by Valerie Volk
Maison … the madam’s term. Great title, really.
Maison des plaiseurs exotique. Gave just a hint
of what one might expect. She was a mistress
to be feared, and not by clients only. We too
felt awe and fear. Her look could kill.
But once I thought I knew enough, my planning
started. Why not be independent? I knew
that I was good at what I did. Well … expert …
Come to think of it, ‘good’ may not be the word.
My own house – that was what I wanted.
I chose the man with care. He had a lot to lose,
was easy to control. The first few bites for money
showed me that it could be done. I promised
special treats; a quick look in my drawers
showed him it would be worth the extra.
Some things he’d never seen before; the pain
they offered was a new experience. He said
he’d never known such pleasure. Each time
he came, I upped the ante. Soon I had enough
to set myself up comfortably, in small rooms.
But then I thought, why not a large apartment?
He started to become uneasy when my demands
increased. I had to use some extra powers
of persuasion to make him see that
it was better to obey commands. But then
a man who’s gagged and bound is scarcely
able to refuse the orders of his mistress.
For by that time I’d found a place,
quite perfect, on the riverfront. Expensive,
but it would be worth it. A good address,
and very private.
The money I had put away
was very safely hidden. I’ve never trusted banks,
and as for stocks and shares! We all know
just how chancy they can be. My income was assured,
because he knew I had the power to withdraw
the satisfactions that he craved.
He jibbed, however, when I found the house.
Top suburb, and at last the time was right.
With that last payment from him
I’d get exactly what I wanted.
Miscalculation.
She called me in. The worm had turned: the bastard
had told her the story. No point in protestations.
She’d even found the money; ‘house profits’,
she said crisply. I didn’t dare to argue.
She sat me down, before she threw me out,
said she was re-naming me. “I’m calling you
a name you’ve earned.” Her voice was almost kind.
“You should be Ilsabill.” I guess I looked confused.
She handed me a children’s story book, and sent me off.
I read her dog-eared book, and understood. The story
of a fisherman, his wife, and how a dominating woman
lets greed take her too far. A very moral tale!
Oh yes, I’m working still, but there were
months in grubby little joints. The men were pigs.
I had to start again, and work my way back up.
All that’s behind me now.
I have my special talents, and I know their uses.
There’ll always be more men who need a woman
who’s prepared to wear the pants! And wield a whip!
Thumbling (Tom Thumb)
A poor peasant and his wife are desperate to have a child, and the wife says she will not mind even if the infant is no larger than her thumb. They receive their wish, a very tiny baby, and the little creature becomes their dearly loved son, though he does not grow any bigger. (Be careful what you wish for – sometimes you get it.) The boy is happy to stay little, and despite his size he’s a real help to his doting mum and dad. However, when some rogues see him and recognise his potential value, they abduct him. The villains have two plans for their captive: they intend exhibiting him, and also utilising his size to gain entry to houses that they wish to rob. By sheer cunning, he escapes and, after many adventures, makes his way home to his beloved parents, who vow never to let him go again.
Rock-a-bye baby
“You’re Mummy’s little man,”
she often says to me.
“So, Tom, don’t ever worry.
You’ll always be my baby boy.
My little Tommy Thumb.”
We’ve always been so very close.
There’s no-one else who makes me
feel so safe, so loved. For many years
it’s been just her and me.
I know the neighbours tell her
I’m such a model son. She answers
that I’ve always been
her loving little man.
I never wanted to grow big.
Much nicer staying little.
So even though my body grew
she let me stay her baby.
I think the others knew it
when she let me go to school.
I was a few years older than the rest.
They taunted me with ‘Mummy’s boy’
but then they soon gave up. No fun
in teasing someone who seems pleased
with everything you say!
I was no good at managing
to be a grown-up in the world.
At work they were unkind.
The daytimes didn’t matter
because I knew at nights
I could be mummy’s baby boy.
But then she said I could stay
home with her; she told me that
she had enough for both of us,
so I could be her little man
and never leave her on her own.
I like it at the end of every day.
She helps me with my bath;
she scrubs my back and front
just as she always has;
she’s gentle with the shampoo
so as not to sting my eyes,
and then she dries me carefully.
My special towel is very soft.
I tell her she has magic hands;
She knows just what I like.
My tea time is a treat. She likes
to feed me from my bunny plate.
She often plays the choo-choo game
to make me eat my vegies.
But after tea on Friday nights
she lets me watch the telly.
I cuddle on the couch beside her
until she lets me put my head
down on her knee, her lap,
and finally, if I’ve been good,
she draws me even closer,
calls me her baby boy, and asks
if I am hungry. I always am.
My bed – the cot that she’s had made
just specially for me –
waits there in her bedroom
for when my bedtime comes.
So when she’s put my PJs on
and tucked me in for story time,
I know she’ll sing to me each night,
the way she always does.
And if I wake up crying,
from nightmares in the night,
she takes me into bed with her …
Some nights I’ve just pretended to be scared.
I liked what happens when
I snuggle close to her.
But if I go out somewhere for a walk,
she dresses me, then sends me off,
tells me I have to be obedient,
come straight home to where
she will be waiting.
But sometimes when I close the gate
and step out on the path,
I wonder if I ever will grow up.
Somewhere around a corner
there might be a real Thomas waiting.
But till the day I find him
I’m happy being Mummy’s Tommy Thumb.
Beauty and the Beast (Bearskin)
/> A travelling merchant, lost in the forest at night, is given hospitality in the impressive home of a wealthy beast. When the traveller steals a rose from the garden at departure as a gift for his daughter, the lonely Beast demands as a repayment that one of the merchant’s daughters comes to live with him. It does seem a bit excessive and, on the man’s return home, his selfish older daughters refuse. Only the youngest, Beauty, agrees. With the Beast, she finds luxury and kindness despite his repulsive appearance. Although he pleads with her to marry him, the girl refuses, saying that she does not love him. Because she misses her family, he allows Beauty to return home for a visit, where her jealous sisters trap her into staying, until a magic mirror shows her that the Beast is dying in misery and loneliness. She returns and admits her love, and he is transformed into a handsome prince. Yet again, sometimes life gives you more than you ever expected!
De gustibus …
I’ve always been so fond of animals.
These days when I look back I see
I’ve had more happiness from them
than any of the other sources we
most often think of as the ways
we can find daily consolation,
like money, looks, security,
possessions, honours, reputation.
Mind you, I had all those as well.
When I was little, Daddy named
me ‘Beauty’ – that began it. Now
it’s the name for which I’m famed.
At times my sisters were quite jealous.
“He’s always loved you best,” they said.
“but we’ll make sure that there’s no risk
a name like that goes to your head!”
No chance of that. The spiteful cows –
but that’s unfair to docile creatures –
were always horrible to me
because I had much prettier features.
Perhaps that’s why I turned to pets
as comforters who’d give me love.
And then I found new pleasures that
they brought, all other joys above …
My little dog upon my lap, I’d sit,
enjoy his company all day;
with great affection I’d stroke him,
reciprocate his loving way,
and wonder why my sisters thought
that human lovers offered more
than the delights that all my pets
gave freely and did not withdraw.
You know the satisfied smug look
so many medieval women wear
in all those old-style paintings?
Take note how often seated there
and even looking quite at home
in laps all frills and furbelows
the artist’s placed a little dog …
Perhaps the painter chappie knows
what puts a faint and far-off smile
on many pictured women’s faces.
Look at Europa and the bull, or Leda
(and her swan) – these show joy’s traces.
I wonder if the Mona Lisa felt
that way; what lies behind her smile?
Her lap dog waiting for his turn?
Da Vinci’s lasts just a brief while.
So when my father, quite distraught,
brought home his dire predicament,
of money owed, debts to be paid,
or what would be the punishment
unless to this rough uncouth beast
he offered up as wife a daughter,
I wasn’t as appalled as they,
said, not reluctantly, “I ought to
be the one to go. I’ll sacrifice myself,
mon père, because I love you as I should.
I honour you far more than them;
my heart’s more tender; I’ll be good.
And anyway, I’m fond of pets.
A beast does not cause hesitation.”
I didn’t say my senses stirred
with intimations of elation …
He was a rough and hairy man.
No female hand had tamed that beast.
We wedded in his forest home,
no need of prayer book, church or priest.
I knew at last I’d found the mate
I’d been preparing for these years;
oddly, he thought I’d be repelled,
and full of girlish doubts and fears.
Of course I wasn’t. For a time
our happiness was quite complete.
Dad’s debts forgotten; my needs met;
our joy and bliss were hard to beat.
But then the fool decided that
I was worth something more from life.
He’d never comprehended how
contented I was as his wife.
He changed. He shaved, and cut his hair.
Bought stylish clothes and thus became
sartorial elegance complete;
no longer was ‘beast’ an apt name.
Well, reader, I went home of course.
The time of bliss was now quite past.
I knew such happiness was brief,
far too ecstatic – couldn’t last.
So once again I live alone.
I’ve learned to stick to what I know.
My animals are what bring joy.
I’m training as a vet, and so
I see a lot of pets these days.
My skills are valued very highly.
When queried how I know so well
their needs, I smile a little wryly …
Puss in Boots (The Poor Miller’s Boy
and the Cat)
The youngest son of a miller is very disappointed when he receives his inheritance – a cat. His brothers seem to have scored much better, but that’s the way it often goes in families. However, the boy soon finds that this is a very special cat, with some unusual needs, as the feline’s request for leather boots suggests. Surprised but cooperative, the young pet-owner agrees and, newly shod, Puss begins a series of manoeuvers to bring about an improvement in his master’s fortunes. By trickery and quick-wittedness, and the capacity to play his cards just right, the cat eventually makes his master a wealthy and popular member of society, and sees him marry the daughter of the king of that country. Such an injustice: only inheriting a cat! Appearances can indeed be deceptive; one wonders how the ‘lucky’ brothers felt …
Of Felines and their Footwear
Running out of room.
I’ll have to order extra racks.
Bulky items,
boots.
They don’t store easily.
They ought to be a tax-deductible expense …
Perhaps if I paid tax
they might be.
I’m not sure how they’d classify my line of work.
And frankly, I’m not clear exactly what I’d name it.
‘Health services’ perhaps.
I’m not alone: podiatrists, chiropodists,
all deal with feet. Well, so do I.
Better work it out, now that I seem to be
returning to the job.
Life takes some funny turns.
Biggest mistake I ever made, to fall in love.
It was a good thing I had going.
Accidental, almost.
I’d never thought that feet would make my fortune.
Though I say ‘feet’, that’s not quite accurate.
It’s not the feet themselves, but what is on them –
the way I’m shod – that’s brought me
everything I have.
I’d always seen it as a private hobby,
an indulgence.
A passion for the shoe shop windows,
names like Jimmy Choo, Ferragamo
Perugia and Blahnik …
a sparkle in my eye. Money spent
was an investment, never waste.
Clomping through the house
in Mummy’s four-inch heels –
perhaps that’s w
here it all began.
It was a love affair with footwear –
that was how
one of my favourite clients put it.
I never call them customers.
Wrong tone. Far too commercial.
‘Clients’ is the way I like to think of them.
My ministrations are quite therapeutic;
it’s not a cold commercial world that I create!
Far more a meeting of their needs.
I understand so well
the quickening of the blood,
sudden heat of body roused,
rapid rate of breathing
when I extend a languid leg,
sheathed in leather,
gleaming and seductive,
light catching on well-polished slopes of skins.
The eager hands
that stroke and linger, curving gently over insteps.
They fondle ankles,
slide languorously over calf,
and hesitate above the knee.
The silent question hovers in the air:
how much further can I go?
But that’s not where their interests really lie.
I flick my foot impatiently.
Obedient hands,
still trembling with desire, return to heel.
Caressing the stiletto tips, they quiver
with delicious fear. For will those sharp
and needling points next stab the hands
that stroke them lovingly,
and in a sudden whim
grind into
only half-reluctant flesh?
Imelda Marcos had her shoes; but I’d take boots
for preference any day. It’s boots
that get my clients all excited.
Simple pleasures, rarely comprehended.
They know how well I understand.
Astounding how my reputation spread.
No need to advertise;
eager men paid well for pleasures
such as those that I provided.
Regulars, so many, plus the strays
who came from interstate or overseas.
Some wit I entertained in early days
re-named me,
long before I came to see potential
in this field. He called me ‘Puss’,
and leered.
I didn’t get the reference then.
Thought he was being dirty, and resented it.
He shook his head, still smiling,
pointing to the shelves of boots.
Now I know the story I can understand.
After that I had my name.
Biggest mistake I ever made, to fall in love.
I thought this john was different,
a cut above the rest.
