The Story - Part One

This is the story of Mrs. F. A. Tasse’s Capricious Capsulation Parlours and Whore House: A Parade of Sluts, Wild Women and Hussies.
New Orleans, circa 1890

Dickie Longerboner woke up at 4 a.m. and had a rather stiff erection. He loved waking up with erections and as usual, he had to pee. He laid in bed contemplating his erection and the difficulty it would be to get it to point south, so that he could aim into the piss pot without splattering pee all over the walls, toilet and floor, as he usually did.
Male animals tend to do that, no way around it except to sit, and nobody ever does.

Dickie Longerboner was blessed with a rather large cock. It measured about 7.6 inches when he last measured, however it was three inches in diameter. If he laid on his back with his legs in the air, and tried to measure it from the base of the anus, it was much longer, in fact, it was enormous. In short, Dickie Longerboner’s boner was not all that long, but it was rather stout and fat. His testicles were enormous and his parents called him ‘cowbells’ when he was just a baby.

So he laid there thinking about the pee, and he started pinching the tip of his penis, gently with his fingernails. He massaged the head trying to stimulate a bit of tease, and slow down the impulse to pee. That erection turned his attention inward to fantasy, and the fact that he had to urinate so badly, caused him to become more aroused. When the urge to piss his pizzle slowed, he began massaging his testicles, noticed a rather large bump on the side with his finger, which may have been a cyst, or a rather enlarged pore. Either which way, he could not see it. It was just to the outside lower portion of his left testicle wedged, on the side there. He had nearly had a wet dream in the middle of the night, tried to force it by rubbing his penis on the bed sheets, but he was too sleepy to ejaculate. And now he was glad he waited until dawn when he could enjoy the whole process more thoroughly.

He began rolling his testicles gently between his thumb and fingers while cupping the base of his scrotum with his other hand, brushing upwards, and thus created a rather euphoric sensation. Just as he started to incorporate his other hand, his eyes rolled back in his head and he went into a masturbatory trance. Pre-ejaculatory fluid began to ooze from his head and his eyes rolled back in their sockets. The fluid helped to increase the tickling sensation between the glans and his foreskin.

After about five to ten minutes of stroking his peen, he started to quiver, shake and moan. He trembled his hand quickly up and down the shaft of his penis, fast and furious at first, and then slowly, while holding the tip closed, and all at once, let loose an ejaculation of orgasmic proportions. Because he held the tip of his foreskin closed, the sensation was riveting and caused him to spasm about. Oh God. Oh my god, oh…he moaned loudly, and he quivered and spurt for a good two minutes. His friends had witnessed his orgasms during male pissing contests as a teenager, and gave him the nick-name, ‘Pee pee’.

When the quiver was over, he laid back on his pillow, exhausted. He farted a bit, the wind passing through his anus in spurts, bubbles and flutters. He was conscious of the fact that it was a wet fart. The inside of his ass was generally funky and odorous, to begin with. He reached around with his right hand, inspecting the damage, and then satisfied, wiped his hand through the crack of his ass, scratching and rubbing a bit. And then, as males will do, brought the side of his hand and fingers to his nose and inhaled of the fragrance thereupon his digits. Another five or ten minutes went by and then he dragged his smelly ass out of bed and headed for the commode and sat down whereupon he let loose a river of piss, three elongated farts that went thwarrrrp and thbubbbt. The farts were globulous and exited his rear end like water balloons, followed by a rather bulbous and volumous stream of shit.

Dickie sat there, enjoying his morning escapade and relaxed a bit on the commode, stinking up the entire bathroom while waiting to see what might happen next. His inner thighs itched all the way up to his nut sack, and he assumed he had another rash. It was a rather warm and muggy morning, and the day was certain to grow swampy.

This particular morning he was extremely excited because it was 1895 and just outside of the colonial French Quarter, Louisiana had just legalized prostitution and there was to be an afternoon parade of whores and luxurious creatures that Dickie simply couldn’t wait to get his hands upon. That man, named Story, had set up a district and Dickie had been reading about the blue books and menus with guidelines of proper instruction and services offered. Prior to this, he risked dens in back alleys and down private stairs, dark and often dangerous, the excitement grew.

Just the other day, he had seen Mrs. Frieda A. Tasse’s menu which stated:
Mrs. F.A. Tasse, Having opened Capricious Capsulation Parlors at Conti near Basin, requests your patronage of the fast, smart & slow set.
The following are a few of our specialties:

French fashion with Finger in asshole $3.50
Common Old fashioned fuck $2.50
Diddling on the edge of the bed with one foot on the floor $1.75
Fucking the breast, with tits tight $1.25 cents
Blowing in the asshole, new style with lick $2.20
Finger fucking, with juice 50 cents

Dickie read that luscious menu and as he did, drool formed in the corners of his mouth. He had a small savings account, money stashed under his mattress that he had saved up for a rainy day. Now it seemed that rainy day had come in the form of sunshine and a parade. While the ‘common old fashioned’ looked good, he thought that finger fucking with juice might be fun, too… for only fifty cents more. For three dollars, he thought he could enjoy the entire afternoon and take some of the scent home with him, perhaps to enjoy the next morning when he had to pee.

The bluebooks were guidelines to prostitution for the visitors of such places as Mrs. F. A. Tasse’s or otherwise. There was instruction on, How To Be Wise. Advice on how to be a thoroughbred, carry a certain amount of air and be a wise guy, no matter how painful. ‘If you don’t get a two in one shot, it ain’t the author’s fault. Follow your dreams and spend your coin wisely.’ and, 'Don’t be led astray, lewd women living according to the law.'

The sex district featured house services and specialties that were listed in those books and menus with prices, services and descriptions of the ladies inside.
The ladies of Mrs. Tasse‘s boarding house and brothel advertised:

Mad Maybelle and her ample bosom- Créole, white.Claudine Chifforobe and her tight box- Créole, Quadroon, nearly white.Albertine, desired for her luscious black skin.
Starlight Sateen who was known for her dry bob- Octoroon.
Delores Bleu, shy and full of sorrow- French Créole , society.
And Candy Sugartits, who’s name was self explanatory. She was pink and ditzy.

‘Don’t be a queer, come and enjoy the swell ladies we offer, here’.

While Dickie had plenty of cash for the cheap joints and negro cribs at fifty cents a pop, there were some elaborate houses that went as high as ten and twenty dollars. The queers and cripples in back alleys. Mrs. F.A. Tasse offered sweet and exotic girls and a fun afternoon for less than three or four dollars. Perhaps there would be less fleas and lice at a modest price.

Dickie was studying his wallet, and trying to figure out if he should shoot the wad all at once, or break it up a bit and enjoy a visit perhaps once a week, if he could afford it.

The inscription in the blue-book was:
"Order of the Garter: Honi Soit Qui Mal Y Pense which translated to, ‘Shame to him who evil thinks."

Dickie had read that Mrs. Tasse would be featuring ladies who were white, French Créole and Afro-Créoles. He imagined that the darker the skin, the darker the shame and thus, the more fun. He loved the ladies who were octoroon, quadroon or black, but white was fine, too. The dirtier the better, and Dickie was a dirty bird. Or so he thought. He wondered if the black ladies would be priced more or less, depending upon which way he thought about it: the darker the better- more expensive, or the less desired- cheaper.
At least cheaper was better for Dickie because that’s what he was used to.

Mrs. Tasse’s Capricious Capsulation Parlor was not far from the train station, and Dickie imagined that once the word got out, people would be clamoring over those tracks to get a bit of what they were lacking, now that it was legal.

People were used to the back-alley cat dens and they didn’t mind the sneak, but now that it was legal, it seemed a bit more sophisticated. Perhaps everyone would be going to the district now as a way of popular life and perhaps there would be more to see when Dickie took his stroll through the district at lunch hour, perhaps a bit of tit for free. At least he might get a peep at the courtesan, if he at the very least, could not afford them on a daily basis.

But what Dickie didn’t know was, despite its vital economic import in the antebellum era, New Orleans lay on the edge of the continent like a lethargic and dreamy concubine. And because of his languid nature he did not know the city was not trying to make prostitution more accessible, they were trying to contain it. To keep the scum and filth like Dickie inside an area where he could be watched more closely. Perhaps it might create an appeal, bring more visitors and consequently put cash in the hands of those in power. The city was simply banking on the idea of a nonjudgmental arena engrossed in sensual delights and sexual possibility.

A cesspool.
A perfect Sodom.
A wild party in heaven.
An exotic and erotic playground.
A hotspot.

The local city officials feigned a laissez-faire and permissive attitude towards the subject at hand, however money was in the forefront of their minds. The influential residents were troubled by the city’s reputation for prostitution and licentious behavior.
When questioned forcefully, the city leaders tried to deal with the issue by making prostitution less visible by creating a smaller or shrinking space during this period.
The city’s first comprehensive anti-prostitution measure, the 1857 Lorette Ordinance, essentially made prostitution legal in any part of the city as long as the ladies and merchants of madams avoided showing their wares and tits, indecent dress, disturbance or scandal on the city streets. Ordinances were passed through the end of the century to attend to prostitution and it’s ilk in a variety of ways. Circa 1898, there was an attempt to quarantine the plague of whores and remove it from the eyes of the decent who found it abhorrent.
The message from the city was clear, to:

Confine.
Control.
Profit.

Dickie cringed at the thought of competition, but thought that it might drive prices down. The more the merrier, the better the business and hopefully at lower the costs. Or so he hoped. At least the parade would be free, and Dickie was going to make certain to be at that parade early to catch a good view. That’s why he got up at 6 a.m. to get his work day out of the way, so he could see a bit of tit and pussy in the afternoon.

*end of part one.

The Story of Mrs. F.A. Tasse's Parlours, Part Two

The Parade

The ladies inside the district were busy hustling and bustling and getting ready to show their wares in the parade that afternoon. Bangles beads and bobbles went flying about, excitement and liberation were in the air. They were going to parade around town in an effort to show their attributes and announce their services.

There was cat-calling, hair pulling, items begged, borrowed and stolen. The fighting and bitching, out of hand. Lulu Harlot was looking for her jewels when she accused Tussy Little Tits of stealing them. She back-handed her with a hard slap across the cheek and lips, hitting the nose. ‘Where in the fuck are they‘, she demanded. They ended up on the floor kicking and pulling hair, barely pried apart by those watching, their own anger and frustration seething. Tussy had both sets of false eyelashes ripped off of her lids, makeup and lipstick smeared. She spat at Lulu and called her a damned fucking whore and a bitch. It was supposed to be a good time, not bad.

There were gaggles of women in various stages of dress and undress about the district. Breasts ripe, tethered and un-tethered. And those full or saggy, in need of a bustier to give a sense of youth and fullness.
Pushed up to meet with the eye.

There were hourglass corsets featuring a button-like design which appeared to fasten in the front, but actually laced down the back. Some wore a delicate wrap, transparent, showing form. There was a flurry of cotton gussets, or none at all. There were panties strewn about here and there. They wore panties and crotchless panties pulled tight to allow room for the vulva to protrude, or there were no panties at all. There were corsets which tightened the waist but left the breast free and unencumbered.
A sensual tease for the eye.

There were:
Garter straps and stockings,
suspender hose that stopped at the thigh,
Striped and polka dotted,
dark and sheer.

There were knickers and bloomers,
with bows and elastic tightened at the knee.
Or, there was no hosiery at all.

There were G-strings and narrow swaths of fabric or beads pushed between the crotch and cinched up through the buttocks, attached to a string or band about the waist.
There were pearls and necklaces that dangled from the neck or wrapped around the breast, an illusion of glitter and eroticism.

There were Peignoirs trimmed in marabou, shear and satin. Feather boas of rooster, turkey and ostrich, preened and faultless. They were used to accentuate form, to flow free and to lure.

There were high heels and low heels, buttoned and unbuttoned heels. Laced and unlaced.
There were Portuguese embroidered shoes and high-heeled boots, Shoe, heel and boots in one or two tones. There were Victorian heels and patterned shoes. There were slim shoes, fat shoes, stout shoes and satin slippers. There were Painted toe-mules and silk damask with buckle closures.
All were trimmed by boot-makers and cobblers using awls and burnishers that brought the shine or punched the hole.

They were dressed as French maids, Egyptian princesses, exotic Greeks and Gypsies. There was fantasy wear of gauzy cloth and fabric about the waist, wrapped, twisted or tied. Ribbons knotted into bows were tied around the thighs.
Bellies, tits and armpits were showing in flamboyant display. Arms up, arms down and arms flowing. They wore lockets and bows, locks and handcuffs, rings and see-through lace, feathers and quills, bangles and bows. The jewels were there to mock with beck and call.
When the clock struck four in the afternoon, they piled out into the

streets, horse and buggy, carriages were waiting. There were ragtime and Dixie bands. That brass was sudden and powerful all through the district. The heart leapt upwards and the body could not help but to be moved by that rhythm.
The streets were full of people waiting, cheering and screaming. There were whistles and cat-calls, shouts and jeers.
There was an Afro-Creole marching band with an uptown tempo, made you feel downtown. You couldn’t help but get to swaying or jumpin’, arms moving and feet that would not still.
The music and parade got out there on Canal and Basin street, the pulse of the district where Satchmo, Jelly Roll Morton, Kid Ory and a hundred other jazz greats were kings. There was a blending of brass between Creole and African music, they echoed church spirituals, ragtime and blues. All at once.
Step into the cadence, tempo and time.

There, where the turning basin of the Carondolet formerly resided, clamor, commotion and noise. The trains brought the spectators and onlookers in by the hundreds, and perhaps thousands were already there, just down the way and not too far from the cemetery.

This is where one of the most opulent bordellos lived, breathed and died. Right there on Basin Street. There was a saloon next door. Mrs. Tasse’s bordello was around the corner and down the street.
It wasn‘t the most opulent, but it wasn’t cots and dirt, either. The pleasure house not far from the big hall where they played the Basin Street Blues.
The people on the streets were either no-names or the names that would go down in history. There was a hoard which included those destined for print:
Flamin’ Amee, Buxom Bessie, Cryin’ Emmaline, Merry Meatloaf and Fanny Sweet.

There was:
Beaverton Beulah, Birdlegs Betty, Big Butted Betsy and Bang Bang Boom Box.

Folks came to catch a glimpse of:
Cross-eyed Lana, Yellow, Little Sissie and Hogsbreath Annie.

You had better be careful around:
Hard Hearted Hattie, Tiny, Bebop Beatrice and Rootin’ Toodles,
if you knew what was good for you.

Many hoped for sex with:
Calm Cora, Big Biggie & Little Biggie, Snaggle-toothed Alaina, Bad, Snaggle Crotch Mary, Stingbee or Froggy.

You could walk into a saloon most evenings and expect to see: Tootsie Tomlin, Dickie Longerboner, Snapbean, Sweetie Pie, Mad Mark, Hot Blooded Gussie, Mike the Pimp, Pussy Boogers, Boo Boo and Big Boo Boo.

Maybe at the bar getting drunk:
Lonesome Lily, Rib-eyed Tessie, Four Fingered Frieda and Stupid Shit.

Oh, that parade with dancin’ and carryin’ on went into the early hours of the morning. Folks was too tired by then for anything other than a little scratch and tickle, show and tell. Tits were flying, cunt was bared, hands were reaching out for a little grab here and there. Breasts were massaged, pulled, lifted. Nipples self-licked. Some sat horseback wearing no pants, they lifted legs and massaged their vulvas. They enjoyed the ride and sway of the horse, wet with lust and desire. The night was hot and musky. Odorous horse pissed streets, alcohol and sweat filled the evening air.

Some of the whores sat in the windows there at the French House and others mimed the fine art of fellatio using their thumbs and fingers. Long strokes to show a deep throat, they licked their lips and swallowed pretend semen. Some stood in the doorways wearing high heeled boots and nothing else at all. Some hid behind the curtains, tried to grab and lure. With some, you could only hear a seductive voice or soft whistle.

In the doorways, negligees and nighties were calling to the men and boys. It was an invitation to visit the cribs, a hotbed of prostitution and licentious behavior.
You could go into the district on any day, on any street, and expect to see the ladies waiting there. The houses varied in size, no two alike. Some were large and grand and right in the middle of the row might be one that was small and obscure. Some were rather bold like the rococo mansion on the corner, and down the next street sat a tiny little house owned by a lady named Rose.
The ladies were to leave broken hearts and empty wallets.

There was a whole lot of drinking and carrying on, the district now open for legitimate business, sure to be the place to see and be seen. Be there or miss out. One could stop by the dining rooms, saloons, and houses, fill the soul in more ways than one.

Come inside and be warmed, take off your clothes and stay awhile.

-end part two

The Story Of Mrs. Tasse's Parlours, Part Three

The Story Part Three

BLEU

Delores Bleu was often sad because of where she found herself in life. Her large brown eyes seemed perpetually moistened with teardrops, soft and heavy all at once. The globes too full and round for her to hold her eyes entirely open and so they often gazed downward in the direction of her rich locks and flowing curls in gathers and tucks of auburn. Eye lid and lashes too heavy to lift. Her hair looked as if it had been somewhat pressed or at least
unbraided, but it was produced by nature, and therefore natural and not synthetic. The color was like that of a golden tinged chestnut alight in the glow of a flame.

The hair fell helplessly and softly, falling nearly to the ground where sadness wept at her feet. Her lips were soft and slightly parted, as if to put forth a sound should there be a need, however she couldn’t find one. And so she remained mostly silent, quiet and demure. She had the appearance of sorrow. Her lips were shaped almost like the letter M, the deep philtrum full and lush at the base. Lips that spoke soft words, similar to that of an angel about to ‘shush‘ somebody, but couldn‘t find the voice.
Her skin was poignant, face reflected sadness, pity, and regret.

A portrait was taken of her, the photographer known for making his living mostly by taking images of landmarks, machinery or ships for local business. However, he also took personal photographs of the hidden side of local life, notably the opium dens in Chinatown and the prostitutes in the district. Obsessed and compelled with photography, he was handsome and dapper in his twenties. Lived alone and acquired a reputation for eccentricity and was mostly known for his quiet manner, perhaps he gave a little more, but not much, to his friends. His only true love was his love of the finished portrait. He fell in love with a few of his subjects there, but pined for them at a distance knowing they were not destined for his full attention and quite possibly below his family‘s social status. A descendant of an aristocratic Creole family, he spent nearly all the money he had, perhaps on the ladies of the district where his interests laid. Little was known about him, perhaps he hid in shyness or fear, filled with lust for the beauty of art, his portraits were refined and dignified even if they remained hidden from his general family life.

Bleu, as she was known, was photographed in this way, the studio
light softly lit, captured not the pureness of her skin or lips, but fell upon her bosom. Her auburn hair to remain a secret for it was set forever in black and white, stilled there upon glass negatives.
Her right arm is resting on her belly just below her breast, hand clutching a small but full bouquet of peonies and a single rose. The flowers thrust upwards just covering the base of her cleavage, leaves, stem and fern was but a loose garland at her side. Her bodice was a full gather of white, her gown reflected the true depth of black velvet echoed by light and shadow. She had heard the hushed and deprecatory words behind her back:

harlot,
promiscuous
tart,
whore
and
tramp.

The words only added to her sadness. Her home but a room, her surroundings outside an indiscriminate jumble of worthless dance halls, brothels, saloons, gambling rooms, cockfighting pits, and rooming houses. She abhorred the barking dogs, animals in need, never to receive love or attention.

Her father died when she was young and she grew up feeling left alone, her mother all but ignored her. When she turned fifteen, her mother was courting a younger man, and seething with jealousy over her own daughter, kicked Delores out of her home and left her to wandering the streets in need of food and shelter.
She used up all the money she had, which wasn’t much, and ended up in the quarter in search of a job, a place to be needed. But as was typical of the late 1800‘s, she couldn’t find any. There was no work for a young fifteen year old girl and she was told to seek the help of a Madame in the district.
She saw a sign for those inquiring, Mrs. F. A. Tasse having just opened up her parlours at Conti Street.
Frightened, scared and alone, she wandered up to the porch where Mrs. Tasse spotted her and rushed her inside offering comfort, a bit of warmth and perhaps a place to stay.

Mrs. F. A. Tasse offered to train suitable girls in the arts of pleasure. The girls seemed to have it all. They were offered great seasoned foods of bouillabaise, jambalaya, gumbo filé, hams and sassafras seasoned sausages, shrimp and chicken. There were sauces with roux, garlic and French buttered breads, potato salads and tasso. There were clean linens, beautiful gowns and underwear. They were offered the services of a doctor where their health was checked upon. They were given jewelry and had hopes of fame and fortune, but it was all for a price. The girls would soon find out they were all owing to the Madame. In debt and having to pay for it all, they relied on attracting a wealthy suitor who might be able to help them find a way out, and perhaps become a mistress.
A few were very successful, but most were not.

When it was all said and done, and the years had passed slowly by, Bleu contracted an invasive form of bacterial vaginosis with oral thrush and vaginitis. Her symptoms became extreme. There was a fishy odor and a whitish-gray cottage cheese-like discharge from her vagina with a curd-like appearance and lesions that would not heal. Over time, it eventually made her unattractive. She ended up on the streets, suffered pain and flu-like symptoms. She was chronically fatigued, fetid, and wrought with itching and profuse sweating.

It was systemic and eventually took her life.

-End part three
Written by Steve Hough

The Story of Mrs. F.A. Tasse's Parlours, Part Four

MAD MAYBELLE

-who also went by the name of Maybelle Starlight, was lovable and anything but tamable. She earned the nick name Mad, because once her loving nature was disturbed, she could be as frantic or fuming as an old wet hen. Some called her mad because they thought her crazy, and some called her crazy when they meant mad. In any event, she could be one of these, or all at once. Mad Maybelle stuck.

She was often lacking in common sense, her reason was questioned because she appeared to be somewhat unrestrained and sometimes wildly excited to the exclusion of the world around her.
Her words and voice could be loud, offensive. She rarely wore a brassiere or corset in public and when she met someone who cast a rather long glance below her neck, she would often say in a very coy voice, ‘Pardon my tits’ or ‘ain‘t they fine?’, just to get a rise out of the person who was gawking at them. Sometimes she would say it in a way to disconcert or repel other women who might look down upon her. From time to time she would pretend to have the vapors, throwing the back of her hand across her forehead, gasp and then laugh hysterically when she got a rise out of a particular gentleman, if he was gentlemanly, that is. When she thrust her head back, she inhaled and pushed her chest up and forward.

When Maybelle was born, her mother cried for months and months, having never wanted her. Because she was afraid people would call her Ma-Belle, she added the Y, having never wanted to name her. As a baby, Maybelle had to cling to her mother’s side, begging to be loved, as her mother didn’t love her. That’s why she became so persuasive, which appeared as desperation wanting
love. Standing on her head and acting up in fits and giggles, a little bit crazy while seeking her mother’s approval, having never been given any.

When her mother picked her up, she wanted to be down. When her mother put her down, she wanted to be picked up. She could never be satisfied in knowing exactly what her mother wanted from her, having never wanted anything from her, and so her mother gave her nothing at all.
The people saw. They saw every bit and knew that her momma didn’t want her so they loved her up as much as they could. Called her honey, love and sweet thing.
Still, it was never enough and certainly no replacement for a momma.

As Maybelle grew into a young woman, she found early that she gathered the attention of men who knew nothing about her at all. In turn, she was very fond of the male form, enthusiastic and aware while in the company of men and strangers. At an early age she had sexual encounters with boys her age. A sneak here, a kiss there, she found elation in penetration.
She demonstrated that she was interested in rough and uncultivated sex in fields, parks or gardens. While she loved a common old fashioned fuck, what really turned her on was when she bent over a bed, a chair or a chest of drawers and was entered from behind, dog fashion. She was told she could not carry a baby this way, enjoyed a fat and loaded cock shoved gently and slowly up the rear, instructed to start off slow with short and gentle strokes and then finished off with long hard thrusts. Her breasts exposed, play toys for titillation. She would place her fingers inside of her vagina and stroke her frontal wall with thoughts of autoeroticism.
Sometimes she used dildos, beads or other sex toys as an aid, which was an offense to pure and moral standard. While it was subject to condemnation and social conservatism, she considered anal and vaginal sex a normal part of life and enjoyed it as much as her own breath.

There was no need for lubrication as she was ordinarily wet with desire. She generally exploded in riveting orgasm while her partner came inside of her rectum. Sometimes she would let him enjoy a bit of fetish, allow him to pull out and she would suck him off while he screamed and moaned with pleasure and delight.

Maybelle had a black pit bull name Addie, waited for her outside. She could be seen walking through town with that old dog following at her feet. The respected women of the town saw that dog and turned away with hatred and disgust. The men thought of how Maybelle liked to be entered from the rear and became aroused.
The dog fashion became her trademark.

Many years later she suffered the abrupt onset of headache, backache, rapidly rising fever, nausea, and black vomit. Her liver was already weak from years of drinking alcohol, so when the fever penetrated her lymphatic system and attacked her vital organs she became haggard looking quickly, skin yellowed with jaundice. In just a few days she was wrought with high fever, hemorrhages, seizures, severe muscle pain and delirium, a week later she was dead.

-End part four

Written by Steve Hough

The Story of Mrs. F. A. Tasse's Parlours, Part Five

The Story Part Five

CANDY SUGARTITS

Candy Sugartits was born Caress, given the name Candy when she was very young. Because she developed at an early age, was teased and called: Sugar tits. She was brutally honest and very vocal about it. She had perfect breasts, and she loved them and the attention which they brought. She walked around the brothel most days without a stitch to cover them. In fact, her favorite thing to wear was but a pair of thigh high stockings striped vertically from thigh to toe, in dark rose and white with a pair of ankle strapped high heels. There was a strap just below, and another just above the ankle. If she wore anything at all, she wore a light white gauze shirt that was see-through and sure to catch the attention that her breasts demanded. Sometimes she only wore a scarf or beads, with nothing else at all.

Candy was attractive to men, they called her Sugartits. Soft and sweet as honey. An image was produced by a photographer at Mrs. Tasse’s that reflected her style and confidence. She sat on a bar stool with back to the bar. Alcohol posed behind her, she leaned back in comfortable form, and with a cigarette in her hand, she cupped and lifted her right breast as if it was an offering for the voyeur and lens. She had a nightgown pulled off of one shoulder, exposing herself to the photographer. It was etched there upon the glass. She crossed her stockinged legs at the knee, revealing the underside of her left thigh. She wore a large hat with an ostrich feather, and high heeled boots laced up to cover the calves.

Dickie Longerboner met Candy for the first time, having paid for ‘Pinky’s Special’ which guaranteed under-fucking with a woman on top, tits in your face with extra lady to play with your balls and blow wind up your asshole while playing with a goose quill feather. He had worked extra hours and engaged in a little petty larceny to be able to afford the luxury at two dollars and seventy five cents.
When he first laid eyes on Candy Sugartits, he went weak in the knees. She was ravishingly beautiful, a sheer temptress standing there in her striped stockings, striped vertically from thigh to the toes, from the toes back up to the eye. You could follow the gaze of the man who laid eyes on her. When she winked at Dickie, he almost fainted. It took three ladies full of strength to get Dickie and his pocketbook upstairs to Miss Sugartit’s bedroom and place him on the davenport. Starlight Sateen helped to lead the way. Candy kept a bottle of straight rye whiskey on the table next to her bed. She often made old-fashions for herself and the girls, but the men liked to drink it straight. There was generally laughter and screaming coming from her boudoir. She was forever popular with the boys and men.

The ladies jostled Mister Longberboner a bit, then gave him a shot or two of rye whiskey, unzipped his pants and pulled his penis free of the binding of his underpants, began to tickle his balls. Within a few minutes, but seemingly sudden, Dickie had an enormously erect penis. His scrotum tightened and they coaxed his head a bit and the foreskin gradually retracted, exposing his soft pink and shiny glans.

One of the ladies left the room, leaving Dickie, Sateen and Candy alone together. When Dickie was able to regain the feeling in his body, and the nervous quivering stopped, he looked at Candy who pointed to a screw in the ceiling. There was a large ring dangled there upon the screw and a fish net sling tied up to the eyehook ring. The sling, just dangling there. Sateen helped Dickie strip all the way down to his socks, and nothing else, and then Candy climbed into the fish net sling. Her ass sunk to the bottom of the net, lower than the rest of her body. Her legs were forced, thrust upwards and out of the sling in a splay-legged fashion, revealing her plump and puckered cunt which was poking through the fish net sling. Sateen helped Dickie onto the bed, his orbs nearly popped out of their sockets, erection so stiff he thought it might explode. He scrunched up under the sling-sack and Sateen poked his enormously fat boner up into Miss Sugartit’s bulging clit and vulva. He began to thrust about a bit while Sateen started to spin the hammock in slow undulating circles, slowly at first.

As she spun slowly, Dickie’s cock was rotated clockwise as her cavernous clit tightened and twisted upon his cock. It rotated slowly, in and out, round and about. Her twat clamped tightly, twisted his pecker at least one hundred and eighty degrees before it popped back into its natural position. The sling gyrated around and around, while his cock rotated, twisted, and then popped back into place like a cork in a bottle.

Sateen was spinning slowly while lightly dusting Dickie’s nuts with an ostrich feather. The tickling sensation nearly caused Dickie to go slack, but the overall feeling kept him awake while his eyes rolled back and up into their sockets, threatening to
completely close them forever.

Just then, Sateen spun Sugartits counterclockwise and then clockwise again. Dickie started to moan and groan and he implored Sateen to spin the pendulum faster and faster and faster, when all at once, just as Dickie was about to cum, the hook and screw broke loose from the ceiling and Sugartits full weight was dropped in a shocking and dramatic SPLAT upon Dickie’s pelvis, pushing his left and right testicle, scrotum sack and all, between his thighs, nearly rupturing his left nut.
She landed on him with an expulsion of squirting and gushing cum which oozed and drizzled down his hips and thighs. They nursed his swollen testicles and licked the cum from his body.

The words she heard behind her back were,
shameless, hussy, tart and strumpet.

She was murdered in a back alley one year, never to be seen, heard from or cared about until a photograph of her image was revealed, long after her death. The right tit displayed, cupped and pushed
forward as an offering to the voyeur.

-End Part Five

Written by Steve Hough

The Story of Mrs. F. A. Tasse's Parlours, Part Six

SNAP BEAN

Jimmy Snapbean was a friend of Dickie’s. Tall and lanky, a bit goofy-looking perhaps. Snapbean was a chef down in the Quarter. He owned a restaurant and saloon, provided nourishment for the parched and hungry. Got the name snap bean for his Spring mix and snap beans with Créole tomatoes. Known for his chicken and andouille sausage gumbo; corn macque choux; red beans and rice with smoked ham; muffuletta pasta salad; shrimp and crawfish étouffée; Cajun fried turkey with pistolettes; and pecan praline bread pudding with chantilly cream.

Sex and liquor were two of his favorite pastimes. Dickie had told him all about the eye-hook and feathered quill. Snapbean didn’t want to miss out on all of that fun. He was used to chasing the ladies in his employ around, caught a few here and there. Most often, there was always challenge and fuss. Something about the cribs and the anticipation engaged his desire and lust in a more exiting and compelling way. The paid whores were more open to lustful and erotic behavior. When Snap shot his wad in the cribs, it brought forth an intensity unlike the chasing sex he was used to. In one situation he was the aggressor, stalked and teased, coerced. In the other, we was welcomed, persuaded, coaxed and could tease, be ravished more freely. He felt more exposed and that turned him on. He preferred cheap sex and free sex but with the paid and a little sweet talk, he usually got more than he bargained for.

He ran that restaurant and saloon with a smile, all the while through intimidation and greed, he coerced and stole as much money as he could get his hands on. He hated to part with it unwisely. He short-changed people for what he felt that he was lacking.
When he showed up at Mrs. Tasse’s, several of the girls were lounging around the parlour in dress and undress. The Madame was adorned in a white Victorian touring hat wrapped in white organza. On top of the hat was mound of ostrich feathers piled high which helped to lengthen and elongate her form. Her hair was upswept into the hat. She had professional aire about her, wore a long sleeved shirt buttoned at the neckline, closed with a cameo brooch. She also wore a locket in gold, waist cinched and buckled tight, along with a long and flowing dark saffron colored velvet gown.

Her bordello was not the most opulent, however there was a rather large chandelier in the parlour and it certainly wasn’t one of those clip joints where you would expect to get hit with jive talk while your pockets were being rifled through by the creeps and crawlers.
Snap was too smart for that, besides, that’s what he specialized in. He could spot the scam when it was place before him. Mrs. Tasse while thrifty, did not have larceny in her heart, she ran a neat and tidy juice joint.
There were heavy draperies, velvets and overly-carved furniture with lavish and luxurious pillows. There were art pieces in ivory and mahogany, pictures on the walls reflected the gold in their frames. There were statues of nudes, a leopard skin rug, and crystal candelabras, gaudy and bold. It was dimly lit and nonjudgmental. There was a dreamy quality to it, a house that offered a world of sensual delights and sexual possibilities.

Blue was sitting in the corner dressed in a beautiful violet peignoir with turquoise marabou feathers. She wore sparkling shoulder length earrings, but they were difficult to see with her chestnut hair aflame in the parlour glow. They reflected the watery sparkle in her eyes which looked like puddles of shimmering diamonds. Her thighs, legs and feet were bare. She looked like a portrait, lounging there. Upon her head was a plum colored Pork pie hat with a peacock feathers on one side.
The iridescent blue and green, a striking accent.

Claudine was wearing nothing at all. She turned to look at Snapbean when he walked in, flashed him a dazzling but crooked smile. On her head was a mess of raven tousled curls. An ox horn comb pulled her hair up and together on one side in the back. Her eyebrows were thick and dark, her eyes the color of charcoal. The nose was fat and bulbous on the tip, contrasted with tight-set lips that were trying to hide her gap-toothed teeth, however her lips couldn’t hide them, and so she beamed at Snap. She was sitting up against the arm of the velvet covered davenport, arms casually posed in her lap. Her breasts were full and they hung low, significant and generous. The areola’s were the size of Morgan silver dollars, captivating in diameter. They were a dark, reddish and brown, they appeared nearly as dark as her hair and the shadow that fell upon them. Her nipples were a deep rose in color, fat and protruding. When she saw Snap she got goose bumps, and a contraction of the smooth muscle therein upon the breast, and the nipples became sexually erect, a release of oxytocin. She raised a hand and lightly caressed the left which brought a flood to her senses, perhaps her mind thought of orgasm. Her right leg was stretched out upon the cushion, her left leg raised, knee pointing upwards. Snapbean’s eyes went directly to the space where they came together, but all he could see was shadow. She wiggled her toes as if to gesture a private greeting. Jelly Roll Morton was playing softly on the piano in corner, Claudine stood up and started dancing gently and singing softly. She twirled lightly around the room where she had found her niche.
Without a critical audience, she felt free and unburdened.
Snapbean was captivated.

He was fully expecting the royal treatment when Claudine caught his attention. The Madame showed him the menu. He glanced it over, up and down, around and around and his eyes landed on: Dry Bob forty-nine cents. He enquired about the dry bob, and wondered, what was it? When he found out it was sex without ejaculation, doing it ‘dry’ he said, fuck that shit and laughed deeply. He ordered, ‘The French Maid’ for a two dollars and seventy-five cents, which was a hard-on rub, guaranteed to make cum. With this selection came a free back-scuttling where Snapbean could stick his fingers or cock up inside her anus, but he was to stay out of her vagina with his penis, but he could use his fingers.
One small treasure on the menu said that she would tickle his nuts with a feather, if he so desired. He could also get a free old fashioned fuck for two-fifty. One of the selections was watching a fucking match, while another woman jerked him off. Or, he could have his prick sucked while sucking a woman’s cunt. There was no discount for cash. The Madame offered stink fingers and jerk off matinees every Wednesday from two thirty to four.
If you're not a self starter, stay home and jack yourself off. Choices, choices.

Okay, right. So Snapbean is in the dirty room and Claudine tells him to strip down naked while she lays across the bed, writhing and clawing at her body. She begins to moan and implores him to undress slowly. She tells him she wants him to keep his socks and work boots on and nothing else. She lays there playing with her nipples and stroking her vulva, sticking her finger inside of herself and then pulls them out and sucks them off.

Snapbean undresses slowly, removes his boots and then steps back into them, unlaced. He is standing there in work boots and socks, totally nude. Claudine grabbed the bed sheets and stuffed them to her face and let out a muffled scream. He was gorgeous.

He was wearing a pair of 18th century spectacles that were slightly darkened and highlighted his curly black locks and hair. He had a thick black mustache. His body was both lanky and bony, but his chest and arms were muscled, hairy and fine. His skin was nearly pearl white, translucent with blushes of pink.
His tits were rosy pink, the size of quarters. His cock was massive and immense, the head was fat and round, fattened like a plum. He had thick black hair that enveloped the shaft of his penis, curled and frazzled, demanded attention. His thighs were thick, legs elongated, lengthened his form.

He stood with his legs apart, his enormous cock made Claudine swoon, it dangled before her eyes, unbound. The color of oyster flesh, it was both strong and veined, filled with desire, muscle-heavy and weighted.
His penis began filling slowly and relaxing as it stiffened, tempting and teasing. It hung down nearly to his mid thighs, stiffened again, and relaxed as if it needed help to raise it free it from its wicked weight.

Claudine nearly fell off the bed while trying to throw herself at him. She jumped into his arms and wrapped her legs around his hips, mouth open and hunger strong.
She wished that she could eat his face and she slobbered all over him, tongue wetted, teeth and lips gently biting, fingers clawing at his back.
He laid her gently on the bed and then he began to turn slowly so that she could get a good look at him. The back of his legs were muscled from the calf to the thigh, his buttocks were pink and round and rode high. They were suitable for slapping and spanking. He turned around, cock now fully engorged, Claudine began to whimper.

She looked at Snapbean out of the corner of her eye and told him she was but an innocent French Maid, fragile and frail. She said her daddy caught her playing with her vagina in the outbuilding behind their house. Her father was furious with her sin and ordered her inside to clean her bedroom, in the nude. She told Snapbean she was ashamed and weak, needed help lifting the heavily carved davenport against the wall. It was in need of a good dusting and needed to be measured. Snapbean raised one eyebrow above the spectacles and Claudine climbed slowly off the bed, lifted her leg revealing her plump vulva. Snapbean’s penis stood at attention. Claudine had him sit in the middle of the davenport while she got down on her knees and parted his legs. She began to softly bite the tip of his penis. She licked at it and sucked the head. She grabbed it with one hand and twisted it in her mouth. Snap’s head collapsed backwards against the davenport. She took his scrotum in her mouth and massaged his testicles with her lips and tongue and then ran her lips up and down the side of his engorged penis, and then, she took his testicles in her mouth and tried to swallow them. Snap began to moan loudly and slouched down into the cushion. She pulled her mouth from his penis and then stood on the sofa with both feet on either side of his hips. She opened her legs and wrapped her thighs around his head and thrust her wet and throbbing vagina on top of his mouth and nose, bumped and grinded it there while clawing the back of his head gently and rough with her fingers and nails. Snap brought his chin forward, and thrust his mouth and lips up inside of her, tongue as far as it would go. She was wet with scent of swampy urine, nearly dripping with desire. He went wild and tried to bury his entire face inside of her. A few minutes later, she raised her hips above him and straddled the soft by placing her left and right foot up on the arms of the sofa. Stretched over him and balancing there as if she were a tightrope. Using his face as a fulcrum, she rested her full weight tightly over his nose and mouth, she bounced up and down just a little bit. He grabbed at her thighs and pulled him tighter onto his face, her wetness enveloped him and he turned his face quickly, gasping for quick breaths of air and then return to the warmth and moistness of her vagina. She called out softly while moaning, ‘Is daddy happy with the way I am measuring the sofa, is daddy happy, oh daddy, oh daddy baby, is this the way daddy likes it? I’ve been a good girl. Tell me daddy, do you like it? I’m begging you.’ He could only moan let loose a flurry of muffled cries.

Then she got on her knees and slowly lowered her snatch over Snapbean’s long stiff and throbbing cock. She slouched down, nearly collapsing and dropped her full weight on him, sagging a bit until she got a good and tight grip on the thing. Once situated comfortably, she began to bounce softly like a trollop while Snap laid there with his tongue hanging out of his mouth lolling and waggling a bit, eyes rolled back in their sockets, eye-glasses askew across the top of his forehead.

He pulled his glasses from his face, and tossed them to the floor. He pulled her in closely where he began to kiss the nape of her neck, soft kisses on her shoulder. She could feel the heat from his breath, he moistened her armpit with tongue and spittle. He tickled her thighs with the tip of his fingers, stopping briefly as he pushed her breasts up to his mouth and began again with soft kisses, daubing and dashing his tongue against her nipples.

Her skin began to tingle with excitement and she started to squirm, breath becoming small and then gassping. Their heart rates were accelerating, speeding into a blur. Blood was flowing fast and free through their bodies, and just then, Claudine slowed down and began to push and pull, up and down in long, slow and even strokes, enjoyed the journey as it moved along. Her breath deepened and Snap thought he would explode in orgasm while Claudine implored him to hold on and pace himself.
And then she softly cried out,
I
Think
I
Am
Going
To
Have
An
Orgasm.

At that moment, Claudine begged him to cum inside of her. And he did, thrusting and pushing as hard as he could to feel that he was up and inside the depth of her. Then she began to climax, and ejaculate, squirting cum even as she pulled off of him. She wanted him to enjoy seeing her juices as she fell over and off of his dick. Then she slowly slid to the floor and collapsed in a puddle of her own fluid.
Snapbean started to shiver and quiver in fits of chill and excitement. He grabbed his penis and stroked, it wet and slippery, covered in ejaculatory fluid. Then he got down on the floor with her, and finished cleaning off her crotch with his tongue, lapping gently at, and inside of her anus.
Daddy was happy.

-End of part six

The Story of Mrs. F.A. Tasse's Parlour, Part Seven

ALBERTINE

Albertine was sleek and black. She had a bit of jive inside of her, didn’t live with the other ladies. She lived where she felt most comfortable, outside of the district, walked past the negroe cribs because she was looking for a better life. There weren’t any black people on Basin Street or around the corner on Conti Street either. So she walked to work, on out past the negroe cribs. Tension was high and she fought against Jim Crow in her own small way. Ever since she had heard about the police chief getting shot, there was a lot of fighting, anger and what have you. His dying words, that he was shot by a Dago. The Italians were infuriated. The colored population that had interacted for so long with the white population was comparatively liberal for the deep south. Many disliked the State of Louisiana’s attempt to enforce strict racial segregation. They hoped the laws would be overturned, but in the end, they were upheld. Things were becoming a little more strict, but not so much in the district.
In the 1800s, the Creoles of New Orleans were broken into two basic groups: The White-Creoles and Afro-Creoles, which were a mix of whites, white-mix and blacks. Nobody wanted to see the shades. Different values came naturally; language, jobs and the status for women were at odds with the groove and movement of time. The French Creoles were white and upper class. They spoke French, had a bit of snobbery about them.

The Afro-Creoles began in Europe and also in Africa as slaves. The Creole’s took offense when the term for their kind was used to describe and name the colored people: Creoles, as well as themselves. There had been lynching’s and accusations, mobs about here and there. Innocent people were at risk. It wasn’t a safe place, and certainly not a safe time.

The district now open, people were coming from everywhere. There was a lot of hustle and bustle, one didn’t know who was on the up, and who was on the take. Race became threatening. Albertine walked uptown to the more proper side of the district near Basin in search of a better life. She carried a .38 special with dum-dum bullets in it to work with her every day. She walked to work early in the morning from where she was at home and at ease, along the walk, where there was mistrust and apprehension.

The words she heard behind her back were: Black Creole or Afro-Creole, a gens de couleur libres, a free woman of colour, colored, black, negroe and nègre, trash, slut and whore.

She would never aim to kill, but would consider causing serious injury should she be provoked.
She enjoyed sporting men and they enjoyed the light in her darkness. Her skin betrayed the morning sun, made it appear awash in the hazy glow. As she walked along the austere district walls, she sometimes became a blur or a shadow, there among the iron rails. There was an overhanging and dull light from the verandas and height of the buildings. She crossed the streets from sun to shade and back again, depending on which way she wanted to go, and what she wanted to see. Her skin became saturated with the deep and warm varicolored stain in the district, now weathered and dry.
She blended there, on her morning walks, was not to become flush with her surroundings, but rather concealed therein.
Her clothes matched with that of the plaster and stucco, light and shadow. Hue and tint. Color and lack of color.
She moved along with a confidence in herself, righteous and proud. Moved there along the salmon and vermilion, the decay of façade. There were many who saw sadness in the district and moral depravity. Sex and alcohol, saloons and jive joints. Young and old danced in the floor shows, showing a bit of skin, a breast, a thigh or they bared it all. Albertine saw and chance to move up, opportunity where some only saw stagnation and cobwebs. Some never saw a chance for loss, only a glimmer of hope. During this period, even women could not be trusted. A red haired tart who had been engaged in prostitution from an early age had been accused of murder. She was known for terrorizing others, beat a man to death in her early years for calling her a whore.
Known to have vulgar language, stabbed another man in broad daylight over her right to do so. Fuck you, you goddamned asshole.

People ended up in the dark corners, attacked and beaten. Times were tough and people were cruel. Alberteen felt good inside working for the Madame Tasse. There was ease and quality. She enjoyed the men who were white. They were in search of what they could not have on the outside in the real world, the world that was there in the light of day. Inside the district and especially inside the brothels, there was acceptance. There was a certain man, a photographer who was distinguished and known in proper circles. He photographed the ladies in the district to that the houses could advertise and show off their assets that hid from within. The photograph frequented Albertine on a regular basis, their lust turned to love but was never to be revealed to the outside world. It remained there in Mrs. Tasse’s parlour and bedrooms.

He enjoyed a bit of cocaine having come from an aristocracy. He grew up with wealthy parents, having had quite a bit of money himself, though generally he spent it all. He loved the contrast of the white powder there on Albertine’s black skin. He emptied vials there on her breast, belly and crack between her legs. He licked and sniffed it off of her and went into an ecstatic trance. He became wired and tore at her with lust and infatuation. He loved to watch her have orgasms and he used different techniques to bring about arousal of her senses. Sometimes he used toys to stimulate her clitoris and vagina. Her orgasm would vary in strength and sensation. Sometimes he would stimulate her anus and vagina at the same time. Her response was often loud, gasping and clutching.
He liked to enter and fuck her after she had ejaculated and climaxed. It brought forth control in his mind and left him writhing and out of breath.

Sometimes he would get on his knees and bend over, placing his head on a pillow, shoulders down, she would enter his anus with her fingers at first, playing and teasing, tickling his inner walls and sphincter. When he was relaxed and loosened, she would use a toy for insertion, slowly push it in and out of his rectum until he could no longer stand it, she would push it in as far as it went while he masturbated with his right hand, sending ejaculation to the floor and woodwork. His appearance would become flushed and afterwards, he would glow. He would then crawl into her arms as they got into bed together. She would hold him this way, her raven arms wrapped around him as if he were a little boy.
He would play with her crotch, inserting his fingers until she had an orgasm, and then suckle his fingers like a baby.
She would stroke his head, his chest and his neck, coddle him until he fell asleep.

They shared a love of food and in paid courtship, Albertine would often have food brought up to her room and serve the photographer. Sometimes she brought a basket of food that she prepared in her neighborhood the evening before he was due to arrive.
She wanted to show him that she could make a home for him, bring him a little comfort and show him a little special attention with detail. He would only visit her inside the sanctuary of Mrs. Tasse’s, never having ventured down to where she lived for fear of being seen.
She had a tiny vegetable garden where she grew beans, and spring onion, some parsley and perhaps a few potatoes or squash. She would tote a basket to work carrying some homemade specialties like boiled ham hocks with black-eyed peas and okra. Perhaps she caught a local trout and fried it up a bit or boiled some crawfish with those tasty heads. She brought Boudin sausage that was made from scratch using ground pig, liver and rice seasoned and stuffed into intestine casing.

Sometimes they would incorporate food into their love making ritual. He would bring a lovely bottle of wine for them to share. Together, alone in her room in the early evenings they would sit and talk, discuss things that made him happy. They would share a meal and she would listen to his stories with great intent. He marveled her with his life, his world and his riches. A world that he could never share with her. She knew this intuitively, never told him she wanted to be part of his world, never let on her desire, but she watched him with eyes fixated on every feature of his face and longed to be inside of his world as he told her stories.
She hoped one day his life would become hers, but it never was to be. She did not want to reveal her desire out loud, for fear of rejection, and so the fantasy continued for years on into decades.

They would sit within the glow of a candle‘s flame, until the wine warmed their senses. Sometimes they would lay back and she would let him open her legs and slowly drizzle the wine into her vagina. The alcohol burned and stung a little at first, and then he would bury his face between her legs and suckle there. They used vegetables in their lovemaking and one time she fed him sugared pecans that he dabbled in her vagina, seasoning them with her soul.

He photographed her, but for the fear of having the images found in his studio, he later destroyed them. As the years passed he carried her image around with him only within his mind, and also within his anguished and lonely heart.

End of part Seven. Click on 'older posts' to read the final chapter, 8.

The Story of Mrs. F.A. Tasse's Parlour, Part Eight

THE ARTIST, PHOTOGRAPHER AND VOYEUR

The artist, businessman and voyeur used lens and viewing camera to photograph his business interests in public, and his private interests in secret. Having been born in Louisiana to a prominent white Creole family he had a rather decent education. His mother was the daughter of a wealthy merchant who originated from France. His father supported the family there in the French Quarter in fine style. He was a bookkeeper and in his later years, became a treasurer and secretary for a well known business. The family was wealthy enough to be able to have a nurse for the children in their employ.

The young photographer faired well in school, above average and thus was able to secure a job with his father’s firm as a young man. At the onset, he was interested and active in the business, but his restless and creative nature would not let him stay attentive and his mind wandered towards other goals, dreams and desires.

He became obsessed with photography, and by 1898 he was recognized for his talent and knowledge of the camera and lens.
He stood only five feet, five inches tall however, he was very handsome and had a dapper appearance and hauntingly beautiful eyes. His facial features were soft, yet remained manly. His eyebrows were full and thick and accentuated the color and depth of his most beautiful eyes. He had a refined nose, and a charismatic and well-trimmed mustache that was perched just above the lip. His hair was properly groomed and he dressed well in suit and tie of the day and generally wore a distinguished hat upon his head.
He was known to be seen wearing diamond stick pins in his lapel, or gold cufflinks and tie clasp. He sometimes wore flashy scarves and monograms that were flamboyant and ostentatious.
He was very polite and because of his social standing, he was invited to many refined and exclusive parties.

Around this time, his mother died. His father was engaged in work and his brother was away at school. He was left alone and began to pursue his interests in photography more deeply and intently. The district was within very close proximity to his home and he often ventured there as a young man, looking for sex and inexpensive thrills. Word got out within the district of his photographic talents and he was hired to photograph some of the ladies in order to promote certain brothels and portray with stilled image, what lay waiting inside. Not only did he photograph the ladies, he also photographed the grand rooms.
There were white marbled fireplaces and highly polished black- walnut and mahogany carved pieces of furniture, some were covered in lovely damask.
There were grand etageres and velvet carpets. There were statues and other works of art by renowned artists. There were marbled tables and armoires with glass doors. There were fine sideboards and lovely silver pieces within. The walls boasted expensive and tasteful paintings. There were French mirrors in guilt frames that caught and reflected the loveliness and the light.
The photographer viewed the rooms and pieces therein as works of art, and since he had an eye for beauty, he felt comfortable there. He was enamored with the bay windows and the tulip-domed cupolas over some of the fireplaces. The houses that he frequented and photographed were modest to elegant. There, you could expect to find between eight to twenty ladies living within and the rooms contained just about anything from eccentricities to kink.

Social etiquette and cocktails were served in the parlors. Once the attitude was relaxed, there were engagements of fetish, bondage and discipline. The parlors were gentlemanly, the displays reflected gaudy opulence and expensive chandeliers and glass globed sconces. Palm trees were planted in pottery and cast frond shadows across the walls.
The ladies displayed qualities that ungentlemanly men preferred. There in the late afternoon and early evening, those with the most charm could win favors and create swoon, adoration and infatuation for lustful hearts.
Music was played, literature was read and songs were sung. Social conversation was lively and robust.
If you looked carefully, just there on the chair, the sofa or a portion of the rug or wood floor, you might see faded blood stains that had tried to be cleaned from events and situations of which entailed jealousy and drunken stupor.

Because of his family’s success he was given visibility within the community and therefore, he was certain to receive any job which required the use of a photographer, and at the time he was considered a very good photographer. Prices were reasonable, and he most often got the job. As a photographer, people showed interest in his creativity, if not for him, and in many instances they created work for him to benefit their businesses, their buildings, investments and advertising.
He enjoyed beautiful women and admired their form. Most of the women available in his small world and social circles would never engage in his desire for fetish sex, and so he found comfort in the brothels and rooms of those who would afford him a deviant and provocative amount of time away from reality.

He had an affection for kinky twisted and warped sex. He loved to be urinated on, and didn’t mind a little scat here and there. He loved foot sucking and fruit fucking. He had deviant and unconventional sexual tastes that in upper crust circles would be seen as weird, bizarre, eccentric, peculiar or mentally deranged.

He liked sexual concepts that were expressive and played out in form.
He enjoyed sexual fantasies which involved suffering and humiliation of himself or his partner. If struggle was involved he enjoyed the power. He had a love for sodomy and perversion, kink and bondage. He enjoyed exhibitionism and voyeurism and could be highly aroused by lesbian play, where he was made to suffer, tied naked to a chair in the corner, bound and gagged and made to watch.

His passion for interracial sex lured him into the negroe area of town and the fifty cent cribs where he was free to enjoy his passion for what he believed was exotic and ethnic. It was a dangerous part of town and that danger added to his excitement. However as he grew into young manhood, and created a professional world around him, he was becoming increasingly fearful of disclosure and had interests of self preservation. He had stumbled into a few tricky situations and once, his life was threatened by a group of male negroes at knife point. He was courting a few prostitutes in the ghetto area and while engaged in leaving the crib of one particular young black woman, was accosted by her brothers. He was able to lie and came up with an excuse that was debatable, narrowly escaping the blade. As he grew more prominent in the community, he knew he had to live up to higher social standards. Anyway, racial tensions were high, riots had ensued. More and more people were becoming armed and dangerous.
While working in the upper crust areas of the district, he had become intrigued by Albertine and rarely had the need to visit the black part of town for fear of being recognized.

In any event, he fell in love with Albertine and was happy with her, and felt safe in her arms. When she was not at Mrs. Tasse’s, he was free to frequent other women and girls, and he did so with intense enthusiasm and obsession.

He was commissioned to photograph the ladies of the brothels and often he gave of his services in exchange for the companionship and generosity of the Madams and their sporting houses.
He also had a passion for photographing the women for his own pleasure and voyeuristic passion. They were photographed in various forms of dress and undress. He used props and tried to create fantasy and beauty in his work, scattering rose petals on the floor around one of his subjects. Perhaps he pulled a palm tree into the image, creating a living and exotic feel. The girls loved to pose for him and they yearned for any attention from this handsome and well liked man of prominent social standing. Some girls posed laying across the back of a chaise lounge, completely exposed save for a bit of cloth pulled into the lap.

Some would stand with only a light piece of gauze wrapped gently around their waist, perhaps a long string of beads or chain would hang unencumbered from the neck, caressing the breast and emphasize the form.
When he photographed a woman named Bleu, he was aware of her social shyness, he was compassionate and keenly aware of the sadness and sorrow she wore inside as well as her outward manner, and so he photographed her in this way. She appeared sad and while gently looking downward she held a bouquet of peonies and a single rose. He allowed her to remain clothed and told her she resonated pure innocence and had a true depth of beauty in her soul. Being that he was practical in the form of professionalism and business, he offered to photograph the Madams of the brothels free of charge. He used his charm and wistful tongue to engage them with his bullshittery, flattering them to the point where they found him utterly irresistible. This is how he won favor.

Having been allowed to take such intimate photographs, he felt it necessary to protect them somewhat from their families, prying eyes and social standing, so that many of his images were never revealed to the general public or anyone. They were creatures to be cherished and never to be shamed.
Some of the images he took were rather vulgar and reflected torture and suffering. He would tie their legs in the air, tethered to chairs or bed frames, their legs spread apart, their mouths bound or eyes blindfolded.
The images showed that he had pushed furniture in front of locked doors or used electrical cord tied to ensure privacy and security. Perhaps things would get out of hand.
Many of these images, later defaced and destroyed.

He would also photograph them wearing black masks, a black veil of kink and secrecy.
He enjoyed the shame provoked in some of the images. Perhaps he would see the face of his very own mother in some of these girls and women. Their form or skin or fleeting thought reminded him of her. And so, he would often scratch away many of the women's faces from the fragile emulsion, and blacken out their faces. In
doing so he sometimes felt an anger inside or had the need to visit a confessional. These particular images were the ones he was eventually most fond of and they stimulated his sexual desire.

One of his favorite images was one he took of a woman named Sateen. She was laying across a chaise lounge, completely nude except for a pair of black stockings pulled up to her thighs. Her pubic bush was full and bared freely for the camera. Her right arm was resting gently behind her back as if it was tied there, the left just slightly forward and free from her body. She wore a black carnival mask that hid her face and was incongruous with her eyes. She appeared inappropriate, absurd and bizarre. These actions elicited strong sexual feelings and urges within the photographer so that when he finished the process, he tied her up with both of her arms behind her back and ravished her for hours, tying her and untying her, poked at, prodded and pleaded for pleasure.

Eventually the district was closed and prostitution became illegal.
The ladies reverted back to hidden dens and private rooms, removed from society and forever shamed, although not forgotten.
The photographer continued on with his professional photography outside of the district. His life was lonely and sad. Albertine had contracted venereal disease long ago when she was 21 years old. She lived with sores, burning pain and agony. A decade and a half, later, she developed an upper respiratory tract illness which brought sore throat and fever, an infection of the tonsils, pharynx and nasal cavity. Her neck became swollen and her breathing slowed. She suffered from muscle weakness and swallowing became difficult. She was not able to eat much food. She developed a barking cough and became hoarse and her speech was indistinguishable. She developed lesions on her skin. The scaling and rash became sores and blisters. Within a week, perhaps two, she suffered paralysis which was followed by heart failure and death.

The photographer stayed by her side as much as he could. There was no complacence or self importance left within him when she died. He was nearly broken, anguish filled his mind and her memory lingered in the depth of his being, he lived out his years with torment in his soul. He destroyed all but one photograph of her, which he framed and hung over his small desk in his apartment.
His secrets from the district lay within, he eventually closed his studio and destroyed nearly all of the glass plates that held imagery from the period of his life in which he had found so much pleasure. Now life left him with memories and nothing else but pain.

He had shared the images one time with a colleague and dear friend of his. His friend had no idea of his perversions and sexual conquests. He tried to see the rationale stilled there, if only for business and promotional sake, but he was too offended and urged the photographer to destroy them all. Pained by his friends commentary and disgust, he went on quietly with the professional aspect of his business but after living years in turmoil, he nearly went insane and became recluse. As his body aged, it shriveled somewhat, making him appear dwarfish and grotesque. By 1949 he is old and fat, nobody remembers him for his dapper youth and prosperous upbringing. He lives so alone and has no friends. His only love now lost to the few images on glass plates which still remain. His brother lives far away from him and they rarely even write to each other. They have no connection other than birth and the secrecy of one, shuns the other. Late in life he could be seen wandering around the downtown area. Occasionally he spoke to pretty women or stumbled into camera shops where he tried to share his love and recount stories of his youth, but nobody really listened and nobody really cared. They acknowledged him and then ignored him, pushing him out of their way so that they could continue on with their lives, and not become engaged in the past life of one senile old man.

Alone and forlorn, one day he goes to leave his apartment, he is a bit shaky and unsure of himself. He arrives at the vestibule of his apartment building and slowly creeps out onto the front porch. His mind and face goes blank and he stumbles and falls down the stairs, and lands on the sidewalk bleeding in a pool of his own blood.
The people gasp and pay attention to him then. He is attended to briefly, but it is too late for he has died there upon the concrete walk. His body is removed and he is gone without concern or care. His brother is notified and he goes to the photographers bank and then to his apartment with two friends, to go through his things and clean up what remains of his life.
They find no will in his safety deposit box. There is a tiny gold locket with a very small and obscure photo inside which looks to be a black woman’s head and face, adorned with ostrich feathers. They find a small ring that appears to be an engagement ring with a small and insignificant diamond. There is a rosary, a broken watch, and a few other pieces of Tiffany jewelry.

Inside the photographer’s apartment and find furniture that is broken. Many of the lamps are in pieces and there is photographic equipment that is dilapidated and in disrepair. It is there that they find a collection of eight by ten images stilled upon glass. The images are pornographic, lewd and considered shameful and disgusting. One of the men is an antique dealer and he begs to have a few of the items found there, including the box and the collection of small glass plates. There in his shop, they deteriorate. They are stored in the back of the junk shop and relegated to a corner in the bathroom. The room is flooded following a fierce and blustery storm, the images suffer water damage and later begin to show signs of corrosion and calcification. They are discovered many decades later and prints are made from them once again revealing a legacy and living legend of a life and time far away and long past. The prints go on tour in New York City where they become at once, famous and reflect the talent of the voyeur and artist.
They appear inappropriately beautiful, hauntingly strange with bits and pieces of fetish and hidden clues therein.
Eventually they return to New Orleans and now hang in a lovely museum across the bayou where the photographer’s body is lying there, in a little tomb inside of the family’s plot.


-the end
Written by Steve Hough

Lunch With Evelyn

Lunch With Evelyn
Newport, Rhode Island

If you are one of the obnoxious people I sat next to at lunch today, or if your name is Evelyn, don't read this!

Oh my gosh, spank me if I’m dreaming. We decided to stop in Narragansett, Rhode Island for a few days while traveling. We wanted to be able to hop on into Newport and check out the hot spots and action there. If you’ve ever been to Newport, you know it’s fabulous. It’s a combination of Newport Beach, California: meets San Francisco Bay, on the east coast. They have a glorious bridge that reminds me of the Golden Gate bridge, except they must have a lot of classy gay people in Rhode Island because they painted that bridge a smashing shade of sage green as opposed to that hideous orange color they painted Golden Gate.

For cripe’s sake, why don’t they paint that damn Golden Gate bridge a pretty saffron or ochre yellow? There certainly are enough gay people in San Francisco to get that passed. I mean, what respectable homo paints a bridge, Heterosexual Orange? Bazerkley must have had something to do with it. All those young crazy college kids. They’re nuts you know. Or, maybe it‘s because of Marin that it‘s painted that color. They’re either uptight or they don’t know any better. That orange is an affront to the eye.

It’s true, heterosexuals love primary colors. I call those the straight colors. It’s the primary and secondary colors that heteros seem to love and don’t know the difference. Primary & Secondary colors are:
red, orange, yellow, green, blue and purple. On the wheel respectively.

Gay colors are tertiary colors. Tertiary colors are all of the complicated colors, just like gay people: complicated, interesting, intriguing, beautiful and super cool. Gay people love colors like: lavender, violet, turquoise, saffron, salmon, olive, ochre, salmon, tangerine, chartreuse and plum. A lot of straight people call, plum: mauve.
That’s just ‘cuz they’re uneducated and don‘t know better.

I will skip the lesson on hue & tint for now. I’m sure you’re probably confused at this very moment. I know I am.

Okay, so we go into Newport today for lunch. I simply adore The Black Pearl on Bannister’s Wharf. It’s a great restaurant that sits right on the pier, and it’s one of my favorites. The inside is painted a beautiful shade of cedar and all of the tables and accent trim on the walls are high-gloss egg shell and raven black. There are beautiful crisp egret-
white linen table clothes and a single stem of Dendrobium orchid, the color of soft butter on each table. The contrast is striking and lovely.

Lunch at The Black Pearl is a little upscale and elegant. I wanted to dress nicely, so I wrestled with whether to wear socks with my flip flops, or just go sockless since I do have somewhat pretty calves, robust ankles & adorable toes.
Okay, so I go natural because I’ve got a tan and my Olu Kai flip flops look stunning in black leather on my tanned foot. I wore a brand new pair of olive green shorts with an adorable khaki plaid print on them, that I got at Walmart. They look like they cost a fortune even though I only paid seven bucks for them. Well, six ninety five, plus tax. I got four pair, three of the same color, one slightly lighter. If I like something, I buy more than one. It makes sense, right? Honestly, it looks like I have a humongous wardrobe on a thirty dollar budget- plus tax. I also have on a beautiful new,
snow-white heavy t-shirt made by Shacka shirts. I got that on eBay. It looks lovely and crisp, nobody would ever know I order them for four dollars a piece online. I probably have twenty or thirty of them. I also wore a lovely eggshell jacket tied around my waist in case I got cold, or the wind kicked up. Oh, and I also wore that jacket to hold my pants up because let’s face it, I bought them at Walmart and they’re not tapered to fit. Tend to ride low and I don’t want the crack of my ass showing. Not in Newport, anyway.

I also wore my Maui Jim sunglasses that I either paid for or copped,
so they would know who they were dealing with, and not figure me for some street trash. I like to call my look, ‘upscale gay male’.

Alright, I am so excited because, heck, it’s Newport and I love to shop, I love the water and I love to eat seafood. Oh, and Caesar salads are one of my absolute favorites. That’s why I’m going to the Black Pearl. I’ll beg for extra parmesan cheese and tell them not to make the salad too dry. I like a creamy Caesar salad, don’t you?

As long as they’re ice-cold and crisp. I like heavily shaved parmesan curls, and a chilled fork, please.
Serve it to me on a chilled, white china plate.
The salad looks so pretty on a white plate, only they bring it out in one of those really cool large white bowls with a rim on it. When it’s place in front of me, I feel like I’m simply oozing elegance.
They have a nice one here. It’s a little lemony on the vinaigrette however, it’s very passable. Sometimes I will add a ton of pepper to my salad, and I just love fresh anchovy. I told the waitress so. Make sure they put that anchovy on there or I will storm out of here making a hissy fit and such a stink that you won’t know what hit you.

Since we were only a party of two, the hostess tried to give us a table for two. I whined a little bit. The snot who seated us insisted the tables of four could also seat six, and then she turns to me and says, ‘What am I supposed to do if a party of six walks in here and you‘re hogging a big table?’ I winced a smidge and said: yeah, but those are booths. As if she gave a shit. I simply adore scooching down in a black leather booth that has deeply pocketed nail-studs.
It makes me feel cozy & romantic.

She took one look at Tony, glanced down at my toes, and sat us at a table for two. I tried to hate her, but I couldn’t because, let’s face it: It’s the Black Pearl.

The tables for two aren’t as romantic because they are lined up against the wall with the larger tables in the middle of the room. If you can get an end table in the corner, you’ve got a bit more privacy and the viewing pleasures are endless.

So I glance around the room and there are lovely vintage prints on the walls of ships, boats and buildings in antique-stained gold frames with the little picture lights shining down on them.
Id’ say no more than ten watts.
They’re really pretty and create an old-world feeling that I just adore. Don’t you?

Well, after a considerable wait, we got a piping hot bowl of clam chowder. Then they whisked an enormous bowl of Mussels Black Pearl in a butter, white wine & cream sauce with shallots and spinach and a lovely plate of salad a la Caesar. Did you know Caesar salad originates from Mexico?

Whatever.

Okay, so we’re eating and we’re marveling over the enormous oyster crackers and the bread with chilled butter that I hate because soft is better, when some loud mouthed lady, and I use the word:

L A D Y

loosely,

… sits down next to me with what looks to be her daughter and I am telling you, her daughter is thirty something and scraggy looking and she says in a most-hideous New England accent:

EYE WANNA HAYUM BOIGUH.

That’s how New Englander’s talk. It’s whiney and nasaly and pinched so tight that it squeaks and squawks like helium being let out of a balloon sideways, only she had a truck driver vibrato. Okay, it’s screechy.
I would have loved to have looked at her and told her it wasn’t necessary to talk so loud, especially with that hideous accent.

And the lady next to me, who I am certain is her obnoxious mother says, "Okay, but I feel guilty awe-derin' a hayum-boigah in a see-food restah-rahnt (she puts the accent on: rant) but they do hava Black Poil boiguh thay-at looks innerestin’ just below da seefood stuff.

I nearly choked on my lemon ice water. I am boycotting the price of tea in restaurants now. Tea prices in restaurants are so absurd, a two-cent tea bag in hot water brings two dollars and fifty cents in most places. Ack! Are they nuts? If you squeeze a bit of lemon in your water, honestly you won’t miss the tea and it’s free.
So I wiped the clay'um chowdah offa my lips, looked at her and said: you should feel guilty for not ordering seafood in this sumptuous and scrumptious restaurant. You’re going to put the fishermen out of business and you don’t want to put the fishermen out of business in Newport, do you?

So, they went ahead and awe-dah’d the Black Poil boiguh and completely disregarded me for the rest of the meal.

It’s okay, I hated them anyway.

And then they seat the table on the other side of me, but thankfully there is a small tit-height partition between us, so I can stare at them without them really knowing, glancing over coyly as if I am not staring at them even though I am.

Intently.

And the guy isn’t a match. He doesn’t quite fit someone who would be dating the older pinched-nosed woman and besides, she’s wearing a pince′·-nez′ and looks ridiculous. She’s got big fat tits and a tummy that’s had a bit too many hayum boigahs. And he doesn’t really fit the younger woman either, because that would make him an ugly old troll and a lustful letch. Besides, it’s a little bit of a creepy slant, except you know how older men only date younger women these days. As if it‘s going to go ‘in‘.

No, I just couldn’t see him with the younger one. Could you? His face was too pasty-white. Ghostly really. Translucent. Looks like he works in an office on the phone making cold calls, and his wife is home with the kids. He announces loudly, his dog just died. Okay, so one of his kids is sick and we know the dog’s dead. I can picture his wife and feel sorry for her. She’s probably ugly, stuck with kids and a dead dog and him.

Maybe there’s a cat. Yes, if I think hard enough, there might be a cat. An old fat one and the cat food is all over the floor in their kitchen and the baby gets into it. The husband is disgusted with going home to that mess and his wife is a pig, so he’s out with this new honey and thinks that he’s so hot and she’s so hot.

Kids like to eat cat food, right?

So they sit down and the guy started to share with everyone in the proximity of his loud and obnoxious voice, the complete and utterly-disgusting story of his dog's death including all gruesome details about how, 'Sport' held on to the bitter end: cancer infested, blind, deaf and flea ridden. The other guests at his table looked horrified, so I glanced over at Tony and said in a not-so-hushed voice: Charming dinner conversation, don’t you think?

He doesn’t even care about the wife & kids. He’s going to go on about his dog: Rover or Sport or Butch or something equally as vulgar. I hate it when people have crappy names for their pets like a cat named Cat or a dog named Spot or Boils or ‘Here boy’ or some stupid name like that. I actually met someone who named their dog: here boy.

Wow. Talk about stupid. You’ve never heard of anything so stupid, have you?

He goes on to tell them bit by driveling bit, how his old, decrepit, dilapidated tick and flea infested dog died. All the way to the bitter and twisted ending.

You should have seen the shock & horror on pins-nez & young thing’s face. I think both of them wetted up a bit. One held a napkin over her face, probably to keep from throwing up.

Well, I can tell you that if he was interested in seeing young missy as a possible dating partner, that story put him right out of the proverbial ball park and in the arena of unsuccessful and uninteresting bachelors who hit on women with stupid lines that really piss them off. I swear, straight men really have dating issues.

Although, he was probably married and took his wedding ring off
so nobody would know. If I really cared about them, I would have warned her. He’s not for you. After a few months and a new puppy, you’ll have incurable headaches for days on end and you‘ll actually cry when you think of him putting his lips all over your neck in that kissy-faced way that he does.

Oh, and if you’re ever in Newport? Don’t ask anybody where to fuckin’ park because nobody cares where you park until you do and get a ticket. Don’t call the police station to inquire because they really don’t give a shit and God forbid you should call the office of tourism or Visitor's Bureau because you will get the answering machine of someone named,

Evelyn.

Who the hell has a name like Evelyn in this day and age anyway? Really… she must be a hundred and four. I got her voice mail and hated her before I even got to talk to her. I left a message as if she was ever going to return my call. She never did. Whore.

So, I just hung up on:

Evelyn.

And then I thought to myself: gee, thanks a whole shit-load Evelyn.

I’m glad they picked you for the Tourism & Information lady because you’re probably eating your crummy peanut butter on white bread sandwich on your ten-minute lunch break while talking on the phone to one of your ugly girlfriends. I bet you pick your toes while you eat that sandwich, don’t you, Evelyn?

I know your type, Evelyn. I bet you’re fat and ugly and have had that job for fifty three years and you think you own the whole city.
So if you’re reading this, Evelyn?
You really you need to grow up and get a life. Quit that crummy job because you’re no good at it anyway.

Maybe I’ll just send her a post card, “Having a lovely time, wish you were here”.