I've just had a story accepted by Every Night Erotica, a site which publishes short erotic stories (and does pay for them - not a lot, but it pays).
I quite enjoy penning the occasional short story. However I find the process rather different from a novel. In a novel, I've got the space to explore characters and their world at leisure. I can build in various subplots, little obsessions or coincidences, journeys, all kinds of stuff. In a short story, on the other hand, I have to get one single neat concept to work. It's a bit like writing metaphysical poetry - the kind of conceit/concetto that Marino, or Donne, or Crashaw or Marvell uses. I need that conceit to turn the story from 'what we did on our holidays' into something satisfying. For me, 'reader's wives' isn't satisfying in a literary way.
So that conceit might be, let's say, a painting which someone sees and which sets off a memory... returning to the picture at the end (the birth of Venus... 'and yes, she smelt of the sea'...), or a neat revenge, or a sort of amorous duel or challenge. And it still has to be sexy (while the 120 days of Sodom might be a fascinating literary or metaphysical concept, I'm afraid de Sade turns it into a scabrous anarchist-atheist tract rather than an erotic novel).
That means the challenge is to pack the tiny suitcase neatly. As opposed to the novel, which is a kind of unpacking, throwing clothes all over the hotel floor before we get to jump into bed in the final scene, so to speak.
Oh yes, the story. Here it is:
http://www.everynighterotica.com/revenge-is-sweet-anna-austen-leigh/
Tuesday, 7 June 2011
Monday, 2 May 2011
Sumptuary law
I've been toying with the idea of a new re-enactment character. I've played peasants, burgess's wives, ladies and a prioress (Benedictine, if you're really interested), but I've never played a whore. Now, I'm thinking of a career in the stews.
I don't suppose it will go down very well at the kind of history fair where they bring innocent children to be educated. But it might be great fun for the other re-enactors (though I wouldn't want to give them too many ideas).
Anyway, I was doing a bit of research - on the grounds that 'Time spent in reconnaissance is never wasted'. Even if I never create the costume and the character, I'll probably end up using the information in a novel. And I came up against the sumptuary laws.
Now the intriguing thing about sumptuary laws is the way they crop up time and time again as a way of forcing people to expose their identities through their clothing - and to conform to a persona and an existence laid down for them by the state. Interestingly, the early Middle Ages only expected clerics and monks to dress the part. But as the merchants grew increasingly wealthy, laws were passed to stop them wearing clothes that aped the nobility. That only happens in the 1340s and later.
Prostitutes come in for special notice, because of course they would use any means they could to make themselves attractive - and that generally meant adopting aristocratic fashions. Look at Altdorfer's tart (pictured above) - she's got a plumed hat, an extravagantly pleated chemise that must have used yards of thin linen, an extensive décolettage, slashed sleeves; everything money could buy.
So the sumptuary laws try to rein back this excess;
- No fur! - London, 14th century; no "budge" or "revers"
- No precious metals! - Paris, 1427: no gold or silver buttons or belt buckles, or pearls. (And no fur.)
- No head covering! - Arles: modestly covered hair was the mark of the virtuous married woman.
However, I think my whore will have fur. The very fact that it was forbidden surely shows that prostitutes were definitely wearing it - and if my prostitute is rich enough to afford fur, she's probably also rich enough to afford it being confiscated. In fact, if she's lucky enough to have as her client a merchant dealing with the Baltic trade, say in Norwich or London, she might well get furs as a present from time to time.
What is sad, though, is how many women entered the brothels because they had no other choice. Orphan girls ended up there - so, terribly often, were women who had been raped and lost their 'honour'. So I think my character, though she may be a rich and fortunate woman in some ways, will have a story to tell that certainly isn't all high life... and maybe that will have to come out in a book, rather than re-enactment.
Monday, 7 March 2011
Sex in the Renaissance
I've just been reading Brantome, a contemporary of Shakespeare and Cervantes, and a gentleman of the French court at a time when the Renaissance was shining its light on France. His 'Lives of Gallant Ladies' is racy stuff indeed; a book about sex, not to put too fine a point on it.
Brantome's voice is very personal, his way of tackling the subject driven by his own tastes, not by any desire to create some great theory of love. He sometimes breaks off and says, simply, 'That's enough of that, or 'But this is more interesting'.
His morality is difficult to define. He's not an out and out hedonist; the emotion he most often admits to himself is pity - pity for women murdered by jealous husbands, pity for lovers separated by death or fate. He genuinely seems to feel that happiness is the purpose of human existence; he comments on the complaisant old husband who allowed himself to suppose his wife's children might, after all, have been his - "so they lived happily, and had a fine family." Or the menage a trois where the husband was in love with his wife's lover; "Whence came a solution of the problem..." Brantome is unshockable. Or rather, only two things shock him; cruelty, and coldness.
Anyway, I found the most beautiful and poetic passage in his first discourse. (And this is something that sets Brantome apart from the regular canon of 'erotic' texts, like Fanny Hill and the Kama Sutra, or the Marquis de Sade for that matter; he has a sense of poetry, he's of the same generation as Ronsard and du Bellay.) He speaks of a Spanish lady
"who would have it to be winter when she loved, & her lover a fire, so that when she came to warm herself at him by reason of the great cold which she felt, he should have the pleasure of warming her, and she of absorbing his heat as she grew hot, and so little by little to expose herself thoroughly to his gaze...
And then she would desire the coming of spring, and her lover to be a garden full of blossons, wherewith she might crown her head, her fair throat and her shapely breasts, and loll among them with her sweet body all naked between the sheets.
And likewise following this she would wish for summer, with her lover a clear fountain or a shining brook, for to receive her in his fair fresh streams when she went to bathe and sport therein, that he at last might see her fully and touch, caress and handle her lovely wanton limbs.
Finally at the close she desired him in the autumn to return once more to his proper shape, that she might be a woman and her lover a man, so that they might both have the spirit, sensibility and reason to contemplate and recall all their past delights, and live again in those fair imaginings and reveries, and to consider and discuss between them which season had been most apt and delicious for their loves."
That's lovely. It's a riff on the old folk song (and fairytale motif) of the two magicians - performed by Steeleye Span on Youtube - the multiple transformations of the maiden and the seducer. But the way Brantome tells it, it has the gentle poetry of a Ronsard sonnet, rather than the boisterous rough and tumble of the ballad.
So I'm now wondering whether I can take this story of the seasons, and perhaps make it into a nice little erotica novella...
Brantome's voice is very personal, his way of tackling the subject driven by his own tastes, not by any desire to create some great theory of love. He sometimes breaks off and says, simply, 'That's enough of that, or 'But this is more interesting'.
His morality is difficult to define. He's not an out and out hedonist; the emotion he most often admits to himself is pity - pity for women murdered by jealous husbands, pity for lovers separated by death or fate. He genuinely seems to feel that happiness is the purpose of human existence; he comments on the complaisant old husband who allowed himself to suppose his wife's children might, after all, have been his - "so they lived happily, and had a fine family." Or the menage a trois where the husband was in love with his wife's lover; "Whence came a solution of the problem..." Brantome is unshockable. Or rather, only two things shock him; cruelty, and coldness.
Anyway, I found the most beautiful and poetic passage in his first discourse. (And this is something that sets Brantome apart from the regular canon of 'erotic' texts, like Fanny Hill and the Kama Sutra, or the Marquis de Sade for that matter; he has a sense of poetry, he's of the same generation as Ronsard and du Bellay.) He speaks of a Spanish lady
"who would have it to be winter when she loved, & her lover a fire, so that when she came to warm herself at him by reason of the great cold which she felt, he should have the pleasure of warming her, and she of absorbing his heat as she grew hot, and so little by little to expose herself thoroughly to his gaze...
And then she would desire the coming of spring, and her lover to be a garden full of blossons, wherewith she might crown her head, her fair throat and her shapely breasts, and loll among them with her sweet body all naked between the sheets.
And likewise following this she would wish for summer, with her lover a clear fountain or a shining brook, for to receive her in his fair fresh streams when she went to bathe and sport therein, that he at last might see her fully and touch, caress and handle her lovely wanton limbs.
Finally at the close she desired him in the autumn to return once more to his proper shape, that she might be a woman and her lover a man, so that they might both have the spirit, sensibility and reason to contemplate and recall all their past delights, and live again in those fair imaginings and reveries, and to consider and discuss between them which season had been most apt and delicious for their loves."
That's lovely. It's a riff on the old folk song (and fairytale motif) of the two magicians - performed by Steeleye Span on Youtube - the multiple transformations of the maiden and the seducer. But the way Brantome tells it, it has the gentle poetry of a Ronsard sonnet, rather than the boisterous rough and tumble of the ballad.
So I'm now wondering whether I can take this story of the seasons, and perhaps make it into a nice little erotica novella...
Wednesday, 10 November 2010
Out soon!
I've just been through the edits of 'Pilgrim for love', my medieval themed novella. It's coming out with Logical Lust later this year (not much later!)- and I'm glad to see that coming back to it after a while, I quite like it. (Somehow when I'm writing I often get that feeling that when I come back to it 'cold-blooded' it won't read all that well. Anybody else ever get that feeling?)
It's also been nice to work with a good editor. I've had bad editors (as a journalist) and they can be hell; but believe me there is nothing better than an editor who spots little things like
- she's already taken her stockings off, how can she do it again?
- she's on top, then he's on top, then she seems to be on top again - could you just clarify this?
- I'm not sure 'puke' is a medieval word. (True, it isn't; it's first documented in Shakespeare, in the Seven Ages of Man speech. But I ran through every variant I could think of and the only authenticated 14th century word turned out to be 'vomit', so heck, it's Shakespeare, and he must have got it from somewhere! we decided to run with it.)
- If you read the datelines in one way, your heroine turns out to be a bigamist. Several times over! (Oops.)
Anyway, that's done - so all I have to do now, I hope, is wait!
It's also been nice to work with a good editor. I've had bad editors (as a journalist) and they can be hell; but believe me there is nothing better than an editor who spots little things like
- she's already taken her stockings off, how can she do it again?
- she's on top, then he's on top, then she seems to be on top again - could you just clarify this?
- I'm not sure 'puke' is a medieval word. (True, it isn't; it's first documented in Shakespeare, in the Seven Ages of Man speech. But I ran through every variant I could think of and the only authenticated 14th century word turned out to be 'vomit', so heck, it's Shakespeare, and he must have got it from somewhere! we decided to run with it.)
- If you read the datelines in one way, your heroine turns out to be a bigamist. Several times over! (Oops.)
Anyway, that's done - so all I have to do now, I hope, is wait!
Friday, 13 August 2010
Emma - an extract
I thought I might post a little of my latest work in progress here - 'Emma', the book based on the life of Lady Hamilton (though with a few definite revisions to make it a nicer story, at least for Sir William. I've always liked rewriting Verdi operas so the baritone gets the girl, and so it happens here.) Here's the chapter where Emma, currently attached (but not too happily) to Greville, meets Sir William for the first time...
Chapter Three
Romney hadn't seen Emma since the day he'd painted her as Cleopatra. He'd been working feverishly in his studio, finishing the paintings for his exhibition. He'd come a long way from the first rough drawings; these pictures showed Emma in exotic landscapes, or against monumental architectural backgrounds. The fresh paint gleamed softly; the smell of turpentine and oil hung in the air. Now, all his easels, all his rough drawings and paints had been cleared away, and the floor had been cleaned and polished, and a fine oriental carpet laid down. The paintings were hung on the walls – one, too large to hang, was simply propped against the wall – or the smaller portraits placed on small easels on tables, to be seen from close to.
He was pleased with these paintings. His brushwork was fine and loose. The surfaces didn't shine with the elegant satin polish of Gainsborough's; instead he'd caught the shadows, the deep textures of a half-lit room. Emma didn't have a sharp, foxy little face like the fashionable ladies, but it was the soft warmth or sparkling fire of her eyes that drew the attention – and that, he thought, he'd caught perfectly. Still, it wouldn't be till he let the public in this evening that he'd know whether it was going to work, or whether he'd slaved the last six months in his studio just to achieve splendid bankruptcy.
He paced in front of the high windows, twisting his hands together nervously. An hour still to go before the opening. Everything was prepared; the caterers had brought wine and brandy, decanted from their dusty bottles into sparkling cut glass. Baskets were piled high with fruit; there were small pies, and cold meats laid out on a table. An hour to go, and all he had to do was wait.
He'd invited the most fashionable men and women of the day; Sir Joshua Reynolds, President of the Royal Academy of Art, a placid man with his hesitant manner and his little ear trumpet; Horatio Walpole, a charming antiquary whose slightly fey manner belied his status as Earl of Orford; the Duchess of Devonshire, a flashy beauty with her huge hats and gambling debts. Then again, he thought, perhaps he'd just invited the notorious and eccentric; and he didn't know whether they would all come. He might be on his own all evening.
He took out his watch and looked at it. Still fifty-five minutes to go. Fifty five minutes of pacing and worrying. Since it was fashionable to turn up late, he might wait even longer...
A knock at the door broke his train of thought. It was Greville, smartly but plainly dressed. Romney was disappointed to see that Greville was on his own; no Emma. Greville took his gloves off, put his stick down with them on a side table, and turned to Romney.
“I wanted to commission a painting.”
This was unexpected. Greville was noted as a collector of natural history – of minerals, stuffed birds, old bones – but he wasn't by any means a connoisseur of art.
“You'll want a portrait of yourself?” That was, Romney thought, the obvious explanation.
“No; I want a portrait of Emma.”
Ah. That no doubt was why she wasn't here. It would hardly be tactful to bargain for the commission in front of her.
“Certainly... do you have a particular pose in mind? A particular character?”
“I want her in white. A repentant sinner.”
“Not the most dramatic of poses. Still, it will work, if I can balance all that white against a darker background. Yes, I can see it would work.”
But he thought it won't suit her. Penitent she is not.
They reached an agreement on the amount Greville was to pay. It wouldn't be a huge portrait – Greville couldn't afford it; but it would take three or four sittings.
“Is Emma coming tonight?”
“To be honest, I'm not very happy with her attending these fashionable occasions. I want a good little housewife, not some fashionable lady in my life. But she'll come tonight. As long as you keep her away from the rakes and loose livers.”
Romney smiled. “I haven't invited any. But keep her with you, Greville, if you're anxious about her morals. I'm sure she won't wander.”
***
The studio was already busy when Greville returned with Emma. She was neatly dressed in grey, with a white neckerchief covering her bosom decently and a small white bonnet perched on her upswept hair. She looked around the room; for a moment she was reminded of her days at Mrs Kelly's, with the murmur of conversation, the finery, the gradual loosening of manners as the alcohol that was being served took its effect. But of course, this evening wouldn't end the same way that evenings ended at Mrs Kelly's...
“This is just splendid.” A braying voice assaulted her ear. “Look at the velvet! The feathers! Such luxury. Who is this little minx with the dagger?”
Greville propelled her past, his hand in the small of her back. They were headed for Romney, who was gesturing in an animated way at one of the paintings as he spoke to a couple of older men. One was a big, bland-faced man, run a bit to fat in his age; the other was a small man, thin, with twinkling eyes and a vivacious face that must have been handsome once. Their wigs were out of fashion by ten years, at least, Emma thought; they were antiques.
“Greville... the Duke of Cumberland... he has been telling me about Canaletto's work, terribly interesting, and I've been invited to go and see his paintings... and Mr Walpole.”
“Orford,” said Northumberland gruffly. The other man looked up at him. “Nothing wrong with Walpole,” he said, “nothing wrong at all with Walpole.”
The two men inclined their bodies very slightly towards Greville, acknowledging him. Walpole shot a sharp glance at Emma.
“Who is the lady?”
Greville took Emma's hand in his, before Walpole could take it, even though Walpole had already started to bend to kiss it.
“Mrs Emma Hart,” he said, and his mouth drew tight in a thin line. Walpole stepped back, and smiled; but his eyes were hard and knowing.
Once Greville had paid his respects to Romney, he moved on, taking Emma with him. The studio was becoming full, and as the evening drew on, the air grew hot; the smell of beeswax from the candles was almost overpowering. In one corner, a woman in a huge black hat was holding forth to a number of young men; as she spoke, the white ostrich feather on her hat waved and nodded in the air, adding a rhetorical flourish all its own. Greville stopped a number of times to pay his respects to other men, but he rarely introduced Emma; only when the men involved were very old, she noticed, or very ugly.
There was a cluster of people near the portrait of Cleopatra. A distinguished looking man in a green coat turned from it to speak to his neighbour.
“She is lovely. Full of fire. A new actress, would you know?”
“I don't know. Never seen her before.”
“A pity. A woman who can act the empress so well. Even were she dumb, I'd be tempted to hire her for Drury Lane.”
He was looking straight at Emma as he said it, yet showed no sign of recognition at all, and turned back to his consideration of the painting.
“Damn my eyes! I saw Peg Woffington, I saw Susannah Cibber, and I've never seen anything like this.” He shook his head disbelievingly. “And no one knows who she is.”
Greville and Emma took their leave of Romney early – by London standards, at least, since it was still before midnight when they arrived home. Romney's eyes glittered, and his face was pink; he'd sold every picture, one of them twice – well, he'd have to see to that in the morning, but it was too late to correct the mistake now – and he'd been commissioned to paint every nobleman's mistress as Iphigenia, or Hecate, or Hecuba, or at least it seemed like it. He was so effusive they could hardly get away; and Emma was glad for him, the strange little man.
*****
Emma's next sitting was a few weeks later. She was glad to see Romney again; he looked happy and relaxed, without that shadow of care that had sat on his forehead while he'd been painting Cleopatra.
“You've made your fortune, Mr Romney,” she said as she took her mantle off. “The London Gazette predicts you will have joined the Royal Academy by this time next year, and the London Chronicle says you are a made man.”
“I doubt the Royal Academy will ever make me a member; I'm too morose, not sociable enough for them. But my paintings are in the fashion, now. All the younger artists are trying to find a tragedy queen as a model. But none of them have you, Emma.”
He took her cloak from her and laid it neatly folded on a chair, still talking.
“All the other portraits were for the exhibition. But Greville has asked me to make one for him to remember you by.”
“To remember me by? He's not going away, is he?”
“It's just a manner of speaking; no need to become so upset, dear. Oh dear, dear, what have I said? I meant, a picture for him to... to look at when you are not there. Come, come, your eyes are wet;” and having searched his pockets for a moment, he pulled out a large spotted handkerchief and handed it to her to snuffle into.
”So what shall I be today? A queen? An assassin? A wicked spirit?”
“None of those today; no, today you are a repentant sinner, clothed in innocence and contrition.”
Emma looked at the simple white robe laid out for her without enthusiasm.
“That's the way Greville wants you painted. Eyes raised to heaven, hands clasped in prayer.”
“Oh.” She stood there immobile, the white fabric in her hands. “Oh really. Romney, you do know where he found me, don't you?”
Romney demurred politely, though he'd had his suspicions.
“I became a whore when I was sixteen. I was a good one, too; you don't survive long at Mrs Kelly's if you're not. And now he wants me to look like a virgin.”
“Well, you can act. Show me now just how good an actress you are.”
She laughed. She hadn't thought of it like that. But she was good at acting for Greville. She posed as his little housewife, as if she'd never dreamed of anything more exciting than managing the household accounts and a single maid; she said her prayers for him, and never let him know she'd lost her faith when that Freethinker Edward Gibbon started courting her. Gibbon was a pudgy man with a face like a pug dog, but his fierce wit and wicked sly humour won her over, and within a couple of weeks of meeting him, she'd declared herself an atheist. She'd never needed to put on a pose with Gibbon; he was lovable. With Greville, though, she was always acting; disguising her hurt at the way he treated her, or pretending to a domestic happiness that wasn't quite real.
The white muslin was not unflattering, in fact, once she'd put it on; she realised it was not quite opaque, and Romney could see the shape of her breasts and legs through it quite clearly. Naughtily, she smoothed it down, making it quite obvious that her nipples had hardened in the cold as she'd changed. She could see Romney's interest, but pretending not to notice, she sat down and arranged herself as she'd been instructed, looking up and clasping her hands in front of her.
She looked straight at Romney, smiling. “Will this do?”
“Yes; but try not to look so insolent. You're supposed to be contrite.”
She did try, but it was difficult. She could act – but she knew this image was so far from the reality, she couldn't keep from smiling to herself. And though Romney had no difficulty in painting the depths of emotion in her huge and liquid eyes, he couldn't manage to get rid of the impish smile.
****
The painting was not a great success. Romney thought it was one of the best he'd done, and Emma loved it; but Greville was dissatisfied. Not dissatisfied enough to quibble about paying Romney what he asked; but Emma noticed that when he got the painting home, it was hung up in a room they didn't often use, at the back of the house, in a place where the light never seemed to shine directly on it.
Emma's life hadn't changed; she spent most of her time at home, and two afternoons a week with Romney, as his model. She didn't mind; following Romney's prompting, she had found a copy of Shakespeare's plays in Greville's library, and spent every afternoon reading. First Cleopatra,to whom she felt particularly close; Cleopatra, with her wheedling and flirting, her imperious temper and sudden changes, would have been quite at home in Mrs Kelly's, teasing and pleasing her men in equal measure. Then the wonderful island of the Tempest, with its spirits and music, its drunken and wicked men – those she recognised too from her own experience – and the wise, but weary, Prospero. The exact words she didn't always understand, but there was a sinewy music to the verse that carried her with it. She read each character, with gruff voices for the sailors, or an innocent girlish voice for Miranda; she grunted as Caliban, sang as Ariel, and danced her way through the final scene. Greville would never understand, of course, so she made sure the maid was out and listened carefully to ensure she was alone in the house.
Then one day she learned that her solitude was coming to an end. Greville had failed to make a rich marriage; and as a younger brother, he'd get nothing from his father but the hundred pounds a year he already possessed. And now, with Emma in tow, it was very unlikely he would ever make the marriage he needed to gain a fortune. But he did happen to have a wealthy uncle, whose wife had died some years ago – leaving (and this was important) no children to share his riches. The said wealthy uncle, resident at Naples, was intending to visit London for the first time in ten years, and Greville intended to put him up here.
Naturally, Emma would be a good hostess. Greville impressed on her that Sir William was lonely, after his wife's death; that an attentive young woman could make him feel content in London; and that the happier Sir William was, the more likely to settle his extensive estate on Greville.
“What kind of man is Sir William?” she asked.
“I haven't seen him since I was a boy. We correspond occasionally; he has an interest in antiquities. He appears to be somewhat eccentric; I was told he made pedestrian excursions to the volcano, and assisted in the excavations at Ercolano, rather strange activities for an English gentleman. He may have grown older this last couple of years, though. Other than that, I know little about him.”
Emma wondered what this uncle would be like. He was ancient. She imagined a senile old gentleman, well wrapped up against the cold. He would have white hair, or none at all. She would probably be best employed as his nurse; making up egg nog for his bedtime drink, and seeing that he ate enough. She would be dutiful; she knew how much it meant to Greville. His political career was stalling for want of funds – he needed to buy his way into a safe parliamentary seat, and the money he was making from his City investments wasn't enough.
Sir William would be arriving by the Calais packetboat in Dover, that Monday. Greville proposed to take a trap down to Dover, and drive Sir William home to London; he would have taken Emma, but he had no idea how many bags Sir William would have, and there might not be room. “Better not have an embarrassing scene,” he said; “if there are only the two of us, we will cover the ground more quickly, too.” So early on Sunday morning, he set off with a hired trap and a pair of bay horses, and Emma was left alone till he returned with his uncle.
She wondered for a moment if Greville's real reason for heading to Dover, instead of letting his uncle take the coach for London, was to ensure no one else offered Sir William hospitality first. Surely, that was too cynical. Well, she had a day to herself; Moll had been given the day off, and left a cold collation in the kitchen for Emma's luncheon and dinner. The sun was shining, so she took her Shakespeare into the garden. What to read today? Hamlet, perhaps.
Marvellous, she thought, when she got to Ophelia's mad scene; it was just made for a garden, as Ophelia picked the flowers and wove them together. She stood up, holding the book out in front of her, and wandered through her garden, speaking the lines, feeling the sadness of the mad Ophelia. “There's rosemary; that's for remembrance”; she ran her fingers through the rosemary bush that stood by the back door. Its scent filled her nostrils, astringent and rich at the same time. “There's rue for you, and there's some for me.... There's a daisy” – she reached down and took one from the lawn, twirling it in her fingers. “I would give you some violets, but they withered all when my father died.”
“Thought, and affliction, passion, hell itself,
She turns to favour and to prettiness.”
Startled, she turned at the sound of another voice. She hoped it wasn't Greville; it sounded a little like his voice, but deeper.
It wasn't Greville. The man who stood by the cottage door was tall and thin, his face tanned, his clothes dusty. As she looked back at her book she realised he'd just come in with Laertes' lines from the play. How long had he been watching her?
She let the daisy fall, and stepped forward.
“Is Greville here?” he asked.
“No, he's... he's gone to Dover.”
“Dover? What on earth for?” The man frowned, as if annoyed.
“To fetch his uncle.”
“There was no need. No need at all,” he said crossly. “But I'm forgetting my manners. Forgive me. I am Sir William Hamilton; and you must be Emma?”
It turned out Sir William had made his way to London on his own. Unexpectedly, he'd found a naval vessel in port, with a captain he knew- one who'd visited Naples a number of times bringing intelligence. Instead of taking the packetboat to Dover, therefore, he transferred himself on to the frigate, heading for Tilbury. He'd spent most of the voyage on the deck with the captain, and caught up with a number of old friends, too; one of the midshipmen was related to his mother's family, and the ship's doctor had treated him for toothache once, a long time ago. He was relieved to see the man safe and well.
“Even more relieved that I had no dental cavities for him to explore,” he admitted, grimacing. “Naval medicine is not a pleasant experience, even if it is less unpleasant than the alternative.”
Emma couldn't help smiling at his forthright humour.
“How did you get here? You found a carriage?”
“Bless me, no! I walked.”
“From Tilbury? That must be... I don't know... thirty or forty miles!”
“Thirty, I think. Well, that's about six hours' walk; it was a pleasant day. My cases were to be sent on; I don't suppose they've arrived yet?”
“I don't believe so.”
“Well, they'll arrive later. I have some artefacts Greville was particularly keen to see. And I have some Neapolitan lace for you, my dear.”
“Did Greville ask you to bring some?” Her eyes shone.
“No; not especially. But I thought a pretty girl should have some fine lace. It's all white. Oh, except for one package of cream lace with silver threads. That's very fine indeed. Far too good for me or Greville, so you will have to accept it.”
He smiled at her. “Nymph, in thy orisons be all my sins remembered...” She blushed; he was playing Hamlet to her Ophelia again.
“Shall we have tea? You must be tired.”
Chapter Three
Romney hadn't seen Emma since the day he'd painted her as Cleopatra. He'd been working feverishly in his studio, finishing the paintings for his exhibition. He'd come a long way from the first rough drawings; these pictures showed Emma in exotic landscapes, or against monumental architectural backgrounds. The fresh paint gleamed softly; the smell of turpentine and oil hung in the air. Now, all his easels, all his rough drawings and paints had been cleared away, and the floor had been cleaned and polished, and a fine oriental carpet laid down. The paintings were hung on the walls – one, too large to hang, was simply propped against the wall – or the smaller portraits placed on small easels on tables, to be seen from close to.
He was pleased with these paintings. His brushwork was fine and loose. The surfaces didn't shine with the elegant satin polish of Gainsborough's; instead he'd caught the shadows, the deep textures of a half-lit room. Emma didn't have a sharp, foxy little face like the fashionable ladies, but it was the soft warmth or sparkling fire of her eyes that drew the attention – and that, he thought, he'd caught perfectly. Still, it wouldn't be till he let the public in this evening that he'd know whether it was going to work, or whether he'd slaved the last six months in his studio just to achieve splendid bankruptcy.
He paced in front of the high windows, twisting his hands together nervously. An hour still to go before the opening. Everything was prepared; the caterers had brought wine and brandy, decanted from their dusty bottles into sparkling cut glass. Baskets were piled high with fruit; there were small pies, and cold meats laid out on a table. An hour to go, and all he had to do was wait.
He'd invited the most fashionable men and women of the day; Sir Joshua Reynolds, President of the Royal Academy of Art, a placid man with his hesitant manner and his little ear trumpet; Horatio Walpole, a charming antiquary whose slightly fey manner belied his status as Earl of Orford; the Duchess of Devonshire, a flashy beauty with her huge hats and gambling debts. Then again, he thought, perhaps he'd just invited the notorious and eccentric; and he didn't know whether they would all come. He might be on his own all evening.
He took out his watch and looked at it. Still fifty-five minutes to go. Fifty five minutes of pacing and worrying. Since it was fashionable to turn up late, he might wait even longer...
A knock at the door broke his train of thought. It was Greville, smartly but plainly dressed. Romney was disappointed to see that Greville was on his own; no Emma. Greville took his gloves off, put his stick down with them on a side table, and turned to Romney.
“I wanted to commission a painting.”
This was unexpected. Greville was noted as a collector of natural history – of minerals, stuffed birds, old bones – but he wasn't by any means a connoisseur of art.
“You'll want a portrait of yourself?” That was, Romney thought, the obvious explanation.
“No; I want a portrait of Emma.”
Ah. That no doubt was why she wasn't here. It would hardly be tactful to bargain for the commission in front of her.
“Certainly... do you have a particular pose in mind? A particular character?”
“I want her in white. A repentant sinner.”
“Not the most dramatic of poses. Still, it will work, if I can balance all that white against a darker background. Yes, I can see it would work.”
But he thought it won't suit her. Penitent she is not.
They reached an agreement on the amount Greville was to pay. It wouldn't be a huge portrait – Greville couldn't afford it; but it would take three or four sittings.
“Is Emma coming tonight?”
“To be honest, I'm not very happy with her attending these fashionable occasions. I want a good little housewife, not some fashionable lady in my life. But she'll come tonight. As long as you keep her away from the rakes and loose livers.”
Romney smiled. “I haven't invited any. But keep her with you, Greville, if you're anxious about her morals. I'm sure she won't wander.”
***
The studio was already busy when Greville returned with Emma. She was neatly dressed in grey, with a white neckerchief covering her bosom decently and a small white bonnet perched on her upswept hair. She looked around the room; for a moment she was reminded of her days at Mrs Kelly's, with the murmur of conversation, the finery, the gradual loosening of manners as the alcohol that was being served took its effect. But of course, this evening wouldn't end the same way that evenings ended at Mrs Kelly's...
“This is just splendid.” A braying voice assaulted her ear. “Look at the velvet! The feathers! Such luxury. Who is this little minx with the dagger?”
Greville propelled her past, his hand in the small of her back. They were headed for Romney, who was gesturing in an animated way at one of the paintings as he spoke to a couple of older men. One was a big, bland-faced man, run a bit to fat in his age; the other was a small man, thin, with twinkling eyes and a vivacious face that must have been handsome once. Their wigs were out of fashion by ten years, at least, Emma thought; they were antiques.
“Greville... the Duke of Cumberland... he has been telling me about Canaletto's work, terribly interesting, and I've been invited to go and see his paintings... and Mr Walpole.”
“Orford,” said Northumberland gruffly. The other man looked up at him. “Nothing wrong with Walpole,” he said, “nothing wrong at all with Walpole.”
The two men inclined their bodies very slightly towards Greville, acknowledging him. Walpole shot a sharp glance at Emma.
“Who is the lady?”
Greville took Emma's hand in his, before Walpole could take it, even though Walpole had already started to bend to kiss it.
“Mrs Emma Hart,” he said, and his mouth drew tight in a thin line. Walpole stepped back, and smiled; but his eyes were hard and knowing.
Once Greville had paid his respects to Romney, he moved on, taking Emma with him. The studio was becoming full, and as the evening drew on, the air grew hot; the smell of beeswax from the candles was almost overpowering. In one corner, a woman in a huge black hat was holding forth to a number of young men; as she spoke, the white ostrich feather on her hat waved and nodded in the air, adding a rhetorical flourish all its own. Greville stopped a number of times to pay his respects to other men, but he rarely introduced Emma; only when the men involved were very old, she noticed, or very ugly.
There was a cluster of people near the portrait of Cleopatra. A distinguished looking man in a green coat turned from it to speak to his neighbour.
“She is lovely. Full of fire. A new actress, would you know?”
“I don't know. Never seen her before.”
“A pity. A woman who can act the empress so well. Even were she dumb, I'd be tempted to hire her for Drury Lane.”
He was looking straight at Emma as he said it, yet showed no sign of recognition at all, and turned back to his consideration of the painting.
“Damn my eyes! I saw Peg Woffington, I saw Susannah Cibber, and I've never seen anything like this.” He shook his head disbelievingly. “And no one knows who she is.”
Greville and Emma took their leave of Romney early – by London standards, at least, since it was still before midnight when they arrived home. Romney's eyes glittered, and his face was pink; he'd sold every picture, one of them twice – well, he'd have to see to that in the morning, but it was too late to correct the mistake now – and he'd been commissioned to paint every nobleman's mistress as Iphigenia, or Hecate, or Hecuba, or at least it seemed like it. He was so effusive they could hardly get away; and Emma was glad for him, the strange little man.
*****
Emma's next sitting was a few weeks later. She was glad to see Romney again; he looked happy and relaxed, without that shadow of care that had sat on his forehead while he'd been painting Cleopatra.
“You've made your fortune, Mr Romney,” she said as she took her mantle off. “The London Gazette predicts you will have joined the Royal Academy by this time next year, and the London Chronicle says you are a made man.”
“I doubt the Royal Academy will ever make me a member; I'm too morose, not sociable enough for them. But my paintings are in the fashion, now. All the younger artists are trying to find a tragedy queen as a model. But none of them have you, Emma.”
He took her cloak from her and laid it neatly folded on a chair, still talking.
“All the other portraits were for the exhibition. But Greville has asked me to make one for him to remember you by.”
“To remember me by? He's not going away, is he?”
“It's just a manner of speaking; no need to become so upset, dear. Oh dear, dear, what have I said? I meant, a picture for him to... to look at when you are not there. Come, come, your eyes are wet;” and having searched his pockets for a moment, he pulled out a large spotted handkerchief and handed it to her to snuffle into.
”So what shall I be today? A queen? An assassin? A wicked spirit?”
“None of those today; no, today you are a repentant sinner, clothed in innocence and contrition.”
Emma looked at the simple white robe laid out for her without enthusiasm.
“That's the way Greville wants you painted. Eyes raised to heaven, hands clasped in prayer.”
“Oh.” She stood there immobile, the white fabric in her hands. “Oh really. Romney, you do know where he found me, don't you?”
Romney demurred politely, though he'd had his suspicions.
“I became a whore when I was sixteen. I was a good one, too; you don't survive long at Mrs Kelly's if you're not. And now he wants me to look like a virgin.”
“Well, you can act. Show me now just how good an actress you are.”
She laughed. She hadn't thought of it like that. But she was good at acting for Greville. She posed as his little housewife, as if she'd never dreamed of anything more exciting than managing the household accounts and a single maid; she said her prayers for him, and never let him know she'd lost her faith when that Freethinker Edward Gibbon started courting her. Gibbon was a pudgy man with a face like a pug dog, but his fierce wit and wicked sly humour won her over, and within a couple of weeks of meeting him, she'd declared herself an atheist. She'd never needed to put on a pose with Gibbon; he was lovable. With Greville, though, she was always acting; disguising her hurt at the way he treated her, or pretending to a domestic happiness that wasn't quite real.
The white muslin was not unflattering, in fact, once she'd put it on; she realised it was not quite opaque, and Romney could see the shape of her breasts and legs through it quite clearly. Naughtily, she smoothed it down, making it quite obvious that her nipples had hardened in the cold as she'd changed. She could see Romney's interest, but pretending not to notice, she sat down and arranged herself as she'd been instructed, looking up and clasping her hands in front of her.
She looked straight at Romney, smiling. “Will this do?”
“Yes; but try not to look so insolent. You're supposed to be contrite.”
She did try, but it was difficult. She could act – but she knew this image was so far from the reality, she couldn't keep from smiling to herself. And though Romney had no difficulty in painting the depths of emotion in her huge and liquid eyes, he couldn't manage to get rid of the impish smile.
****
The painting was not a great success. Romney thought it was one of the best he'd done, and Emma loved it; but Greville was dissatisfied. Not dissatisfied enough to quibble about paying Romney what he asked; but Emma noticed that when he got the painting home, it was hung up in a room they didn't often use, at the back of the house, in a place where the light never seemed to shine directly on it.
Emma's life hadn't changed; she spent most of her time at home, and two afternoons a week with Romney, as his model. She didn't mind; following Romney's prompting, she had found a copy of Shakespeare's plays in Greville's library, and spent every afternoon reading. First Cleopatra,to whom she felt particularly close; Cleopatra, with her wheedling and flirting, her imperious temper and sudden changes, would have been quite at home in Mrs Kelly's, teasing and pleasing her men in equal measure. Then the wonderful island of the Tempest, with its spirits and music, its drunken and wicked men – those she recognised too from her own experience – and the wise, but weary, Prospero. The exact words she didn't always understand, but there was a sinewy music to the verse that carried her with it. She read each character, with gruff voices for the sailors, or an innocent girlish voice for Miranda; she grunted as Caliban, sang as Ariel, and danced her way through the final scene. Greville would never understand, of course, so she made sure the maid was out and listened carefully to ensure she was alone in the house.
Then one day she learned that her solitude was coming to an end. Greville had failed to make a rich marriage; and as a younger brother, he'd get nothing from his father but the hundred pounds a year he already possessed. And now, with Emma in tow, it was very unlikely he would ever make the marriage he needed to gain a fortune. But he did happen to have a wealthy uncle, whose wife had died some years ago – leaving (and this was important) no children to share his riches. The said wealthy uncle, resident at Naples, was intending to visit London for the first time in ten years, and Greville intended to put him up here.
Naturally, Emma would be a good hostess. Greville impressed on her that Sir William was lonely, after his wife's death; that an attentive young woman could make him feel content in London; and that the happier Sir William was, the more likely to settle his extensive estate on Greville.
“What kind of man is Sir William?” she asked.
“I haven't seen him since I was a boy. We correspond occasionally; he has an interest in antiquities. He appears to be somewhat eccentric; I was told he made pedestrian excursions to the volcano, and assisted in the excavations at Ercolano, rather strange activities for an English gentleman. He may have grown older this last couple of years, though. Other than that, I know little about him.”
Emma wondered what this uncle would be like. He was ancient. She imagined a senile old gentleman, well wrapped up against the cold. He would have white hair, or none at all. She would probably be best employed as his nurse; making up egg nog for his bedtime drink, and seeing that he ate enough. She would be dutiful; she knew how much it meant to Greville. His political career was stalling for want of funds – he needed to buy his way into a safe parliamentary seat, and the money he was making from his City investments wasn't enough.
Sir William would be arriving by the Calais packetboat in Dover, that Monday. Greville proposed to take a trap down to Dover, and drive Sir William home to London; he would have taken Emma, but he had no idea how many bags Sir William would have, and there might not be room. “Better not have an embarrassing scene,” he said; “if there are only the two of us, we will cover the ground more quickly, too.” So early on Sunday morning, he set off with a hired trap and a pair of bay horses, and Emma was left alone till he returned with his uncle.
She wondered for a moment if Greville's real reason for heading to Dover, instead of letting his uncle take the coach for London, was to ensure no one else offered Sir William hospitality first. Surely, that was too cynical. Well, she had a day to herself; Moll had been given the day off, and left a cold collation in the kitchen for Emma's luncheon and dinner. The sun was shining, so she took her Shakespeare into the garden. What to read today? Hamlet, perhaps.
Marvellous, she thought, when she got to Ophelia's mad scene; it was just made for a garden, as Ophelia picked the flowers and wove them together. She stood up, holding the book out in front of her, and wandered through her garden, speaking the lines, feeling the sadness of the mad Ophelia. “There's rosemary; that's for remembrance”; she ran her fingers through the rosemary bush that stood by the back door. Its scent filled her nostrils, astringent and rich at the same time. “There's rue for you, and there's some for me.... There's a daisy” – she reached down and took one from the lawn, twirling it in her fingers. “I would give you some violets, but they withered all when my father died.”
“Thought, and affliction, passion, hell itself,
She turns to favour and to prettiness.”
Startled, she turned at the sound of another voice. She hoped it wasn't Greville; it sounded a little like his voice, but deeper.
It wasn't Greville. The man who stood by the cottage door was tall and thin, his face tanned, his clothes dusty. As she looked back at her book she realised he'd just come in with Laertes' lines from the play. How long had he been watching her?
She let the daisy fall, and stepped forward.
“Is Greville here?” he asked.
“No, he's... he's gone to Dover.”
“Dover? What on earth for?” The man frowned, as if annoyed.
“To fetch his uncle.”
“There was no need. No need at all,” he said crossly. “But I'm forgetting my manners. Forgive me. I am Sir William Hamilton; and you must be Emma?”
It turned out Sir William had made his way to London on his own. Unexpectedly, he'd found a naval vessel in port, with a captain he knew- one who'd visited Naples a number of times bringing intelligence. Instead of taking the packetboat to Dover, therefore, he transferred himself on to the frigate, heading for Tilbury. He'd spent most of the voyage on the deck with the captain, and caught up with a number of old friends, too; one of the midshipmen was related to his mother's family, and the ship's doctor had treated him for toothache once, a long time ago. He was relieved to see the man safe and well.
“Even more relieved that I had no dental cavities for him to explore,” he admitted, grimacing. “Naval medicine is not a pleasant experience, even if it is less unpleasant than the alternative.”
Emma couldn't help smiling at his forthright humour.
“How did you get here? You found a carriage?”
“Bless me, no! I walked.”
“From Tilbury? That must be... I don't know... thirty or forty miles!”
“Thirty, I think. Well, that's about six hours' walk; it was a pleasant day. My cases were to be sent on; I don't suppose they've arrived yet?”
“I don't believe so.”
“Well, they'll arrive later. I have some artefacts Greville was particularly keen to see. And I have some Neapolitan lace for you, my dear.”
“Did Greville ask you to bring some?” Her eyes shone.
“No; not especially. But I thought a pretty girl should have some fine lace. It's all white. Oh, except for one package of cream lace with silver threads. That's very fine indeed. Far too good for me or Greville, so you will have to accept it.”
He smiled at her. “Nymph, in thy orisons be all my sins remembered...” She blushed; he was playing Hamlet to her Ophelia again.
“Shall we have tea? You must be tired.”
Tuesday, 2 March 2010
De Sade and the enlightenment
I've been reading the Wicked Marquis. And I'm intrigued.
In The Marquise de Theleme he spends the firstparagraph building up a picture of happiness - an enlightened marriage of confidence between two equals, tender sentiments, rationality, equableness. It's a delightful vision. Then, in a couple of sentences, he destroys it - kills the husband, reduces the wife to penury, and starts a train of debaucheries and cruelties.
I'm intrigued by the way he sets up and casts down this image of happiness. Partly, I think, he does so out of a distaste for conventional pieties. A distaste for the kind of reasonableness and 'getting along nicely' that suffices instead of passion. I can share that - I always find the world of Jane Austen tempts me to rip the curtains, to throw ink at the wallpaper, to shout 'fuck!' - anything to bring a bit of real passion to her closeted texts. (Yes, I can read Austen, and I love her style - but God, I would hate to live in her world.) De Sade sees the reasonable and 'good enough' as inauthentic - in which he's an early Existentialist, demanding we live authentic lives, as Sartre does.
And de Sade can use the language of the Enlightenment just as well as any 'enlightened' writer.
But I think that there's a second urge, too. He really does want to destroy. It's not just an urge to cruelty, but also the sheer delight of the child who has built a sandcastle only to smash it, watch it crumble as the tide comes in, jump on the remains till there's only a hump of sand to show where the castle stood. It's a primal urge.
And like any rebellious child, he wants dirt. This isn't erotica - it's not written to delight; he wants dirt, excreta, flabby old bodies, the disgusting rather than arousing. Nobody loves him, everybody hates him, he's going in the garden to eat worms, and dirt, and shit, and look, nobody loves him. But few children devote themselves to writing about it, to smashing their childhood Edens in that way. The marquis de Sade's erotic is an erotic of rebellion.
There's something else that intrigues me. It's the utterly cool, scientific way that de Sade is proceeding here. Later on, in 120 days of Sodom, he actually tries to reduce sexual activity to painting-by-numbers; 120 days, 120 different tortures. (It makes it tedious reading.)
Now this isn't unprecedented in French literature -- particularly when the subject of the experiment is female. (That's an intriguing insight on its own, of course.) Rousseau for instance sees a young woman as something to be experimented with, taught, moulded. In a horrible way, de Sade is actually proceeding in a typically Enlightened way - despite the fact that he's trying to destroy the Enlightenment.
I find de Sade quite intriguing. Some works are more readable than others; at the end, I suspect, he was as mad as the other inhabitants of the Charenton lunatic asylum. But he has his points - and though I may not be following his example in my writing, he's certainly made me think.
In The Marquise de Theleme he spends the firstparagraph building up a picture of happiness - an enlightened marriage of confidence between two equals, tender sentiments, rationality, equableness. It's a delightful vision. Then, in a couple of sentences, he destroys it - kills the husband, reduces the wife to penury, and starts a train of debaucheries and cruelties.
I'm intrigued by the way he sets up and casts down this image of happiness. Partly, I think, he does so out of a distaste for conventional pieties. A distaste for the kind of reasonableness and 'getting along nicely' that suffices instead of passion. I can share that - I always find the world of Jane Austen tempts me to rip the curtains, to throw ink at the wallpaper, to shout 'fuck!' - anything to bring a bit of real passion to her closeted texts. (Yes, I can read Austen, and I love her style - but God, I would hate to live in her world.) De Sade sees the reasonable and 'good enough' as inauthentic - in which he's an early Existentialist, demanding we live authentic lives, as Sartre does.
And de Sade can use the language of the Enlightenment just as well as any 'enlightened' writer.
But I think that there's a second urge, too. He really does want to destroy. It's not just an urge to cruelty, but also the sheer delight of the child who has built a sandcastle only to smash it, watch it crumble as the tide comes in, jump on the remains till there's only a hump of sand to show where the castle stood. It's a primal urge.
And like any rebellious child, he wants dirt. This isn't erotica - it's not written to delight; he wants dirt, excreta, flabby old bodies, the disgusting rather than arousing. Nobody loves him, everybody hates him, he's going in the garden to eat worms, and dirt, and shit, and look, nobody loves him. But few children devote themselves to writing about it, to smashing their childhood Edens in that way. The marquis de Sade's erotic is an erotic of rebellion.
There's something else that intrigues me. It's the utterly cool, scientific way that de Sade is proceeding here. Later on, in 120 days of Sodom, he actually tries to reduce sexual activity to painting-by-numbers; 120 days, 120 different tortures. (It makes it tedious reading.)
Now this isn't unprecedented in French literature -- particularly when the subject of the experiment is female. (That's an intriguing insight on its own, of course.) Rousseau for instance sees a young woman as something to be experimented with, taught, moulded. In a horrible way, de Sade is actually proceeding in a typically Enlightened way - despite the fact that he's trying to destroy the Enlightenment.
I find de Sade quite intriguing. Some works are more readable than others; at the end, I suspect, he was as mad as the other inhabitants of the Charenton lunatic asylum. But he has his points - and though I may not be following his example in my writing, he's certainly made me think.
Wednesday, 17 February 2010
Research & development
I thought it was possibly time to reinvest some of the royalties from my first erotic novel into 'R&D'. Or perhaps 'R&R' would be more accurate.
I've just bought one of Lelo's vibrators - the Liv. I did quite a lot of research before I decided to put my money down; to my surprise and delight there are quite a lot of good sex toy review blogs out there.
Now there are two kinds of vibes I really detest. First, the 'fluo Willy' - plastic penis-shaped vibes in glowing radioactive colours. Plastic is not something I particularly like next to the skin anyway. And secondly, the 'implement' - vibrators that are hard, straight, completely unergonomic, and look like pens, or bullets, or (ugh) forceps.
That's about 90% of what's on the market.
Then there are the glass dildos, the wooden dildos, the stainless steel vibes, all very expensive.
And finally, I found Lelo's product range. Silicone, smart, slightly abstract, and above all, CURVACEOUS vibes and dildos. Thre are various options; the Gigi, for instance, is specially made for G-spot action, while there's the Ella double-ended dildo, at the budget end. I finally opted for the Liv, a slim, curvy vibrator that comes in rather macho naval blue, and a much more girly cerise. Guess which I bought?
I am surprised just how exciting the act of shopping can be - researching a vibrator on the internet. Some of the web sites are terrible; others, like Coco de Mer and Exclusively Eve, are works of art in themselves. I also enjoyed Coffee, Cake and Kink - though I was sad to find that the kinky cafe had closed, so I won't be able to pop in. (Believe it or not I used to work only two doors away! but, alas, a long time before the caff opened.)
Perhaps I'll have to put a research chapter in one of my erotic novels. Currently, however, Hal is tickling Horace awake on their first morning in Venice, so I had better get back to my boys!
I've just bought one of Lelo's vibrators - the Liv. I did quite a lot of research before I decided to put my money down; to my surprise and delight there are quite a lot of good sex toy review blogs out there.
Now there are two kinds of vibes I really detest. First, the 'fluo Willy' - plastic penis-shaped vibes in glowing radioactive colours. Plastic is not something I particularly like next to the skin anyway. And secondly, the 'implement' - vibrators that are hard, straight, completely unergonomic, and look like pens, or bullets, or (ugh) forceps.
That's about 90% of what's on the market.
Then there are the glass dildos, the wooden dildos, the stainless steel vibes, all very expensive.
And finally, I found Lelo's product range. Silicone, smart, slightly abstract, and above all, CURVACEOUS vibes and dildos. Thre are various options; the Gigi, for instance, is specially made for G-spot action, while there's the Ella double-ended dildo, at the budget end. I finally opted for the Liv, a slim, curvy vibrator that comes in rather macho naval blue, and a much more girly cerise. Guess which I bought?
I am surprised just how exciting the act of shopping can be - researching a vibrator on the internet. Some of the web sites are terrible; others, like Coco de Mer and Exclusively Eve, are works of art in themselves. I also enjoyed Coffee, Cake and Kink - though I was sad to find that the kinky cafe had closed, so I won't be able to pop in. (Believe it or not I used to work only two doors away! but, alas, a long time before the caff opened.)
Perhaps I'll have to put a research chapter in one of my erotic novels. Currently, however, Hal is tickling Horace awake on their first morning in Venice, so I had better get back to my boys!
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