BOSTON MASSACHUSETTS
SPRING 1871
I compare my wife to a fine antique - rare, delicate, lovely to look at, but not to be touched.
The notion of marrying her excited me. I took great care furnishing the marital bedroom. The hand-carved four poster bed and chest were French. The canopy, an exquisite Edwardian lace. The chest, Phillipe, made of burl wood with bronze finishes. The Victorian chairs, upholstered in light green crushed velvet. Carved bouquets decorate the mahogany wood frames. The legs, cabriole with claw feet. Each piece a discard from the home of a wealthy Boston Brahmin. I envisioned many nights of conjugal bliss there.
I have few sexual experiences. An eighteen-year-old girl in Vermont took my virginity at fourteen. She lured me into the barn, offering a hot plate of food. Before I understood, she had my pants off and her mouth on my cock. Next, she put me on my back and rode me like a horse until I came. Seduction was a game to her. She found my excitement, mixed with fear, intriguing. It ended when her father discovered her riding one of his hired hands.
I paid prostitutes to meet my sexual needs in Boston. It was easier than making the effort to impress a woman enough to have sex with me. It’s simple with streetwalkers. You give them money, they give you sex. Granted, the encounter is usually outdoors in a dark alley. My preference is to be satisfied while laying on Italian linen bedclothes with finely hand-embroidered pastel flowers.
Marriage offered the comfort of a warm bed with a familiar body. Now, I understand the bedroom decorum expected of a proper English wife. The husband’s role is to respect her virtue. Engaging in sex is for the sole purpose of having children. My wife shared this view. She also made certain demands on me. At first, I went along with her rules, dutifully bathing prior to conjugal visits. I even brushed my teeth. If I smelled of whiskey, the opportunity was lost.
I often imagined her pure white, silky skin, but never appreciated it with my eyes or hands. She wore a long nightdress which granted me access through a small opening. We never touched each other.
My experience with prostitutes and Rose convinced me women prefer sex to be of a short duration. Rose, like the prostitutes, insisted I finish the act in less than two minutes. I always accommodated.
As a newly married couple, Rose and I shared the canopy bed. She granted me the privilege of intercourse once each month. I took advantage of the full two minutes allowed. We were expecting Charles within the first year. Rose insisted we refrain from marital relations once she was with child. We were both overjoyed when she gave birth. I looked forward to resuming our monthly, albeit brief, relations. She obsessed on the infant.
Charles’ birth was another achievement for the London street boy. Regrettably, after he arrived, Rose turned me out of the bedroom altogether. She nursed Charles, refusing to allow me near either of them. I didn’t resent Charles. He is my son. Let’s just say, he took over the bedroom. Hope of laying with my wife was lost.
When Charles moved to the nursery, I expected to be invited to the marriage bedroom. I missed seeing my reflection in the golden baroque mirror I acquired from a well-known Boston barrister. It had exquisitely carved wood and was decorated with acanthus leaves. No invitation was rendered. Rose needed rest. I accepted this turn, retiring to my separate bedroom. On one occasion, freshly bathed, I visited her in the canopy bed. I expected a warm welcome after over a year of patient abstinence. The reception or lack of, disappointed me. Rose expected me to adhere to the common practice of having sex only to conceive a child and she had no interest in having another child. I, on the other hand, resented having to pay hard earned money to prostitutes for pleasure.
Not one to be discouraged by rejection, I continued to work hard at the business. Trade expanded to every corner of the world. The wealthy were building opulent summer mansions. They wanted expensive, exotic furnishings from China, Italy, India and Persia. I developed relationships with exporters, importers, and freight merchants to secure the most unusual, sought after pieces. Beacon Antiques had a monopoly on imports in Boston. The wealthiest sought me out for advice.
Rose cared for Charles. A convenient arrangement for both, except for the absence of sex. Despite the rules of decorum for marital relations, I viewed sex as my due, in my home. As a child of the streets I learned sometimes you just have to take what you want.
I didn’t bathe the night of Margaret’s conception. My breath smelled of whiskey. Fair is fair. Rose didn’t play by my rules, so I no longer agreed to hers. She looked up from her book when I entered the room. Didn’t speak, or even protest. I might have enjoyed that. She just laid there, motionless, emotionless, on my French linens. After that night, she put a lock on the bedroom door.
It became clear my options were limited. Rather than humping a prostitute against a wall in a back alley, I frequented Miss Ellie’s Parlor on Endicott Street. Evenings there were most enjoyable. The décor, modest, but comfortable. I often smoked a cigar while sipping cognac. The ladies played a hand or two of cards with me before we retired to a private room. Their perfume and rouge enticed me. The cheap jewelry, attractive, in a strange way. Different from Rose. Miss Ellie’s suited my needs for the next several years, although costlier than a quick one on the street, or, of course, with my wife.
William lived with us and cooked the meals. Rose insisted on the addition of a nanny as the children grew older. I hoped the extra help would make her more agreeable. Although I enjoyed evenings at Miss Ellie’s, I didn’t like paying for a service I should have at home without a charge.
I drew the line at hiring an Irish nanny. The Irish are a stupid lot. What use is a nanny who never held an infant or changed a nappy? They are illiterate, useless as teachers for the children. Half the Irish women in Boston are insane. The asylums are full of them. I didn’t want one in my house. Rose ignored me and sent for an Irish girl.
As I predicted, Anne proved an awkward lout. She arrived in rags, half-starved. Rose liked her more than me. She helped her bathe and dressed her in a new frock and shoes. They became friends of sorts. They cared for the children, dressing them up and taking them for walks. I watched them smiling and talking to each other. They shared secrets, I suspect. The distance between us widened. I became an outsider in my own home. I won’t be made a fool. I own Beacon Antiques, the house, my wife, children and the help. I accumulated my possessions by hard work and sacrifice. I began to think of Anne as a possibility. After all, I owned her. The thought of a Mick, Catholic at that, gave me a moment’s pause.
That passed. The planning excited me as much as the pleasure of the act. I stepped carefully into the dark room. There was just enough moonlight to allow me to see the shock on Anne’s face. She was feisty. The fight made my blood run. Her resistance amused me.
In time, she came to accept my affection, which took away some of the enjoyment for me. I’d rather she moved a bit than play dead. Can’t say Anne enjoyed the sex, although I tried to pleasure her.
I’d lift her gown and view her body. For the first time, I put my hands on a woman’s private parts, exploring every inch of her skin. When I entered her, I lingered. There was no two-minute limit for me.
Typical Irish, Anne whimpered through the whole event. The whining didn’t distract me. I controlled the sex, satisfying my every fantasy. I took charge. We followed my rules.
I suppose I should have expected it. Rose found out and had a lock put on Anne’s door. It was too late. She was pregnant. The women at Miss Ellie’s never get pregnant, or at least, they don’t stay pregnant. These stupid Irish don’t know how to take care of themselves. Her swollen breasts and thick waist gave it away. Rose took it hard. She stopped speaking to me altogether. She doesn’t understand a man has needs.
Rose said nothing when I kept the child. Brennan children are my property. They will not be raised digging potatoes. I named her Virginia and sent Anne back to her beloved homeland.
That’s when my wife foolishly threatened to leave me and take my children. I put the fear of God in her for that. It wasn’t enough. She sent for another Irish nanny.
Moira arrived. A red-haired Harp with freckles. A true peasant. Another one who thought the real English language came out of her mouth when she spoke. Rose dressed and fattened her up. Then, she went to her bedroom and closed the drapes. She hasn’t emerged in the daylight again. She knows her place. Of my own doing, I was cursed with another clumsy, Mick nanny, and a hermit of a wife.
Moira was useless, as I predicted. As if to make me more miserable, she and Rose sent for another ragged Harp to help with the housework and three children. Her cousin, Katie, arrived within a few months.
Moira wasn’t a quiet, passive one, like Anne. She was the bouncy, sassy type. A know-it-all Harp, always smiling, carrying on about nothing. I changed that fast enough. She was an odd one. Fought me at first and then went limp right in the middle of the whole thing. Most nights I’d find her rolled in a ball as if that could stop me. Another one who pretended she didn’t want it. Have to, so they don’t appear to enjoy it. After a while she just spread her legs until I finished. I think she understood it’s part of the job, pleasing the master. I didn’t spend a lot of time exploring Moira. Red heads don’t interest me. I had my way with her a few times a week. Her whining put me off. I noticed she stopped chattering around the house. It worked well until she moved out.
That’s when I hired a Colored woman. At least they know how to make a bed. Unfortunately, I don’t have an appetite for big Negroes. I had only the tall, skinny one left. When she first arrived, she stunk and wore a rag. It was an embarrassment to see her standing on my stoop. Her fingernails still had dirt under them from the fields. She looked better cleaned up. Unlike her cousin, she was quiet and shy. Her youth appealed to me. I wanted to stroke her shiny, black hair. I looked forward to viewing what I imagined were long, shapely legs under her nightdress.
I snuck up on her in the night, too. Never even put up a fight. Just stiffened up and laid still. Strong, though. Had to pry open her legs. Reminded me of Rose, even wore one of her old nightdresses. Katie disappointed me. I expected more of a fight from a seventeen-year-old. I did enjoy her reaction when I put it in her mouth. Eyes nearly popped out. Made me laugh.
All part of a day’s work, girl.
I’m enjoying my nighttime trysts, deflowering Irish virgins, one at a time.