The London Cycle - Not for Lack of Trying

The London Cycle

Not for Lack of Trying

I threw everything into my marriage. Not to say material possessions, but possessions of a more intangible nature—my heart, my soul, &c. She was a beautiful woman, with beautiful hands, and such wit…ah, had I but known! We married in fall, with the leaves and the dark colours. She wore blue, and I did as well—it was before Victoria’s white wedding, you know.

So then, there were all the things one would think a good marriage is made of: A good and attentive husband, who loved his wife more than the earth itself, and would bring her flowers, chocolates, books she liked and anything her heart desired. What more could a woman ask for, in those days? I asked little from her, only wishing to have my affection returned, as I thought it was.

It was not.

Her wit was acidic and her suffragette sympathies were for more than women’s equality—they were for women’s superiority. How could I uphold such a thing—how could I, a man, possibly support her and still be contented with myself? I could not, and though I was one of the few men that did move for the women’s vote, it was never enough for her. I was male, and she hated men. I had no idea what I had done to deserve this, since I did not happen to be one of those men that she and her friends were so wronged by.

I loved her so, my Elizabeth. She thought me so terribly false—I suppose, in her mind, there was no possible way for a man like me to exist. Frigid, she was, even on our wedding night I could not thaw her with my kisses. ‘Get it over with,’ she said coldly, as I kissed her neck.

Needless to say, such an acrid command killed any libido I had, and I left her alone, sleeping in a guest bedroom. We never shared a bed again.

My lack of what had by now become my usual cheer and whimsy was remarked upon by my friends; to my closest ones I confided my troubles. Their solution was simple: just go find a pretty whore. It was all so easy for them, I suppose—even those that loved their wives didn’t see a problem with whoring. To me, however, a lover of Jane Austen and the other gothic romances that were considered feminine, whoring was just not an option. I didn’t want sex, I wanted my wife to love me.

Still, I did try it, just because one cannot refuse to even try something. I travelled to the red light district and found a girl that was the opposite of my wife, just to be sure I wouldn’t do the unthinkable and fantasize it was her. But…I wanted to talk to her, and even though they say they will do anything, they seem to think you wo’n’t pay them unless you have sex. So I wandered around, aimlessly, after bidding my sullied rose fare well.

Soon, I found myself surrounded by not female whores, but young boys. They were more ragged, and more aggressive. The evening was early, yet, and I found a sweet little one on a corner that looked like the very incarnation of Hermes, with that smile. Unlike the others, he was shy, withdrawn. I loved him immediately.

Money seemed crass, and so I resolved to find him a suitable gift. A bakery was only a street away—even in my gloom I had noticed the smell—and I purchased a sweet bun from there, hot and only slightly stale. I would purchase many more sweets from that bakery, in the months to come.

I slipped behind him, dangling the sweet in front of him; he grabbed it and turned, looking up at me with some trepidation.

‘Sir,’ he said, looking a bit fearful of my height. ‘Whotcher fancy?’

‘A smile, and a kiss.’ It was the first thing that came to mind. ‘Eat your bun, sweetheart.’ I stroked his ragged hair, struck with a rather motherly impulse to bathe him, feed him, take him home like a stray kitten.

He ate like a starved dog, though I couldn’t blame him—how often could he afford food enough for a growing boy? Still…I smiled as he swallowed the last, and waylaid the arm that was coming up to wipe the sticky glaze from his mouth. ‘No need, darling.’ I felt the need to comfort him, he felt so frightened, somehow.

Gently, almost fearful, I leaned down and cleaned his mouth like a mother cat; I was pleased with his soft cries, and wrapped my cloak around his slender body to have my kiss. He tasted of honey and currants and soot, not pleasant in itself, but there was something sweet beneath, fresh and…lovely. I wanted more.

‘I will be back,’ I murmured as I looked into his wide, surprised eyes. A kitten’s eyes, somehow. I stroked his cheek. ‘Lord help me, I think I’ve found my purpose in life…’ I whispered, half to myself as he gaped at me. ‘What is your name, little kitten?’

‘Jacket,’ he said, after a few tries with nothing coming out. I kissed the corner of his mouth.

‘Jacket, I shall be back for you before the week is out.’

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© Melanthios 2008