My Secret Life: An Erotic Diary of Victorian London (Signet Classics)

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I had to call on the Marchesa afterwards, and knowing I might see the maid, wrote on a slip of paper, a request to know where she would meet me. She opened it hurriedly, and whispered "I can't read." — So I was balked. — The Marchesa that day asked if I had a sitting room at my hotel, and seemed surprized when she heard I had not. "I can't call on you then." She evidently meant me to have her at my hotel. — Such The mysterious ‘Walter’ was a gentleman obsessed by sex. His identity is still debated (Ashbee the most convincing candidate). Today we would call him a sex addict. He documents his manifold encounters over the mid Victorian decades. His memoir was privately published in eleven volumes from the 1890s. At Paris I had a great treat. Arriving there late, the Hotel was quite full, and they put me into a top floor, where the room was poorly furnished, the doors shaky, the partitions thin and floors naked, so I could hear people talking in the rooms on either side of me. Making the best of it, and sitting for a short time quietly reading, before going to bed, I suddenly heard a man and woman's voice in the adjoining room. They had just arrived, and were grumbling at the accommodation, asked for this and that, and had the beds (there were two) placed in the room in the way which pleased very large palace it was, and most of their rooms on one floor) but she kept such a carriage, horses, coach-man, and out-door servants, that she might have been taken for a millionaire. — I was to have been at the Palazzo, the day after I had tailed the lady, and was in my room wondering whether any more copulation would come off, and thinking over the charms of my noble Venus, when a letter was brought me from the Marchesa, and a reply asked for by bearer. "Tell the servant to come up." — I thought it was a man, when behold, up came the maid.

Now from my little spy hole, bored tho not in quite the right direction, I saw the wash-hand stand, and she wash her cunt, that pretty sight. Never does a woman look sweeter, than when squatting with clothes well off her thighs, she washes her cunt, yet on the re-verse side, as well as I know, when squatting for a solid evacuation, how ugly does she look. Certainly less beautiful to me. Soon, with kisses, and murmurs of pleasure, which I heard in the quiet morning, his legs stretched out. Her legs fell flat on the bed and they were motionless. — A minute before every muscle of their young bodies was in energetic movement, now both lay as dead, her head turned up, his slipped off to the side, with face towards her, their eyes closed. — I saw it all perfectly.

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I sat down, pulled the little one to me, felt her pretty breasts, her plump round little bum and thighs. She all the time kept her hand in front of her sacred split. I pulled her then on to the sofa, and got my hand between her thighs, talking baudy, and kissing her. — Betsy had got up, and stood naked with her arse to the fire looking at us letting out baudiness, and inciting the young one to comply with my wishes. — Then I pulled off my clothes to my shirt, and showed her my pego, stiff as a poker and like a burning coal. I brought her to the side of the bed, and with a miserable oil lamp which scarcely gave any light, saw her What lovely things the audience said about Guide to Victorian Sex, my scurrilous assembly in Portsmouth Bookfest, supported by CCI University of Portsmouth.

What pleasure to welcome audience and panellists to our thronging ding-donging exploration of affection, sexuality and longing. Further details of my quizzing and querying here, here, here and here. I looked for Betsy and a few days after saw her. — "She's a virgin," — said she, "but I don't see my way to it yet." — "Ah, the old game." — "Thought you'd Steven Marcus (1969) The Other Victorians: a Study of Sexuality and Pornography in Mid-Nineteenth-Century England. New York: Basic Books, 1964; pp. 78-88 spent a shower of sperm against the door, kneeling on the bed pillows with my eye to the keyhole as I did it.After she saw me, she caught up the linen, wrung it, put it into a basket, and put another piece in the stream. I accosted her, impelled by lust, to say any-thing to begin a conversation. — "It's cold to your legs," said I in French. — She laughed and answered me in German. —"Nein." — Then I spoke in bad German, wasn't she cold when up to her knees? — "A

a b Bullough, Vern L (2000). "Who wrote my secret life? An evaluation of possibilities and a tentative suggestion" (PDF). Sexuality and Culture. 4 (1): 37–60. doi: 10.1007/s12119-000-1011-y. S2CID 144830385 . Retrieved 4 April 2015. Soon afterwards — tired of Paris and its heat, I left for Switzerland, and passed there many weeks. Women I had not often, but had plenty of exercise, and healthy fatigue, which made me care, or rather think, less about them. But when the want came on, it did so violently. In the mountain villages, it was difficult then to For an analysis of the original edition's production and Walter's methods of composition, see Steven Marcus, The Other Victorians. Has Mrs. *** gone to luncheon," said I. — "The lady who was here left this morning by an early train," said the man. I never saw her again. In England a year afterwards, I met my friend who had introduced her to me, and found that he only knew her by having been introduced to her. — Of course I never told him of my amusements with her. This is one of the funniest episodes of my travel, indeed of my private life. — A most singular woman that. — Was frigging her passion, what did she do at that seaport, were she and the maid waiting for her husband, and who and what was she?Private Case, Public Scandal by Peter Fryer was the peculiar tome that pointed me to the explosion in the Victorian erotic book trade and the penumbrous underworld of the mysterious Walter. and if I would then go to the top of the house, and open a door which she indicated, she would come to me there. I did, and found it was a large bedroom in the roof. — She came and told me in a few hurried words, that she, being married to the Valet, had a bed-room there, all other servants had rooms on the Marchesa's floors (two floors over part only of a big Palace not their own). Whilst her husband was away, she some-times slept in a room near the Marchesa — but she would if she could, be that night where we at that moment were —. My best way would be to get to her room and wait till she came. — She would leave the door open. If she couldn't come to sleep there, she would go up, and tell me. How long I might have to wait she didn't know. Certainly until the Marchesa dismissed her for the night. On no account was I to have a light. If I saw anyone about, I had better go down the stairs and come up again. — The staircase, it must be mentioned, was not the great staircase of the Palace. For half a minute I gazed at her with delight as she lay with wonderfully large thighs, and legs, and would