“I do not feel that way at all,” I said.
“Perhaps your cousin does.”
“Dorian? Don’t be absurd! Why should he feel obsessed with youth?”
“Oh, he may not feel that now. Someday, though, when Dorian is old and wrinkled and ugly, when thought has seared his forehead with lines, and passion branded his lips with its hideous fires, he will feel it, he will feel it terribly. Now, wherever he goes, he will charm the world. Will it always be so?”
“Whatever are you talking about?” I said sharply. “What could you know of old age?” Lord Wotton was a man in his forties, perhaps twice my age, but not what anyone would have described as ancient. But I knew full well what he was getting at, and it had less to do with youth than with gender. This was all a metaphor. Lord Henry was speaking of me, of my male persona, and how dreadful it will be for me when I must give it up. Little did he know, I had no intention of giving it up.
Basil, fortunately missing the point, interrupted. “You have a wonderfully beautiful face, Miss Gray, much like your cousin’s. Don’t frown. You have. In fact, if the clothing were different, this might be a portrait of you. And Beauty is a form of Genius—is higher indeed than Genius, as it needs no explanation. I would love for you to sit for me. I would treat you as I have your cousin.”
“No doubt!” I said snidely. Adding, “Spoken like a true artist.”
“Basil cannot help but speak the truth. It’s in his nature,” Lord Henry said. “Beauty is one of the great facts of the world, like sunlight, or spring-time, or the reflecting in dark waters of that silver bell we call the moon. It cannot be questioned.”
The poetic manner in which Lord Henry spoke left me feeling both cynical and melancholy. Perhaps that is why I said what I did, I know not. “How sad it is! My cousin shall grow old, and horrible, and dreadful. But this picture will remain always young. It will never be older than this particular day of June… If only it were the other way! If only it were Dorian who was to be always young, and the picture was to grow old.”
In those moments I understood that I was entirely dissatisfied with my lot in life. I wished to be male, utterly, exclusively, so that I might taste the depths of passion that men find so abundant, passions which are kept from women. I wished that with all my heart I might be Dorian Gray.
“And what would you give for that?” Lord Henry asked.
I became melancholy then, forgetting myself for a moment. “For that, I would give everything. I would give my soul.” Shocked at myself, I glanced up.
Miss Pruit was busy with her hooks. Basil had moved across the room to study a Waterford vase resting beneath the Reynolds. Only Lord Henry remained, so close I could almost grasp the scent of his shaving cream. I did not know if he heard me or not. I only knew that in that moment, something within me altered. It was as though my determination had shifted reality in some manner, and I would never be the same.
I glanced at the portrait of Dorian Gray. Why did it look as though those lips were curled into a sinister smile?
Chapter Six
Dinner progressed at a snail’s pace. The mutton tasted like dead flesh in my mouth, the vegetables had had the life stewed out of them. Matilda served a trifle and I would have bet the cream had soured. No one besides me appeared to notice these culinary deficiencies, for the appetites of both men and Miss Pruit were hearty.
After the meal, Lord Henry and Basil retired to the drawing room for a smoke. I took the opportunity to freshen up, or so I told them. Secretly, I used the time to secret away the portrait of Dorian Gray. Our house consisted of four floors, the top one a small attic, really a crawl space, accessible through the ceiling of my bedroom. Surreptitiously, I had furnished this tiny space with a chair, a small desk, an oil lamp, and sheaves of paper, plus a quill and ink. This was my private space, unknown even to my parents. Here I wrote reams of prose, destined, I hoped, for publication one day. Other women had published before me, using a male nom de plume—George Eliot, and Miss Sackville West but two of them. And while Jane Austin and the Brontë sisters had managed to find fame, if not fortune, on their own,—or at least one of the Brontës—they were the exception. To truly excel in the world of letters, a penis seemed de rigueur.
Into this hallowed space I brought the painting of my alter ego. There was little wall to hang it from, so I propped it against an old secretary, stored there since before my parents had married.
The light of the oil lamp cast a haunting tint onto the oils. Dorian’s features became slightly malevolent in my eyes, the brows haughtier, the eyes hard, the lips more cynical and calculating. I must admit I did not find this distortion unpleasant at all. In fact, I rather liked the contrast to what was normally, in the mirror, a rather too naive face—either his or mine—a face that invited the likes of Lord Henry.
When I felt that I could spare no more time with the painting for the moment, I turned out the lamp and crawled down the ladder.
Back in the parlor, Lord Henry and Basil were involved in a lively discussion. Miss Pruit was napping on the soft, her head back, mouth open, snoring merrily. Matilda had built a fire, which blazed in the hearth.
“Well, I can tell you anything that is in the English Blue-book,” Basil was saying. “All the Parliamentary history, for example.”
“Not the sort of information I require,” Lord Henry said.
“Perhaps the other Blue Book,” Basil offered. “If it’s family history you’re searching, not a lineage in all of the British Empire goes missing from those tomes.”
Lord Henry glanced in my direction. “Yes. It is a family history I require.”
“And whose history are you researching?” I asked, already sure I knew the answer.
“Yours. You are the granddaughter of Lord Kelso, are you not?”
I hadn’t expected such a direct reply, but I was up for the challenge. The painting of Dorian and the changes it seemed to have undergone gave me courage. “I shouldn’t bother if I were you, Lord Wotton. Our lines will not cross again. Don’t put yourself to the trouble.”
“Ah, then I am being rejected,” he said with a grin.
“If you choose to see it that way.”
“How else can I see it?”
“Any way you like. I am simply declining your offer.”
“And yet I have offered you nothing, Miss Gray.”
I had overstepped the bounds of decency here, but given that Miss Pruit was fast asleep, and Basil was an imbecile, I felt I owed Lord Henry no apology.
“All the better,” I told him. “This way, there is no reply necessary, and no rejection forthcoming.”
Lord Henry for once did not smile. Instead, he said to Basil, “I believe it is time we take our leave.” He turned to me. “Of course, without a betrothal, I should expect you would be happy to return the portrait, Miss Gray.”
“Certainly not!” I assured him. “I shall keep it. Always. As a token of your affection. Surely a gentleman would not wish to tamper with the fragile material of a lady’s heart.”
I was not above using my gender, when it could do me some good.
Contrary to what I expected, Lord Henry did not look upset, nor did he protest this. He merely bowed slightly, nodded at Basil, and together they were gone.
What a peculiar fellow, I thought. Had I met him under other circumstances, I might have found myself attracted to him.
But I had no intention of marrying him. Within a month he would have me under lock and key. Before the year was out, I would be pregnant. By the end of the decade, I would have sunk into a morbid depression, or the outrageous hysteria most married women of my class were afflicted with, accompanied by a variety of psycho-somatic ailments for which there were no cures. I intended to suffer none of that.
I poured myself a large glass of brandy to celebrate my escape from the jaws of matrimony.
Miss Pruit snorted once, loudly, then returned to a steady rhythm. I knew she was set for the night. I hurried to my room and change
d my clothing. London was about to entertain Dorian Gray!
Chapter Seven
I strolled about Piccadilly, staring brazenly at all who passed me, wondering what kind of lives they led in the bedroom. Some of them fascinated me. Some filled me with terror. There was an exquisite poison in the air. I felt a passion for sensation, and searched like a rodent sniffing out cheese, hoping to encounter something stimulating.
When Big Ben struck seven, I determined I would seek out a new adventure. London can be grey and monstrous, with a myriad of people, its splendid sinners, and its splendid sins—I knew the city had something in store for me, and the expectation alone was exciting.
I wandered eastward, soon losing my way in a labyrinth of grimy streets and black, grassless squares. About half past eight I wandered by an absurd little theatre, with great flaring gas-jets and gaudy play-bills. A hideous man, in the most amazing waistcoat I ever beheld in my life stood at the entrance smoking a vile cigar. He had greasy ringlets and an enormous diamond glazed in the centre of a soiled shirt. “Have a box, my Lord?” he said when he saw me, and took off his hat with an air of gorgeous servility.
Something about him amused me. He was such a monster, and the environment so seedy. I paid a whole guinea for the stage box.
I found myself seated in a horrid little private box, with a vulgar drop-scene staring me in the face. I looked out from behind the curtain, and surveyed the house. It was a tawdry affair, all Cupids and cornucopias, like a third-rate wedding cake. The gallery and pit were fairly full, but the two rows of dingy stalls were quite empty, and there was hardly a person in what I suppose they called the dress-circle. Women went about with oranges and ginger-beer, and there was a terrible consumption of nuts going on.
It was all very depressing, and I began to wonder what on earth I should do, when I caught sight of the playbill. The play was ‘Romeo and Juliet’. I must admit I was rather annoyed at the idea of seeing Shakespeare done in such a wretched hole of a place. Still, I determined to wait for the first act then, during intermission, or even before, make my way to the door.
Romeo entered stage right. He was a stout but handsome fellow, with corked eyebrows and a husky tragedy voice. Instantly, from stage left, high above on a large platform, Juliet appeared. Juliet! She was a girl of just eighteen, by the looks of her, with a face like a flower, a small Greek head with plaited coils of dark-brown hair, eyes that were violet wells of passion, lips like the petals of a rose. She was the loveliest thing I had ever seen in my life. Her beauty filled my eyes with tears and took my breath from my lungs.
At the sight of the actor and actress, the crowd applauded and hooted wildly—apparently this production was familiar to the locals. The orchestra began playing a heavy melody—Wagner if I am correct—with dark undertones, and I wondered at the choice.
The ‘play’ was actually a pantomime, and only loosely based on the original script. What transpired on that stage set my heart to pounding as the blood raced through my veins.
No sooner had the house lights gone out, than the crowd quieted. The entire focus was on the actions portrayed between Romeo and his Juliet. And such actions I had never before imagined to see in my life, let alone in public!
Romeo climbed the ladder to Juliet’s ‘bedroom’, where Juliet waited demurely. Their embrace was passionate, the kiss sending lightning through the already charged air, causing the crowd to cheer wildly. Then the performers broke apart. Instantly, Romeo ordered, by hand signal, that Juliet disrobe. She obeyed. Slowly she removed her dress, unlacing the stays at the front. The bodice fell to her waist, then she slid the sleeves down. Ever so slowly, she slipped the dress down her slim hips until it gathered around her ankles. Beneath she wore a black satin corset, with tiny rose buds along the top, which supported her perfect breasts—breasts that needed no support. Her young, firm mounds were large, the areolas dark inviting circles, the firm nipples slightly darker. This exquisite creature stood naked on the stage before me, and all I could think was that an extreme longing came over me to taste those nipples, to take them in my mouth and have my pleasure with them. Her body was slim and supple, yet besides the ample breasts she possessed, her bottom lifted high and full. She moved with much grace toward Romeo, like a being made of silk, almost slithering. When finally she reached him, he grabbed both her wrists in his and bound them together with a strip of leather. The look on Juliet’s face was a fine mix of terror and lust, and I felt the moisture between my legs dampening the crotch of my pants. I know I moved forward in my seat. The theater was so quiet, a pin might be heard dropping.
Next, Romeo attached her wrists to a horizontal post along the stage, what was a ‘window’ of the bedroom. This forced Juliet onto her toes, facing the audience. All of this occurred in utter silence. Suddenly I was aware of my own intense breathing. As I gazed at Juliet’s ripe body, I experienced longings I had not before encountered, longings for a woman!
Romeo opened a valise and removed a long whip, the type described as a cat-o-nine-tails. It was of a dark leather variety, or the handle was. The strands themselves were dyed in different hues, red, orange, yellow. He snapped it in the air several times and the speed at which the strands moved gave the impression of fire. The audience roared its approval at such theatrics. The sound of the whip caused Juliet to throw back her head and thrust out her breasts toward the audience. The crowd loved this and the air was now shattered by their howls of delight and lewd remarks flung at her. “Give us a taste of your nippers!” Some man yelled. “And that pretty twat!” cried a woman. To these remarks, Juliet remained oblivious, at least by the look on her face. Her body, however, responded as if the words had been strokes. She spread her legs apart and, standing on the toes of her hobnail boots, writhed outrageously. This, of course, caused the crowd to go mad. The din was unbearable, and all that kept me in the theater was the sight of this naked Juliet, thrusting rotating her titties and cunny in the most lascivious fashion.
Romeo ran the whip slowly up and down her back, under her crotch, and she writhed against it like a bitch in heat. I found myself gripping the railing before me, and salivating lustily as tension built. I knew he would whip her. I felt on the verge of splitting apart with the tension of waiting. Half of me wanted to whip her myself. Another part of me longed to feel the lashes against my own skin. Thoughts overwhelmed me of Lord Henry’s birches, the stableboy’s rough hands, Miss Pruit’s hairbrush, all warming my backside, which now heated and ached in memory. I thought I would go mad, waiting for this ‘performance’ to begin.
Suddenly the whip came down hard on Juliet’s back. The crack through the air was electric. My heart raced. Again, that loud crack as the leather made contact with her ass. This time, Juliet moaned. My heart raced wildly and the crotch of my trousers was soon soaked with juices, the scent of which reached my nostrils even through the scent-choked air.
A bevy of scantily-clad males and females ran onto the stage and pushed against the base of this set. Suddenly, the entire set began to revolve. With that, the orchestra broke into a lively but dark tune I could not identify, and Romeo began to whip Juliet in earnest to the pace set by the screaming violins. As the stage turned, I could see Juliet’s back and ass, lined with red stripes. Being in a box, I was very close to all this action. Perhaps it was my imagination, but I picked up the scent from her cunny mingling with my own scents, creating a delicious spicy aroma, and I felt my mouth water.
The males and females ran faster, pushing the set in a circle, and as Romeo and Juliet revolved faster, the pace of the orchestra quickened. Juliet’s face came into view again, and her prominent nipples, very hard and red with excitement. From my close vantage point, I could see moisture seeping down the insides of her thighs. Her body was dotted with sweat. She cried out with each stroke of the whip. And her eyes! Suddenly, those violet orbs made contact with my grey ones. Never had I seen such an animal quality in a woman, so pure, so feral. Had she not be restrained, I might have expected her t
o leap from the stage, or to turn on her master, Romeo, ripping his clothing from his body and fornicating with him before the masses.
The whipping continued at an intense pace, insane really, until my head emptied and my body reeled with throbbing passion stirred by what I saw before me. Juliet’s back was no longer stripped, but solidly red. Her behind, too, glowed. Oddly enough, she did not attempt to avoid the whip but her body almost seemed to reach out for it. Her face held an ecstatic quality, a fine mixture of pleasure and pain.
The play continued on and on, with various characters whipping and being whipped, until the finale. During this scene, Romeo and Juliet returned to the stage. Now they switched roles, and Juliet whipped Romeo. This was a spectacular performance. Somehow—the wonders of theater tricks!—she managed to set Romeo’s ass on fire. High-pitched syncopated music accompanied Juliet’s whip while his bottom blazed and the curtain came down.
Absently I had begun rubbing my crotch in time to all this. Just before the curtain cut her off from view, Juliet’s eyes locked onto mine again. Clearly, I knew she knew what I was about. Ferocious is perhaps the best word to describe her face. And the invitation was clear. And in that instant, I knew I must have her!
Chapter Eight
Sybil Vane was her name, as the playbill said, and when the production ended, I was at her dressing room door in short order, a bouquet of roses in my hand. The door was opened by the actor who played Romeo, and I entered.
I opened the door. Inside, the room was stifling, and dark, for only one candle burned on the dresser, the flame reflected in the mirror for added illumination.
The room was close. Fabric in the form of costumes and curtains covered every surface, and hung from hooks on the walls. The dresser was littered with greasepaint. The air was pungent with the scent of sex and sweat. Besides the stool before the dresser, there was only one piece of furniture.
Darker Passions: The Picture of Dorian Gray Page 4