Read Online The Remedy by Michelle Lovric - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Michelle Lovric
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lingo. Sure, no woman was safe from the fellow, not on the Thames or the Grand Canal, and all and every one of his ladies kept in Turkish ignorance of her rivals.
Valentine Greatrakes takes himself for a promenade around the Seven Dials, for a restful eyeful of tarts. Some men like to go to the sea when they want to think profoundly. Or to the countryside. Or the inside of a tavern. But Valentine holidays his worries best on a flutter of Covent Garden nuns.
Of course the sight of all those willing women and the fact of their availability does not bypass the trout, the rig, the handsome pissworm of Valentine Greatrakes but communicates directly with it. So often the result of a quiet contemplation is indeed a quick, refreshing clicket, though it is rarely the main object of his going out on such perambulations.
He strides along Monmouth Street and pauses at the Seven Dials, the delta of the local streets, and the richest pickings of whores in all London, where there are situated any number of convenient places to buy love ready-made and kept warm at all times. At the sight of the girls strewn around the seven corners, in his trews the friend of Valentine Greatrakes and his friend’s two friends yollop about.
“You hungry, boy?” he asks out loud, looking at what’s on offer. “You on for your greens?”
A twitching yespleasenow fetches a smile to his lips and he resolves to make a speedy selection. This new enterprise, the winning of Mimosina Dolcezza, is not something to work on from a point of sensual famine. Better to contemplate that special copulation from the relaxed state that comes with an intermediate satisfaction. He considers one whore after another, a blonde, a brunette, a redhead, some proud in the theater-glow of the lanterns that adorn every tenth frontage, others eschewing the revelations of the light: Manyhere are wrinkled and some scarred, and some indeed no kind of lady, but male-misses, for every taste can be accommodated here at the Seven Dials.
Pausing in front of each genuine female, Valentine silently asks his friend, “This one? Her? You want to go a-goosing in Hairyfordshire?”
He wanders about, letting his imagination sample what the various whores suggest verbally and with gestures. They sink before him, as if he winnows through a cornfield of women, each raising her skirts to one side in the time-honored gesture to confirm her availability. Some speak to him in winning, confidential tones. Trembling quirks of music beckon from lady accordionists with subsidiary talents. Others writhe briefly like rashers on the griddle as he passes, or mince a few dance steps of the highest quality.
He does his devoirs to each proffering lady: “Lovely,” he smiles encouragingly. But none tempts him sufficiently. He strays to the less populated fringes of the street, the territory of the girls less in demand, who loiter almost apologetically, like paltry coins left contemptuously on a counter, not even worth the counting.
At last he spies a fake flower-seller, who, with the travesties of a profession, mimics not to be a harlot. She displays a poor stock of flowers, and she is outstandingly incompetent with her wares: They slide through her hands all the time, the blooms all wearied from being twice handled. A knot of men has collected around her and they cannot bring themselves to move on because it is somehow delicate and indelicate, this mauling of the flowers, and the tiny wan girl wilting herself.
“Now that’s the one,” he says, looking at her taut little face.
Hey-up lass , he winks at her, and she drops the entire drooping stock of flowers on her feet. He pulls a silver coin out of his pocket and waves it in the air. The other men shrug their shoulders and melt away. She walks, dreamlike, toward the guinea. He is amused, and moves the coin to the left and then the right. Her whole face follows each maneuver.
She’s hungry , he realizes, and is pleased to think that she’ll dine well
Valentine Greatrakes takes himself for a promenade around the Seven Dials, for a restful eyeful of tarts. Some men like to go to the sea when they want to think profoundly. Or to the countryside. Or the inside of a tavern. But Valentine holidays his worries best on a flutter of Covent Garden nuns.
Of course the sight of all those willing women and the fact of their availability does not bypass the trout, the rig, the handsome pissworm of Valentine Greatrakes but communicates directly with it. So often the result of a quiet contemplation is indeed a quick, refreshing clicket, though it is rarely the main object of his going out on such perambulations.
He strides along Monmouth Street and pauses at the Seven Dials, the delta of the local streets, and the richest pickings of whores in all London, where there are situated any number of convenient places to buy love ready-made and kept warm at all times. At the sight of the girls strewn around the seven corners, in his trews the friend of Valentine Greatrakes and his friend’s two friends yollop about.
“You hungry, boy?” he asks out loud, looking at what’s on offer. “You on for your greens?”
A twitching yespleasenow fetches a smile to his lips and he resolves to make a speedy selection. This new enterprise, the winning of Mimosina Dolcezza, is not something to work on from a point of sensual famine. Better to contemplate that special copulation from the relaxed state that comes with an intermediate satisfaction. He considers one whore after another, a blonde, a brunette, a redhead, some proud in the theater-glow of the lanterns that adorn every tenth frontage, others eschewing the revelations of the light: Manyhere are wrinkled and some scarred, and some indeed no kind of lady, but male-misses, for every taste can be accommodated here at the Seven Dials.
Pausing in front of each genuine female, Valentine silently asks his friend, “This one? Her? You want to go a-goosing in Hairyfordshire?”
He wanders about, letting his imagination sample what the various whores suggest verbally and with gestures. They sink before him, as if he winnows through a cornfield of women, each raising her skirts to one side in the time-honored gesture to confirm her availability. Some speak to him in winning, confidential tones. Trembling quirks of music beckon from lady accordionists with subsidiary talents. Others writhe briefly like rashers on the griddle as he passes, or mince a few dance steps of the highest quality.
He does his devoirs to each proffering lady: “Lovely,” he smiles encouragingly. But none tempts him sufficiently. He strays to the less populated fringes of the street, the territory of the girls less in demand, who loiter almost apologetically, like paltry coins left contemptuously on a counter, not even worth the counting.
At last he spies a fake flower-seller, who, with the travesties of a profession, mimics not to be a harlot. She displays a poor stock of flowers, and she is outstandingly incompetent with her wares: They slide through her hands all the time, the blooms all wearied from being twice handled. A knot of men has collected around her and they cannot bring themselves to move on because it is somehow delicate and indelicate, this mauling of the flowers, and the tiny wan girl wilting herself.
“Now that’s the one,” he says, looking at her taut little face.
Hey-up lass , he winks at her, and she drops the entire drooping stock of flowers on her feet. He pulls a silver coin out of his pocket and waves it in the air. The other men shrug their shoulders and melt away. She walks, dreamlike, toward the guinea. He is amused, and moves the coin to the left and then the right. Her whole face follows each maneuver.
She’s hungry , he realizes, and is pleased to think that she’ll dine well
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