picture, it may be quite true,

But I'll have a REAL thirteen inch waist for you".

84 I wanted so much my wasp waist to maintain,

But could I endure being smaller again.

The drug of desire to be tinier still,

Has conquered my body and strengthened my will.

85 The promise of gaining a torso so trim,

To be really admired in my figure so slim

Was almost too much, I chafed at delay;

But the thirteen inch corset arrived the next day.

86 The corset was lovely, I just had to smile,

I held the stay up to admire it awhile.

"Don't let us hurry", I ventured to say,

"Enjoyment is better for a little delay".

87 Though Ray was impatient, "All right", he agreed,

"To see you laced in is a pleasure indeed.

Whilst I don't mind a little suspense,

My desire for your lovely wasp waist is intense".

88 With arms around each other we stood tightly clasped,

I could feel my heart thumping; "Please lace me", I gasped,

With a movement of joy and in trembling haste

He fitted the corset around my waist.

89 "Please place it on loosely at first", I began,

"My shape in the mirror I'd like to scan,

My fifty four inches of bust to admire,

I think my new corset can lift it up higher".

90 "I'm waiting no longer", at last he declared,

"I'm lacing you in, or will you be scared?"

I smiled at him fondly and said, "Let's begin",

And in tense excitement he was lacing me in.

91 He pulled on the laces quite gently at first,

Then tighter, still tighter, I was ready to burst.

The hold of the corset was gripping at length

As firmly he pulled with all his strength.

92 My waist in its corset was much tighter now,

I wanted it closed no matter how.

My tight little waist was protesting amain

As Raymond continued to tug once again.

93 "Don't stop, please go on," Ray responded with vigour,

While I held my breath and endured the rigor.

As Ray on the laces his finger did press,

I heard him ejaculate one word, "Success".

94 The corset was closed, I was smaller still,

My thirteen inch waist was martyring thrill.

Swaying I went to the mirror to see

My waist microscopic; oh could that be me?

95 I clasped my hands round it as tight as I could,

My waist felt as hard as a column of wood.

My fingers and thumbs almost touched front and back.

How fragile it looked, but I felt on the rack.

96 I walked up and down with unsteady stride,

Ray holding my arm as he paced by my side

My waist was protesting, I swayed like a tree,

Enjoying the weakness that came over me.

97 Ray gave me some brandy, I took it in sips.

I rested my hands of the shelf of my hips.

The cone of my bust emerged like a flower,

I could gaze at my figure for hour after hour.

98 My thirteen inch waist by now is the norm,

My waist has surrendered, I keep it in form.

My body's resistance to corsets has gone.

No more do I tight-lace, I put corsets on.

99 The envy of women, the praise from the men

Would urge me to tight-lace all over again.

So if you desire to be praised for your taste,

Wear an unyielding corset and sport a WASP WAIST.

100 My upper part sways with each step as I stride,

My burgeoning bosom I carry with pride.

The ground I can only see eight feet ahead

In my six-inch heel shoes as I daintily tread.

101 The span of my waist is a minuscule measure,

A wee link my husband adores like a treasure.

I love my wasp waist, I'm the happiest wife,

With a waist like a stem I will wear all my life.

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FUN WITH WORDS!

And now it’s time to play. . .

FUN WITH WORDS!

Ye-e-es, it’s that goofy game in which we discover words that no one uses any more. Words that are retired. And a few once-popular phrases, which means they’re more than one word that isn't used any more!

I was going to put these in alphabetical order, but to hell with that. I sort of grouped them into categories.

Ready? 

Sociological terms:

Problem child (today called ADD, PTSD, QRST, evolving queer, or whatever the combination du jour is. Back then, they were just plain bad and had to go out behind the woodshed to be taught a lesson.)

Broken home: “He comes from a broken home.”  (Knowing looks, nodding heads. Ahhhh, that explains it.)

“Put him away” (as in “have him committed”, but it sounds more like closet clutter).

Sexual terms:

Nymphomaniac: I always thought this sounded like a long-winged insect, a dragonfly or something. Anyway, there aren’t any left, though people do go to Sex Anonymous and talk about how awful they are.

Frigid: Like a frigidaire. No hope of sex here.

Impotent: Always purely psychological. Now, purely physiological. Ain’t science grand?

Hymen: Does anyone have one of these any more?

Disease terms:

Grippe: Sort of like a flu, I think.

Lumbago: I love this word! It’s some sort of arthritic condition in your back.

Chilblains: An inflammation followed by itchy irritation on the hands, feet, or ears, resulting  from exposure to moist cold. Usually treated by rubbing snow on the afffected area. Ow.

Consumption: No, this has nothing to do with eating.

Ague: Jesus, I don’t know.

Psychiatric terms

Oedipus complex: Loves Mommy, kills Daddy, etc. Only in the Ozarks.

Penis envy: This was supposed to be universal among women, until science realized it afflicts mainly men.

Nerves: Nerves could mean anything, but it generally worked to get you out of gym class.

High-strung: We didn’t say bipolar then.

Candy terms:

Humbug: Hard boiled sweet, normally peppermint-flavoured, cushion-shaped. (And awful.)

Horehound: 1. an Old World bitter perennial mint (Marrubium vulgare) with downy leaves 2: an extract or confection made from the dried leaves and flowering tops of this plant 3: any of several mints resembling the horehound

Awful.

Pepsin:   a digestive enzyme in the gastric juice of stomach secretions that catalyzes the splitting of proteins into smaller, more absorptive peptides; an extract of pepsin from the stomachs of calves, pigs, etc., formerly used as a digestive aid.  A popular flavoring used in chewing gum, Lifesavers, etc. (Yum!)

These must be holdovers from the days of patent medicines.

Drunk words:

Sot

Crapulous

Bibulous

Not very flattering.

Miscellaneous:

Gay: this meant festive, flamboyant, even gaudy, and definitely happy. No one knows when the other meaning came into play.

Dandy: Not as in “just dandy,” but referring to a young man who was always just ahead of fashion and a bit of a poppinjay. Now mostly replaced by "metrosexual".

Hoary: Snowy or beardy or otherwise old and obsolete.

Self-pollution: This had nothing to do with going green, believe me!

Hankie (a related term): A piece of linen cloth that you blew your nose into (or worse), then stuck back into your pocket. You can see how Typhoid Mary got her start.

 http://margaretgunnng.blogspot.ca/2013/04/the-glass-character-synopsis.html

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The Glass Character: An Excerpt (Dance of the Comedian)

(This is an excerpt from my third novel, The Glass Character, a fictionalized account of the life and times of silent movie comedian Harold Lloyd. Sixteen-year-old Muriel Ashford has come to Hollywood in 1921 in hopes of meeting her screen idol. Thrilled by landing extra work in one of Harold Lloyd's comedies, Muriel finds her joy is somewhat dimmed by the realization that Harold is far from the godlike figure she imagined. Forced to work as a waitress at a speakeasy to make ends meet, Muriel encounters Harold out on the town with his former co-star, Bebe Daniels.)

After Bea’s horrified letter, I was beginning to wish this interminable shoot would end. We were only called in on certain days, often for very short periods of time, so there was no loitering about, no time for gossip. I was convinced my immortal seven seconds of screen time would end up on the cutting room floor.

I was always seeing things I shouldn’t, and this time it was Harold and Mildred necking behind a wobbly flat. His hand was on her breast, but she didn’t seem to mind. The wall was crumbling. No ring on her finger yet, so he would likely stop short.

Our brief sexual spark had fizzled. Just as well, for my cousin was right on all counts: I should never have let him touch me. Then during yet another back-aching, dreary, smoke-choked night serving illicit drinks at Frankie’s (password: chinchilla), my heart dropped into my shoes. There he was in the doorway in that spotlight stars seem to carry around inside them, elegantly dressed in a gleaming, expensive suit.

Panic-stricken, I ducked into the kitchen.

“Muriel,” Susan whispered in my ear, her eyes huge with excitement.

“Yes, I know.”

“He is an absolute doll! Even cuter than in his pictures. Who’s that he’s with?”

I wasn’t sure: a petite brunette who somewhat resembled Clara Bow, with bobbed hair, a silvery dress fringed all over, and long strands of artificial pearls. A real flapper. We all knew about the reputation of flappers, which ensured that Harold would have a good old time tonight.

I prayed he wouldn’t notice me, but my shift didn’t end until midnight, so I had to go on working. The studio paid me a pittance, and Frankie not much better, so I badly needed the tips to survive. This required a lot of smiling and leaning over.

I tried to avoid his table, but it was awkward. Then he and his girl got up to dance. I had never seen this particular step before, but it was complex and lively, and the music was simply wild. Some years later I saw a dancer named Kelly, and Harold had that same effortless, athletic grace. At one point he literally threw his girl up in the air and caught her, airplaning her around as the glitter-ball cast firefly rainbows all over the room. The other dancers slowly moved back to watch.

They finished with their version of the infamous tango from Valentino’s Four Horseman: both tribute and parody, sexy and funny at the same time. Their great comic gifts were evident, as was their physical oneness. The applause went on and on, and Harold casually reached up and caught the cup as it flew through the air.

Then I knew. It was Bebe Daniels. Officially they had broken it off, and she had moved on. (I didn’t know whether to believe the darker story doing the rounds.) Apparently they still had feelings for each other, for I was to learn that she’d had the diamonds from their engagement ring set into cufflinks which he constantly wore.

So they were still friends, or at least dance partners. Since this place wasn’t supposed to exist, they would be relatively anonymous here. (People were more inclined to keep their mouths shut in those days.) I studied her: she was dark, sleepy-eyed, and looked a bit dangerous. Not really pretty. I never could get a fix on Harold’s type.

Having effortlessly blown the audience down, they sat down again. Harold wasn’t even breathing hard. Bebe trotted across the room, waving gaily at a table of elegant-looking people.

Harold’s gaze swept the room.

His eyes lit.

If only he hadn’t smiled, ignited that way. I saw him mouth my name. I waved him off, he insisted, then I reluctantly came over to his table.

“Muriel! You look swell.”

“This awful thing? It’s full of smoke. And too short.”

He flicked his eyes up and down.

“Dance with me, Muriel,” he said in that wheedling, little-boy tone he had used with me in the rainstorm.

“I can’t. I’m on shift.”

“When do you get off?”

“At midnight.” I never should have said it. It sounded like a ludicrous fairy tale. “Anyway, I can’t dance like this. I look like a barmaid. And what about - ” I couldn’t say her name.

“Oh, don’t worry about that. Beebs has friends to talk to. We come to the clubs sometimes, just to dance. We’re not dating any more.”

“You’re awfully good. Where did you learn?”

“Didn’t, actually. Just sort of - ”

“I couldn’t keep up with you anyway.”

“I could teach you.” He could be so earnest, so Midwestern. Like he was teaching me the box step at a tea dance.

“C’mon, Muriel.” I thought: a gleaming movie star, one of the most famous people in Hollywood, is just at the tips of my fingers. Here I am, entering the mouth of the wolf again.

“Susan always brings her club clothes for when she’s off shift. Maybe I can change with her.”

“Good! Good!” Harold looked intoxicated with excitement, though I knew he was a good boy and didn’t smoke or drink or dabble in the white powder.

And at the stroke of twelve, I was led to the slaughter. Susan screamed with excitement and insisted she dress me. First I had to put on a strange undergarment that bound my breasts (not that I needed it). The dress was made of a heavy, shiny deep-blue material covered with hand-sewn glass beads, so I glittered when I walked. The neckline was shockingly low, the waistline dropped almost to my hips. The black patent-leather shoes had straps around the ankles, and higher heels than I had ever worn before. This wasn’t an outfit, but a costume.

Susan rouged my mouth, pinched my cheeks, and pulled a few strands of my hair out of the old-fashioned combs I still wore, making soft little tendrils.

I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror, and my pupils dilated. I looked nothing like myself. I could have been anyone. An actress. A flapper. A vamp. I’d have Harold in the palm of my hand.

I turned on my high heel, switched on my brightest smile, and flounced over to greet my swain.

He did a very admiring “whew!’, which was pleasantly enthusiastic without implying I looked a mess the rest of the time. Then snaked his arm around my waist.

“Don’t be afraid, it’s only the fox trot.”

“This fox doesn’t know how to trot.”

“Oh Muriel, you’re so funny!” He suddenly dipped me, in fact almost dropped me, then caught me at the last second while my head reeled. Yes, I realized, I am dancing with a comedian.

“Push against my hand a little. That’s it. There needs to be a bit of tension between us. Then with my arm, I’ll. . .”

My awkwardness lessened as he steered me around. The music was lavish: mellow saxophones, high keening clarinets, and a single violin soaring above it all in a melody so tender, it made my eyes sting. And my skin prickled with dizzy joy that I was in the arms of the most beautiful man in the world. 

He was very gradually easing me closer so that our bodies were almost touching, but I knew it was only another tease, proof of his power over me. This close, I could not help but feel his heat. I wondered if Bebe could see us, if it would even matter.

The fox trot escalated into the “toddle”, a sort of hop-step that was much harder to execute. The music grew wild, with razzing trumpets and primitive, thudding percussion. Harold had an almost shocking instinct for the music’s hot, sexy rhythms, and was practically lifting me off the floor so I could keep up.

Then came an announcement that made everybody cheer: “The Black Bottom!” Panicked, I shook my head vigorously: I knew I wasn’t up to this one. Maybe Harold and I could go sit down and talk. But to my shock, he grabbed another girl’s hand, a girl he didn’t even know, and set to, leaping around like an adorable little puppet. He radiated joy and exuberance like no one I had ever seen before. But he was dancing with someone else, as if women to him were practically interchangeable.

I left the dance floor, devastated, collected my things, changed back into my drab street clothes and headed for the door.

“Muriel . . .” I felt like I was being dragged back. 

“I have to go,” I said, trying very hard to keep the tremble out of my voice.

“Oh Muriel, I didn’t mean to abandon you. How about one more dance?”

“Harold, no! Why do you think you can yank me around like this? Go away, come back! Dance with me, but don’t touch me!”

“I thought we were having fun.”

“You know how I feel. And you told me not to. ‘We can’t do this, Muriel.’ Does that mean I can just turn my feelings off?”

“Be quiet, Muriel, you’re making a scene.” It occurred to me that a spat in a speakeasy wouldn’t be good for his career. 

“Go have fun, then.” I turned on my heel again, the dramatic effect ruined by a stumble because I was still wearing Susan’s ridiculous tottering shoes.

“It’s not fun.” He said it very quietly.

I had to turn back.

“It’s not fun to live like this. I feel like I’m not really close to anyone.”

“But what does it matter, so long as there’s a different girl for every night of the week.”

For an unguarded instant, he looked devastated.

“Oh, Harold, I shouldn’t have said that.”

“But you did.”

“Why can’t you just tell me if you like me or not?”

“It’s not a question of liking. You’re so very young, Muriel, not even out of your teens. Sometimes I wonder if you really know what goes on between men and women in this town.” 

“You don’t have to protect me. I can take care of myself.”

“I don’t think so, Muriel. You don’t know how pretty you are, and in five years you’ll be a full-blown beauty with real character, which means your looks will last. And you have talent, I’ve seen it. If you really want to be an actress, you can be. But you’ve got to be very careful.”

He seemed to be offering me stardom on a platter. I knew enough to suspect it. Still, I watched his face for the most minute chance that he would break his own rule and touch me.

“I might be able to help you,” he said.

“So what would I have to do, Harold?”

“What does that mean?” 

“I’ve heard the stories. Don’t you like them young?” My tone was provocative, acid, awful. 

“That’s not fair.”

“What about Bebe? Wasn’t she just a little underage?” 

His face darkened so quickly I had to catch my breath. 

“Leave Bebe out of this. You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“I know what other people are saying.”

“Why do you pay attention to such trash?”

“Oh, there’s more. Like the story of how you got your start.”

“Stop it right now. Don’t say another word.” 

“Oh, it’s just hearsay, but . . . who was that man who got you into the theatre? Connor, was it? Maybe it’s just a rumour, but I heard he was a bit of a nancy-boy.”

“What are you implying?”

“Can’t you guess?” 

The anger escalated into fury. “I don’t strike women,” he said in a frighteningly low voice. 

“That’s too bad, Harold, because then I could strike you.”

The air in the room was crackling and ready to explode. And he didn’t move. Stood vibrating with a fury that would soon turn to rage.

“I’ve given you every advantage. I only want the best for you.”

“You know what you want.”

“Show me a man who doesn’t.” The gloves were off, and I saw the hard, calculating man who had come from nothing and was tough enough to survive in a pitiless world.

I realized with a shock that I had no idea how to deal with him. He seemed to be getting bigger as I gradually diminished. I slowly backed up, and he advanced.

I ducked inside the unlit storage room. I grabbed his hand, and he followed. With Susan’s ridiculous wobbly shoe, I kicked the door shut.

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Do animal hybrids exist? Ask Betty Boop

You can always tell I've run out of inspiration when I begin to post totally bizarre gifs.(Never mind that it's every day.) I seem to be obsessed with these tiny captured cartoons that repeat, and repeat, and repeat, without even having to click "play".

Betty Boop is still emblematic of the 1920s flapper/sexpot character, her pre-Code outfit leaving nothing to the imagination. Her dress is about the size of a postage stamp, and no one knew how the front stayed up (Max Fleischer's iron will, I guess - but I can imagine what the stag reel was like). She often flipped up her microscopic skirt to reveal garters, thigh, and (let's face it) ass.

But her first appearance in a bizarre thing called Dizzy Dishes begs the question: did anyone know who or what Betty Boop was supposed to be? She wasn't even named here, and maybe originally she was just a one-off. Certainly, she was so grotesque that no one would ever want to see her (or hear her - that screechy chalkboard voice) again.

Nevertheless, she was significantly remodelled in time for a return engagement, the mental-institution eyes toned down, the spiky head gradually getting bigger and bigger until it barely balanced on her slutty little body. Huge heads on tiny bodies remind us of dolls, or babies - an instinctive response. I think men secretly lusted after her.

Then came the Hollywood Code as enforced by the Hays Office, a repressive legion of decency that took all the fun out of the movies. Betty's hemline plunged, her neckline shot up, and she began to look increasingly matronly. Here she even pulls her apron down over her knees. Betty! What happened to the little sex fiend who flipped her skirt up in the animal cafe?

Later I think she sold war bonds or something, wearing plaid woolen skirts and brown Oxfords.

The fact is, Betty was originally a dog. Either that, or a human-dog hybrid (a phenomenon I explored in a previous post: FOUND: Cujo's Rogue DNA!). A hideous one, too, flirting shamelessly with that whatever-it-is who pushes his erection-like heart back into his chest. Those aren't earrings you see dangling from her head: they're EARS. Her snout pops in and out as she offers grotesque kisses and flaunts her canine cleavage. Just what were the animators trying to tell us here: that Betty was a bitch?

The odd thing is, her humanizing (or humanization) happened in stages. The flappy ears remained even as her face began to look more normal.  Eventually she graduated to long pendulous earrings that still look a lot like those fleshy flaps.

Perhaps some minute trace of dog genes lingered. I would hate to see her children.

(Post-post: I just noticed, in that third gif, that she isn't wearing any panties.)

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Time traveller on Blackfriars Bridge: Director's Cut

I've posted the entire video of Blackfriars Bridge, filmed in 1896.  Pay attention to the man who walks in to the right edge of the frame at 11 seconds, just to the right of the lamp post, pulls his hand out of his pocket at 22 seconds, then walks off at the left side of the frame at 25 seconds.

Note his insouciance, his open coat flapping, his hatlessness and bold staring into the camera. Just a fleeting image of a young bounder, a ne'er-do-well walking across a bridge? Or a man mysteriously transported in a time machine?

You decide.





Special bonus footage: here is the complete Edwardian sequence, most of which consists of everyday activities of the era. But pay attention to people's facial expressions as they went about their day. I don't know how this film was restored, but it came out eerily three-dimensional and surreal, probably from converting the frames-per-second (i. e. there would be frames missing that would have to be filled in). This is nothing but sheer cinematic magic.

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Time traveller on Blackfriars Bridge

Could it be? Or have I been watching too much of the Big Bang Theory and Sheldon's endless theorizing about the possibility of time travel?

I have this little habit of making gifs out of YouTube videos - the shorter the better (which is why some of the gorgeous ones I made tonight wouldn't post - they were probably way too long). I found some stunning footage taken in London around 1900, in an era where the horse was the main mode of transportation, women wore corsets and skirts to the ground, and men were always properly attired in dark suits, overcoats and bowler hats (top hats for more formal occasions).

The uniformity of dress is one of the more remarkable aspects of these tiny visual time machines (along with the eerie three-dimensional quality of the ancient film: how did they ever achieve such an effect, or was it somehow pulled out of the depths of the antique silver nitrate by digital restoration and HD?). The aspect of the people, their facial expressions and formal bodily postures, reveal how very different these times were. Again and again I see women wearing a sort of uniform: a white blouse, often with puffy sleeves,which they called a shirtwaist, and a long dark skirt. The waist is so small that it's plain it didn't get that way on its own. Hair is piled atop the head with pins, and going without a hat is simply unthinkable.

Men are similarly hatted. Even poor blokes could afford an old battered one. A straw boater didn't cost you much, did it? To go about hatless - well, it was simply disrespectful, almost criminal. At the very least, it was suspicious.

As this three-second snippet of time on Blackfriars Bridge (first gif) endlessly repeats itself, we see carriages going by in a kind of dreamy haze, and people walking along the bridge - a woman all in black, a widow perhaps, walking in that stiff-spined way corseted women were forced to walk. Behind her is a couple so properly attired that they could have been cut out of a magazine. But who's this out front? Who's this bloke, not very visible at first because he's walking beside a carriage - the one pulling his hand out of his pocket and looking right at the camera (bloody sauce!)? He's wearing a fine enough coat, and he walks as if he owns the bridge, with a sort of swaggering stride.

Where's he going, then, that he should be walking (hatless!) with such an important air? Who does he think he is?

I'll tell you who *I* think he is.

He is not of his time.

He's from Somewhere Else. More specifically, he's from Now. Whether he projected himself into the past (meaning he's in two places at once: hey, quantum physics tells us it's a cinch, and the saints have been managing it for centuries) or just jumped, bodily, with his whole being, I KNOW this guy did not belong in Edwardian England striding, bareheaded and insouciant, across Blackfriars bloody Bridge back in 1896.

Looking more closely - and it's too bad I can't get a tight closeup of such a grainy figure - it may be that he isn't even wearing a tie. No one went without a tie unless they were in hospital - in a lunatic asylum, I mean. He just sort of flaps along without a care, so informal as to alarm the passersby.

If you plucked out any of the other figures and plunked them down in modern society, we'd think, oh, how lovely, there must be an Edwardian exhibition at the museum. Or something. If you plunked HIM down,  no one would pay him any notice.

BECAUSE HE IS NOT OF HIS TIME. 

He is not of 1896, he is of "now", which means that he knows things. Why do you think progress accelerated so wildly in the 20th century? Was it seeded by these blokes from the future (their future, I mean - this time shit is full of slippery concepts and paradox).

What shall we call him? Roger? How did he get back there? Is he from OUR future, when time travel  really does exist? Why don't we see time travellers walking around in the here and now? The only ones I've ever met believe in conspiracy theories and wear hats made of tin foil.

Roger will ever remain a mystery, breezing along the bridge 117 years ago. Not one atom of him would remain - not in a normal time-line, I mean. In truth, Roger may be walking around right now. The other Roger, the parallel one? My brain aches - a drowsy numbness pains my sense - and it's definitely time to go to bed.

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