Queer Werewolves Destroy Capitalism

by MJ Lyons

  Although beyond the painting there was a shabbiness to Hyacinth in the flesh, the chamberlain admitted. He appeared tired, harried, and was dressed in the bohemian style, as if he had clothed in a rush with no mind as to his appearance.

  “I suspect if one had just jumped nude out of a painting they wouldn’t give much thought to fashion,” Dupin offered in a dry, languid tone.

  We thanked the chamberlain for his indulgence and proceeded south along the Rue de L’Arcade, passing the grand, multi-columned stone edifice of La Madeleine, in a familiar, contemplative silence. I wondered if perhaps we were returning to one of our cafés along the Champs-Élysées that catered to Paris’ ephebes, but we extended our pilgrimage, descending into the twilit wilderness of the Tuileries.

  The careful cultivation and pastoral civilization of the gardens was transformed by darkness. Genteel lines were obscured by shadow, elegant shrubbery transmuted into a primeval forest. Balustrades, benches, fences became as ruins; the last, crumbling vestiges of man’s influence over the natural world. The Palais du Louvre loomed distant, mostly dark, forgotten.

  Here men reverted to primal instincts. Shadows shifted in the gloom of the Tuileries, joining and breaking among the bushes, a pagan, ritualistic quality to their shared efforts, the occasional cry of pleasure or pain. Neither rain nor raids of morality squads could stop the sodomites, ephebes and catamites of Paris from their nocturnal assignations.

  While the gardens were replete with gods and beasts aplenty, cupids and centaurs, Bacchus and Hercules, Prometheus chained and minotaur slain, the enduring meeting ground of Parisian ephebes was a marble boar statue. Dupin and I perched together on a balustrade that overlooked the grove dominated by the boar, which sat on its haunches, legs splayed, its preputial sheath suggestively displayed between them. Perhaps this or some other arcane factor had made the boar the focal point for men’s lust in the Tuileries, but by whatever means they had gathered chiefly in that grove for time immemorial. We watched now as a rather rough looking, muscled man, perhaps a tradesman, relieved of all but his small-clothes pushed a youthful partner against a tree and kneeled down to administer to the young man, who writhed beneath his attention. The youth’s moans were a rallying cry for those nearby, and as the labourer began to take the young man’s length into his mouth, tasting his partner with a desperate lust, others gathered around them, many kneading the front of their trousers or simply withdrawing their own cocks to display their appreciation. The familiar motion of their arms as the labourer’s hands wandered up his youthful partner’s front beneath his shirt, while the youth cried out in ecstasy, conveyed that they were enjoying the duet.

  Not at all helped by my rumination of Favager’s Hyacinth, I was tumescent at the proximity to such raw, sexual potential, and this time made no effort to hide it—in fact I massaged my length through the fabric of my trousers. Dupin had seen much and more of me, and he watched the scene as eagerly, although with his usual abstracted air.

  “You know something of this Favager,” he intoned as we watched another young man of impeccable fashion, perhaps a student of the Sorbonne, who stepped forward and pressed his lips to those of the first youth, who aided the student in freeing his cock from his trousers and stroked it fervently while the labourer continued to engulf the first young man, pinning him against the tree. “What would you say of his work and career before Hyacinth?”

  The question barely registered, so distracted was I, until I realized Dupin’s eyes rested on me and I had to have my companion repeat the question. “I would say little enough,” I replied, my eyes still on the group of men growing around the alfresco threesome. “The man produced a few portraits of women, nudes, naturalist schlock for the most part, poor imitations of Gros or Guérin at best. He toiled in obscurity before Hyacinth.”

  “Women,” Dupin murmured. “From where did he find his models, would you guess?”

  “From what I’ve heard of the man, the working women of Paris,” I replied. “Prostitutes, like boys they’re thick on the ground in the city’s arcades, although he also frequented the maisons de tolerance of Grenelle and Montparnasse, as one acquaintance explained to me. I believe the man sees something of a tragic beauty in the city’s prostitutes.”

  “Tragic beauty,” my companion repeated quietly. Then I felt a gentle pat on the leg. “Run along, mon cher. I can see your mind is elsewhere.”

  My mind, and more. I stood, eager to join. I had locked eyes with a muscled dockworker on his way to join in the bacchic rites and, from his comportment, which he had grasped for my assessment, I believed I was in for a jolly fucking. “Will you be joining?”

  “I join by observation tonight,” he responded. “We have discussed at length the weakening of consciousness that occurs following the orgasm, and conversely I find the pooling of concupiscence sharpens creative and analytical energy. So tonight I deny myself for the sake of my investigation, but will not deny you your diversion.”

  I leaned in and brought my mouth to his, his lips parting for my own, our tongues dancing briefly, his hand indulgently running over my length, teasing, tantalizing. We had become well acquainted since I had taken up lodgings in his manor in the Faubourg Saint-Germain, in both the carnal and intellectual sense. For Dupin they were one in the same, and while I was familiar with his stints of abstinence, they were nonetheless baffling to me, especially as my cock strained against its confines.

  I pulled away from Dupin and turned to join my fellow sodomites in their exertions, a dozen men frenzied by the forbidden rites, the perverse rituals committed by starlight. As the dockworker braced me against the plinth of the boar statue, tearing at the buttons on my trousers and wrenching them down around my ankles, the cool air hitting my erection and the tender skin between my buttocks, I looked back at my companion. While Dupin’s body was encircled by the bucolic orgy of Paris’ sodomites, as the dockworker pressed into me, pain entwining with pleasure, I could see that my beloved companion’s mind was far away.

  By chance, the following evening I would dine with an acquaintance who had something to add in the case of Favager’s errant “Hyacinth”.

  The man, a dealer in rare books, will be well known to those who sought esoteric volumes in Paris under the reign of Louis-Philippe, for he was the last word in the classics and had an uncanny ability to locate even the most obscure of titles. I shared the events of the previous evening, leaving out some of the more delicate details and, while normally discreet in his dealings, wine had loosened his lips and he imparted to me choice gossip on the painter. I hurried home to report my findings to Dupin, but my companion was out until close to sunrise, by which point I was already fast asleep.

  The next evening I awoke to find Dupin already dressed, admitting that he had a yearning for the hygienic arts. Mystified, I dressed quickly and we set out into the Paris night. We once again crossed the Seine by way of the Pont Neuf, and I described my conversation with the rare book dealer to my dear companion as we walked.

  The man had, on occasion, been commissioned by the very same M. Favager to track down volumes of a singular nature. The artist was a dilettante in matters of the occult and held a particular fascination with Marlowe’s Doctor Faustus. Favager, like other occultists of his ilk, was convinced of the existence of the Nomine Diaboli, an apocryphal work attributed to Marlowe, ostensibly a compendium of research for the tragedy that included translations of queer Arabic texts and Germanic folklore, instructions for satanic ceremonies and daemonic sciences. Favager, it seemed, believed that Marlowe had formed a pact with a spirit or demon of inspiration, hence his lasting reputation.

  “Talk now turns to his occult musings,” I explained, shivering, though I told myself it was at the chill that had overtaken Paris in the last days of summer. “There are whispers that Favager recreated these rituals and formed the same pact, only imperfectly. This display of hitherto unseen exceptional talent in ‘Hyacinth’ was g
ranted to him and then promptly taken away in the most extraordinary of means.”

  Dupin seemed unperturbed by my fantastical ramblings. “Do you believe a devil granted and then retracted Favager’s magnum opus?” asked he.

  “No more than I believe a young man walked out of a painting, and yet this is the case we examine.”

  “Even the stoutest of agnostic hearts can be swayed by a convincing preternatural narrative,” he expounded, patting my arm in a conciliatory manner. “These disparate threads stitch a glamorous tapestry. Every element of the fantastical reinforces the extraordinary circumstances of Hyacinth transported, gossip of Marlowe and Faustus, texts diabolic and satanic. If the devil’s in the details then how are we to ascend to a pure plane of understanding? No, my friend, the only incantation I’ll invoke is that old idiom: ‘Errare humanum est, perseverare autem diabolicum, et tertia non datur.’ Though, amusingly, if I am correct in my interpretation, I will grant you that a pact was forged that granted Favager access to extraordinary talent. That pact was then reneged and then collected on by devilish means. Ah, but here is our destination.”

  We stood before a building just off the western extremity of the Rue Saint-Honoré, a rather unassuming storefront with a sign identifying it as the “Bains d’Hygieia,” decorated with a snake drinking from a small bowl. I gave Dupin a dubious look; he had introduced me to a hammam that we two frequented, with our preference of environment, not to mention our preference of boys. Still, we entered the Bains d’Hygieia and were greeted warmly by the manager, who parted a few coins from us and showed us to our assigned cubicles. The air within was hot and dry, and a number of men circulated through the baths, coming or going, some moving furtively, others at a leisurely pace. Once we had shucked our clothing and wrapped towels around our waists the manager returned and shared a few quiet words with Dupin as he led us into the baths, a large, dimly lit, cavernous space with a small marble pool at the centre, lined with alcoves furnished with comfortable lounge chairs and benches. The air was kept hot and dry, sapping to a man’s senses and liveliness but relaxing in the extreme. Attendants cavorted with attendees, dipping in and out of the pool, conversing, receiving sensuous massages of varying degrees of carnality.

  After lounging in the heat for some time, sharing a few words but mostly enjoying the sensual exhibition around us, I watched Dupin stand and lose his towel, dipping a testing toe into the cool water of the central pool. As the towel slipped away, discarded, his naked body was on display.

  Documenting our friendship, I have written much about my friend’s singular intellectual allure, but I could write much and more about his singular physical allure. Dupin had a wraithlike beauty, a face forever blessed—or cursed—with youthfulness, for though he was an adult fully formed, my companion had the bright-eyed, unblemished, sometimes petulant face of a stripling boy. He was the least self-conscious man I had ever known, which furthered the sense of edenic innocence. Also, the man couldn’t grow a beard to save his life.

  Now, stripped of earthly trappings, Dupin’s familiar wiry, lanky body, adorned with thick dark hair curling wildly on his head, likewise decorating his abdomen and queue, took on a satyric quality, aided by the impish, mischievous look in his eyes as he glanced about the bathhouse at the bacchanalia of hygienic hedonists around us. In my travels I had the fortune to see Bone’s portrait of Lord Byron at the Royal Academy, and when I met the young Chevalier Dupin years later, I was stunned at the resemblance; a dangerous concoction of angelic grace with devilish good looks.

  Before sliding into the pool to cool off, Dupin had whispered to me, tantalizingly, to save myself for the chef d’oeuvre of the evening. Moments later, clearly arranged by my companion, a beanpole of a blond boy with crooked teeth and beautiful dimples approached me and asked if “the monsieur would like a massage?” The monsieur admitted he would, and after a quick dip in the pool I found myself in a dim corner laid face down on one of the benches, straddled by the youth who wore nothing more than a pair of linen drawers. His fingers were slicked by oils, their heady scent as intoxicating as his administrations.

  I was pleasantly surprised, oft times smaller bathhouses simply hire rough, poor boys willing to toss off their patrons with little finesse for a few coins, but this attendant’s hands worked expertly. As he massaged his way down my shoulders and back, working my derriere until I was humming my appreciation, I was unable to resist grinding my hardening cock against the bench beneath me. As if in response he slid two fingers between my buttocks, teasing my hole, which had me gasping in pleasure. I assure the reader I am not always the receptive partner in masculine intercourse, despite the narrative thus far, but I will never refuse when a beautiful blond boy elects to work me over with his fingers.

  I am ashamed to say that Dupin and his mysterious promises had been driven far from my mind. I was prepared to turn over and offer to return the favour to the blond attendant, only substituting my fingers for another penetrative length of flesh, when I glanced up to see two familiar men approaching us.

  To my amazement, I found Dupin arm in arm with Favager’s Hyacinth.

  I immediately dismissed the attendant, though it pained me to do so. The boy shrugged and walked away to ply his talents elsewhere, his money from the encounter was safely with the manager, and I promised myself I would leave him a little something extra.

  But the best part of my attention was now focused on the vision before me. In the flesh, Hyacinth was every bit as lovely as the portrait he had stepped out of . . . although he was shorter than I would have thought from the depiction. His eyes sparkled green, even in the dim bathhouse light, but far from the look of intense longing in the painting, the youthful godling appeared blasé, distracted, as if his mind was entirely elsewhere—perhaps home in bed.

  Dupin explained that he had engaged the young man’s exclusive services for the evening, and that he had a feeling we would enjoy the range of his talents before morning light. Saying so, he withdrew a small coin purse and tossed it to the youth.

  It sailed through the air and the youth’s left hand dexterously shot out and caught the purse before he stashed it in a pocket, giving a petulant shrug, “You paid me enough. Where to, monsieur?”

  Dupin became flustered, explaining that the two of us had wives, families, and that there was no way we could return to our homes. A complete fabrication—not only could we entertain company at our lodgings in the Faubourg Saint-Germain, but we often enjoyed the company of a number of intimate, masculine companions. However, I played along, nodding solemnly.

  The youth rolled his eyes and volunteered his own modest apartments above a storefront on the riverfront quai du Muséum, not too far from the baths. That settled, Dupin and I returned to hastily dress, although my companion would not say a word to me about how he had found Hyacinth. “I am still testing assumptions, but I am satisfied thus far. I hope to reveal all.” We met the young man and made the short journey to his lodgings.

  The Seine glistened obsidian as we rounded the corner onto the quai du Muséum, although the moon danced in and out of view behind a veil of clouds, still low in the sky. We entered from a side door and the youth led us up a rickety, ancient staircase, into his apartment, one of several above a perfumery and a tobacconist’s.

  Hyacinth occupied two small, dingy rooms, the first a cramped bedroom, a small cot against the wall opposite large, draughty windows. The only furnishings were a small set of drawers, an ancient dressing table and a chair in one corner, with a large, ornate mirror propped against the wall between the windows, reflecting the rumpled sheets on the bed. The other room was blocked by a divider designed in an exotic, eastern fashion. The city lights glistening off the Seine partially illuminated the din, and the moonlight occasionally glanced through the large windows as well.

  I removed my hat and placed it down on the bed and began to unbutton my coat, only to look down and realize my hat had disappeared
. My eyes darted about the room in surprise, only to see a little white tail disappearing around the divider.

  “Chouchou!” Hyacinth called after it, exasperated but affectionate. “My cat, he likes to take things that don’t belong to him, but we’ll find it.” Hyacinth helped me out of my coat, the same dispassionate air once again settling over him. He addressed Dupin, who hung his coat on the edge of the divider,

  “How would monsieurs like to begin?”

  “We parted my companion from a pleasurable encounter,” Dupin intoned. Hyacinth took the hint and began to work at my waistcoat and shirt-buttons. Himself relieved of his coat and boots, he was now down to simple trousers and a haphazardly buttoned linen shirt that hung open tantalizingly, revealing a smooth, muscled chest. Dupin continued, “I must attend to private matters before I can enjoy myself.”

  “Best window to piss out of is in the other room,” Hyacinth explained as he pushed me backwards onto the bed and began to work my trousers down my legs. “Corner window hits the gutter just right.” Dupin excused himself with an enigmatic smile as Hyacinth climbed on top of me, straddling me, bringing his mouth to mine as my cock hardened underneath him.

  I attempted to explain to Hyacinth that we had been searching for him, to ask him how he had come to be in that bathhouse, but my pleas for him to illuminate the mystery grew weaker the more of his clothes came off. I realize now, he likely had patrons raving about how they’d been looking for him their entire lives on a nightly basis.

  Soon Hyacinth was naked as I, and every bit as breathtaking as in the painting. His body was smooth and muscled, not a hair save that on the top of his head and a tidy gathering around his cock. Myself a more mundane specimen of manhood who had been graced neither with a particularly athletic body, nor particularly orderly body hair, I was amazed, as always, how a mortal could near such perfection; of course, if his name or origins were to be believed, perhaps he was no such thing.