Just tell them you saw me

While strolling down the street one eve upon mere pleasure bent,
‘Twas after business worries of the day,
I saw a girl who shrank from me in whom I recognized
My schoolmate in a village far away
“Is that you, Madge?” I said to her, she quickly turned away.
“Don’t turn away, Madge, I am still your friend;
Next week I’m going back to see the old folks and I thought
Perhaps some message you would like to send.”

“Just tell them that you saw me.” She said ‘They’ll know the rest
Just tell them I was looking well, you know.
Just whisper if you get a chance to Mother dear and say
I love her as I did long, long ago”

“Your cheeks are pale, your face is thin, come tell me, were you ill?
When last we met your eye shone clear and bright.
Come home with me when I go, Madge, the change will do you good.
Your Mother wonders where you are tonight.”
“I long to see them all again, but not just yet,” she said;
“Tis pride alone that’s keeping me away.
Just tell them not to worry, for I’m all right, don’t you know?
Tell Mother I am coming home some day.”
-Paul Dresser

Star brought Lacey to me, another of her strays. Lacey was as pretty at her name. She smiled seldom, and even those smiles were small. Biddable, she was, as pliant as a doll. I took a number of photos of her just for the sheer pleasure of it.

“Bend this way, no that, can you put your feet up there?” Anything I suggested she would do. “Hold this mirror, just so, as if you were looking in it.”
“-for myself?” she asked, quietly, with her tiny smile.

I hesitated. “Just so, as if inspecting for a stray hair or something.” I tried to tease another little smile from her.

I should have known that if Star couldn’t get her to smile, laugh, or show the slightest joy in life, I certainly would not succeed. And yet Lacey was so beautiful. Skin like heavy cream, white with the faintest tinge of pink, and eyes the light, clear green of a farm pond under trees. Her hair was chestnut red and gleamed in the sunlight from the window like the coat of a fine horse. She was a tall girl, but not skinny like some; her long legs were very shapely and she had enough sense to show them off well with pretty shoes.

A girl that pretty, I thought, should be making plenty of money working in a high class gentlemen’s establishment. But Star told me she had found Lacey walking the street like a common slattern, her head bowed and taking whatever the men would give her. Star took her in, took her to our madam – Maude – who offered to have her in our house.

For a madam, Maude was most reasonable about letting us keep most of our money and any gifts we received. I’m not the only one of her girls who now has a bit put away, or a business of some sort of her own. Maude can be quite kind and I’m sure would have loved to have Lacey stay with us.

Yet for some reason Lacey refused. She explained that she was only street walking as a temporary thing, she had this opportunity or that. She was going to be an actress, or perhaps a dancer or singer and did not wish to be known as a girl of a bawdy house.

Star tried to tell her that sometimes the men will help you get into a profession, or move up in the world. Now and then one of our prettiest girls even marries a man with money, or becomes a mistress of one. Lacey was polite, but adamant. She is not, she says, a whore.

Faced with such a bold faced lie, Star was at a loss. And so she brought Lacey to me before she left, hoping some photos might cheer her up. Lacey conceded to be photographed, both dressed and in the nude, and asked to have copies for herself. For her portfolio, she said.

Maybe she will surprise us all. Maybe the next time I see her she will be on the cover of a fancy magazine, wearing the falls latest fashions.

But I think it is more likely, that we will never see her again.

NOW, apparently, tussie mussies are just a fussy word for a small bouquet of flowers, or perhaps the little cone shaped vase you’d get them in. But the term comes from the Victorian ages, when the language of flowers was in common use as a way for secret lovers to pass messages. You would order a tussie-mussie for your lady friend with certain flowers that would tell her how you really feel about her. They also seem to have been worn about the bosum area as nosegays to ward off the more awful odors of the day as well as a way of expressing yourself. Sort of like wearing certain colored bandana’s in gay clubs these days.

Somewhere along the line the word settled on the spelling TuzzyMuzzy and came to mean – in a vulgar slang sort of way – vagina! Well, you can sort of see it – a bunch of flowers peeking out of a small conical vase or tightly wrapped in that shape in a lacy doily…

William Dugdale was a famous publisher of porn in London in the 1840s. One of his titles was a song book entitled The Tuzzymuzzy Songster. That’s too rich – I’ve gotta write a story to go with that title.

But I thought you fans of Victoriana and porn and TuzzyMuzzy might get a little kick out of this bit of trivia.

When the word was revived in the 1940s to mean a sort of nosegay sort of bouquet it was spelled tussie-mussie which I suppose was to distinguish it from other, shady, sorts of meanings.

Dixie: We’re going to a carnival? OOOO – I LOVE carnivals! Will there be dancing girls, and rides, and cotton candy? Can I bring my camera?

Foovay: Sigh.

Warren's Ice

The ballroom was filled with fashion’s throng,
It shone with a thousand lights;
And there was a woman who passed along.
The fairest of all the sights.
A girl to her lover then softly sighed,
“There’s riches at her command.”
“But she married for wealth, not for love,” he cried,
“Though she lives in a mansion grand.
“She’s only a bird in a gilded cage,
A beautiful sight to see.
You may think she’s happy and free from care,
She’s not, though she seems to be.
‘This sad when you think of her wasted life,
For youth cannot mate with age;
And her beauty was sold for an old man’s gold;
She’s a bird in a gilded cage.”

I stood in a churchyard just at eve,
When sunset adorned the west;
And looked at the people who’d come to grieve
For loved ones now laid at rest.
A tall marble monument marked the grave
Of one who’d been fashion’s queen;
And I thought “She is happier here at rest,
Then to have people say when seen;

“She’s only a bird in a gilded cage…

When Warren brought Gloria to my studio, I was prepared to meet an ice queen. Beautiful but remote, and by some accounts, a harridan. In fact, he had arranged her visit some weeks before, especially asking me to set a day aside in which no other “ladies” would be about. I suppose he may have expected me to be honored, to photograph a great lady of society such as his wife – a proper lady, and rather a social butterfly of the time.

Her beauty and style was renowned, much talked about in the society section of the newspapers, and it was more than a little bit clear that Warren was proud of the pretty bird he carried on his arm. Gloria’s credentials were impeccable, a good old family who traced their ancestry to the governors of the first American colonies.

Some said they were “wrong side of the blanket” British royalty. But they did not say it very loud.

Gloria had attended the finest charm schools for girls, was said to sing in a lovely voice, and to be able to accompany herself on the piano as well. Her sense of style was perfection itself, bolstered by frequent visits to The Continent. Her husband probably supported a dozen dressmakers largely on her behalf (and a bit on the side, too, as we know).

Though she was always refered to as being gracious, and did her share of charitable causes, even in her own circles the other ladies regarded her as a bit aloof. Even her ladies maid, often the one woman a great lady would talk to with total frankness – given that the maid was beneath notice and thus nearly as safe as telling tales to your lap dog – said that Gloria treated her as if she were a piece of furniture. Not cruel, no never even inconsiderate, just as if she weren’t quite there.

Warren’s electric car pulled up in front of my studio, quiet and lovely to look at – the perfect bit of transportation for this cold beauty. He came around the front of the automobile and opened the door, proffering a hand to his lady wife.

Taking her husbands hand with only the lightest touch, she alit from the vehicle. Her clothing was immaculate, of course, right down to her white lace boots. I had expected her to wear something extravagant and fluffy for her portrait, with acres of lace and hand beaded décor. Instead she was elegantly understated in a dark silk dress that followed the lines of her graceful body, the more erotic for being so plain.

This was, indeed, a lady who knew what she was doing.

Warren brought her through the door perched on his arm, his nose in the air with pride. He raised an eyebrow at me as we were introduced, as if to remind me to be discreet. That was hardly needed, and he knew it, but I suppose he had to satisfy himself. With a flourish he left us ladies to our oeuvre, excusing himself to attend to “man’s business” with a promise to return for his lady in a few hours time.

The door slammed shut behind him and we two women sat and stared at each other over our teacups for a moment.

Gloria sat down her cup, decisively. “How is it you know Warren?” she asked.

Caught by surprise, I believe I must have blushed bright red.

“I see.” She says, her voice as cool as a breeze over a frozen lake.

There was another long pause while her eyes roved over me. Knowing that I was entertaining the Queen of style this day, I had done my best to remain true to myself while not giving her cause to distain. Well, not too much.

Thus after a great deal of thought, I had donned a lovely suit made for me by a personal friend – well, a former client – who was a tailor by trade. He had created for me the jacket of a very proper businessman, cut to flatter my somewhat curvier shape. Below that, even he balked at actual trousers, so he had consulted with a seamstress of his acquaintence and between them they created a long skirt of the same material of the jacket, and very similar cut although full for freedom in walking, bending, and kneeling as I often did to capture my images. The end effect was not quite feminine, but certainly not masculine either, yet conveying an unmistakable effect of both stylishness, and professionalism. And not the sort of profession you usually think of in relationship to me, thank you very much. Underneath the jacket I wore without apology a man’s white shirt and collar cut full for a big man – or a woman’s figure – with an open collar and a very dainty gold choker with a small diamond pendant.

I suppose I couldn’t help feeling the need to wear something that said, “I’ve got a sense of style, too – my own style!”

In silence we each took another sip. She played delicately with a biscuit, breaking it into tiny pieces as if she might deign to eat it in tiny cruel pecks like a sparrow. Recovering from my momentary shock at her first question, I couldn’t help but start looking at her as a model. Her face, hair, dress and jewelry were perfection itself but she was missing something I had expected to see. That flyaway, gad about, foolish joyousness that often even the lowest who came to see me radiated. Given her reputation as a social butterfly, even a frozen butterfly under glass, I somehow had expected more vivaciousness.

Instead, what my artist’s eye, or maybe it was a woman’s eye, observed was a bird in a gilded cage. Singing without quite knowing why, looking longingly out at a sky she had never been allowed to fly, a beautiful shape with no inner light shining through.

Her midnight blue eyes flicked up and met mine and I knew that she knew in that moment that I had pierced her armor without firing a shot. Her eyes dropped to the now crumbled biscuit on her plate. In a moment, a single tear dropped into the crumbs.

I saw her take a deep breath, and don that outer veneer of polite sophistication as she looked up and past me, but spoke to me.
“Well, then, shall we begin?”
“Yes, of course.”
I rose and led her to the studio.

There among the props I stood with head cocked and then chose. Gloria sat perched on a hard, high backed gilt chair against one of the brocaded backdrops. I took a few photos of her there, her skirts swirled artfully and head tilted this way and that to test the light against her aristocratic bone structure. But those were just test shots, whatever she and her gentleman husband might think when presented with them later.

I brought the brass plated wrought iron headboard away from the other things, and stood it on end in front of the plainest grey silk backdrop. At the bottom I propped it with a few large heavy wood blocks. Gloria watched from the hard chair with distant interest, as if watching a rather boring play, a small smile playing about her lips.

Standing back, I moved a few lights here and there to illuminate the backdrop, so that the shadows would define her beauty. I held out a hand to her ladyship and she looked at me, blinking a little as if I had awoken her. The touch of her hand was as light as a hummingbird landing, as she unfolded her lithe body to stand entirely of her own strength.

She looked at the ironwork, standing shining in the light. Her eyes darkened and filled with unshed tears as she took her hand from mine. Walking as if in a dream, she moved to stand behind the gracefully knotted metal bars, turned to face the camera and ran her fingers over the unyielding curves. Her eyes rested somewhere far beyond my room, on skies she would never fly.

I took the picture.

I cannot hate her.

Firey Louise

“I was a matchstick girl – when I met Warren.  No, really I was!” her laughter was like the rest of her; big, full chested and round; it seemed to boom around my lofty studio.  “There I was, bare headed, bare footed, in that thin little shift that was my only dress at the time.  That horrible thing!  How I hated it!  It had all the style of a burlap bag with armholes – in fact, that’s probably what it was at one time!  Well, as I said, it was all I had, and so I had rather outgrown it and my legs stuck out the bottom like fat little matchsticks!”  She laughed again, kicking her thick legs up in the air.

She was romping all over the brocaded divan, her generous curves and thick mane of fiery red hair seeming to fill the room with her heat and passion.  I despaired of ever capturing on film her sheer zest for life, let alone the heat of her passion for Warren.

“I don’t know what he saw in me, unless it was my hair.  It was long then – it has never been cut – not since I was born.”  She ran one hand underneath that crimson cape and spread it over her arm casually shaking it, teasing the tangled curls into some sort of order as she spoke.

We had been working together for hours, trying to get just the right photo for “her Warren” as she said, “to keep him nice and warm at night when he’s got to be home with the Ice Maiden”

“He was with some other businessmen, and he bought every single one of my matches.  They laughed at him and he winked, then bent down and told me to stay right where I was until he returned.” She gave a bark of laughter, like the foxy little vixen she was.  “Little did I know he wasn’t coming back for hours and hours.  Until after dark!  I was half frozen and I needed to pee and oh, I was so hungry!  But I waited, right there, just like he said.  I knew! I knew from the minute he bought all my matches, that Warren was the man for me.  The only man, ever!” She brought her feet abruptly flat to the floor, her eyes now wide and steady on mine, her gaze quite serious.  “The only man, ever.” She emphasized.

I wondered then if this wildly sexual wench was actually trying to put me in my place – as if being a rich man’s kept woman was a higher station than my own.  I may have begun as a whore, but I was now a professional in my own right.  I owned my own business.  Photographing women from whores to mistresses, and sometimes even wives.

Maybe that was her issue.  For though she trumpeted that Warren was the only man for her, she surely knew that she was hardly the only woman for Warren.  Warren, I knew for a fact, had quite a collection of my photographs – purchased from various ladies of pleasure whose favors he enjoyed.  And while he may have been keeping Louise in high style on her side of town, uptown there was a wife whose desires would always come first.  Something else Louise waxed verbose about.

“That Ice Queen!  He says that she has only slept with him once – on their wedding night!  And he says he almost expected her to display the blood stained sheets from the windows – you know, like they used to do in the old days to prove the bride was a virgin, and that the marriage had been con-con-con-“ the redhead stumbled over the unfamiliar word.

“Consummated?” I supplied, my voice flat.

“Yeah – that’s it!” she snapped her fingers and grinned.

I liked Louise.  But a full day of attempting to get her to sit still for the few moments the camera needed to capture her was really beginning to tell on me.  Especially since she chattered non-stop.

If it wasn’t bright birdie cheeping about how much she adored “her Warren” it was harsh cawing about “that Ice Queen” that was his lawfully wedded wife.

“Every holiday – every holiday he has to spend with that dreadful witch.  And then there are the balls, and the parties, and the social events – and of course, she has to go to The Continent, to get her dresses made, don’t ya know!”  Louise’s full lower lip protruded in a pout but couldn’t hold it for long before spreading into a wicked grin.  “Sometimes when Warren orders her dresses, or well she orders, but then he calls and he has them make two.  One to her dried up stick measurements, and one for me.”  She preened and wiggled, well aware of her sexy voluptuous curves.

If everything said about the wife was true, she really was quite a bitch.  However, if I was to judge the veracity of Louise’s’ statements by what I knew personally to be true of her adored Warren compared to her description of him, I thought the wife just might not be the horrible witch she was being made out as either.

As far as Louise was concerned, Warren was saint and satyr combined, with a generous dollop of business genius poured over all.  She seemed quite unconscious that every time she spoke of him she put her hand between her legs and stroked, her legs opening and closing like the wings of a bird, her sex swelling and growing red as the hair around it as she masturbated, either unconsciously or just completely uninhibited by my presence.

She was kind of turning me on – if only I could have somehow turned off my ability to hear her endless, irritating chirping.  I entertained a brief vision of her bound to a four-poster bed.  And gagged.  I wondered if Warren ever had a similar idea.

Her little whimpers and finally a birdlike hiccup noise brought me back and I realized I’d been daydreaming instead of trying to focus on Louise through the camera lens.  Blinking, I shook my way out of the hood and peered at her over the camera.  She was licking her fingers.  Her swollen pussy gleamed with dampness.

“I’m sorry” she simpered, clearly not at all apologetic, “I just can’t help it when I think about Warren.”  She leaned against the arm of the divan with a sigh, smoothing her tangled tresses – and I finally got the picture.

Dixie the photographer

“All women are whores.”
The reporter blanched, her face turning white under her rosy makeup. Swallowing as politely as possible, she jotted down the photographers statement and braced herself for the explanation.

“Those women who consider themselves “good women” hate us the most because they see themselves in us. And because they can see that we are actually more independent and free than they are.” The photographer, and former whore, Dixie, paused for a moment to collect her thoughts, and to enjoy the struggle on the reporters face as she tried to hang on to impartiality.

Dixie laughed. “I know – we are completely dependent on men, but we are also completely independent of men. Few women, other than the independently wealthy, can say that. And most of those women got their money from Daddy or some other man. Well, I got your Daddy’s money, too. And I didn’t have to do his laundry, or raise his children, or put up with his snoring. I spent an hour or less with him and then got up with his cash and went and did whatever I wanted to do. While your Mom was sweating over a hot stove, or even just supervising the servants and pretending to be happy as she played hostess to even more boring men – I was off doing as I pleased, buying myself pretty nighties or the latest camera equipment.”

The reported gulped again. Her pen flew, capturing the statements verbatim, even as a chill worked it’s way down her back as the truth of Dixie’s statements came clear.

“Think about it. Your average wife, if she wants something, what does she do? Well, she cooks up her husbands favorite meal, she makes sure the house is extra immaculate, and at bedtime she dresses in her pretty nightie, the one that lets him know that he could perhaps touch her when the lights are out. And when the deed is done and the lion is sated, doesn’t the wife smile and act girlish as she begs her husband for a little money for that scrap of fabric, the dress, the new cookware or a foolish trinket?”

Dixie smiled her satisfied, cat at the crème bowl smile.

“Whereas I, I wait for him to come to me (and he will), tell him what it will cost him and give him what he wants. An hour later he goes away pleased, and I count the money. Now I can spend it on anything I want – I don’t need his approval, nor do I have to justify purchasing the latest Kodak lens to him. Better yet, if he didn’t give me quite enough, I can entertain another man, or ten, until I have the cash to do as I will. Like opening my own photography studio.”

The reporter was gasping as though she had run a mile. Truly, she had no idea what she was getting herself into when she requested an interview with this lady photographer. Yet she found herself strangely fascinated by this look into another life – one very different from her own.

The reporter, Lady Diana Twill, thought herself quite enlightened and independent. After all, she had a real job – as a reporter for the Sufferagete Digest, a small monthly paper that covered issues of importance to the enlightened and forward thinking women of 1910. She smiled, thinking that Dixie’s interview would undoubtedly be a bit too shocking even for the most ‘enlightened’ of her readers.

Perhas she could make something out of Dixie’s success in business, without mentioning her radical opinions.

“How is it that you became interested in photography?” Diana asked.

“A client, a dear little man who had been coming to see me for years, gave me a little Brownie camera as a Christmas gift. It was ever so much fun learning to use it and taking pictures of flowers and things. And then I just naturally started taking pictures of my friends.”

Diana nodded, pleased to finally be on safer ground.

“The other whores, that is. I started out taking photos of them in their finest costumery, and just giving the photos to them. They began to show them to their clients, and the men were delighted with them. They actually started to buy the photos of their favorite girls. Soon, they were asking for photos that – ‘showed a bit more’. Well, really, it was lots of fun. I started taking shots of the girls in their altogether with silly, pretty props. Katy – she is a marvelous artist, you should talk to her – painted me some beautiful backdrops on some old bedsheets. Before you knew it, I was making more money selling photos of naked girls than I was making on my back. Sometimes men would come to our house just to buy some new pictures! Then girls from other houses heard about it, and they would come and ask to have their pictures taken. The madam was very polite about it, she and I and still good friends, but the whole thing had taken on a life of it’s own and actually become a bit disruptive of the whore house business!”

“By then, of course, I had saved quite a bit of money. Every penny I got for a photograph, I stashed away. I lived just on my earnings as a whore – which were pretty good in those days. I was a little younger and prettier then!” Dixie chuckled and winked.

Lady Diana resisted the urge to compliment the former prostitute turned businesswoman on her looks. In fact, Dixie still looked quite good for her age.

“So it was then that you opened your own photography studio?”

“Yep. I rented a little storefront with an apartment over. Some of my savings I spent on the lights and camera equipment. I had some calling cards made up, and some flyers which I took around to all the bawdy houses. It really worked out for everyone. I take photos of their girls – and their clients buy them either from the house or the girls themselves. Of course, many of the clients know who I am and so they began coming by the studio to purchase photos. To my surprise, some of them brought their wives, mistresses or girlfriends for photos – mostly with their best finery on. Perhaps that was how you found out about me?”

“Yes. You photographed one of my friends and she was so pleased with the photos she was sharing them about. She was very enthusiastic about how you had your own business, and behaved so professionally. I’m sure you remember her, Lady Lansdowne?”

“Oh yes!” Dixie said, with her little ‘I’ve got a secret smile’. “You would be surprised how many “ladies” have come to me for photographs and eventually end up – letting their hair down, shall we say? Of course, those photos are private and only their husbands – or perhaps their lovers – get copies. I never sell prints without permission. My discretion is appreciated.”

“But – well, I just can’t imagine – “

“Real Ladies being photographed in the nude? Oh yes. I think part of it is that I am a woman, too. So it isn’t as if some strange man is looking at them. And there is a bit of the coquette, the tease, in every woman. What women doesn’t like to be admired?”

The reporter was rendered speechless. Quite an unusual event for her.

“What woman doesn’t like to be pretty? Of course, we all do. I show them a few of the nicest nudes and before you know it they are telling me about how their husband loves them with their hair down and this particular feathered boa – and nothing else – and there you go. The men are often so grateful and pleased that they come by later and give me a nice tip!”

“Do you ever – “ the reporter hesitated.

“Invite a man upstairs? Oh no. Not anymore. I’m a professional woman now, you know.” And at this Dixie tossed her head back and laughed her great deep full laugh – not a polite titter like a lady – but a great guffaw like a man.

Unable to resist, Lady Diana laughed with her. So many people, if you said a woman was a professional woman, automatically assumed she must be a whore. After all, what other profession was open to a woman these days?

However she might have gotten there, Dixie Jones was a professional woman, in charge of her own life, her own money, her own property – beholden to no man. Lady Diana hoped ferverently that she could find a way to write her story so that the paper could accept it.