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

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The threat of ruination shadows Victorian characters, from Jane Eyre via Lady Audley to Dorian Gray. Yet in ‘literature’ it is never described as plainly as in Rosa Fielding, Victim of Lust, or Madame Birchini’s Dance by ‘Lady Termagent Flaybum’. Her Father, a smith by trade, and a W***e by name, had married a second wife, and Rosa and she didn't agree. Rosa had learnt stay-making, but grew tired of it, so went to service, grew tired of that also, or didn't like her place, and had been home a week doing nothing but help in their lodgings, and do needle-work. — A friend of hers and her sweetheart were going to a mu-sic hall, and Rosa with her father's consent went with them. There they met a young man of their own class in life, who paid attention to Rosa. All four had drink there. When they came out they had more drink at a public house. Her female friend suggested that the new acquaintance should see Rosa home, she going off with her sweetheart. All were seemingly a little screwed, and the couples separated in great jollity. But I spoke to Betsy again about an unfledged virgin cunt. — She shook her head — did not know where to get one — the boys had all the girls when quite young. said the girl. — "Didn't we do so last night my dear." — "Oh, not before a man," — said the girl, colouring up and trying to pull Betsy's chemise down.

The intimate nature of Walter's erotic diaries and his portrayal of himself and his surroundings, place My Secret Life well outside the realms of Victorian pornography as established in publications like 'The Pearl'. Walter's mantra might have been adopted from Jean-Jaques Rousseau in his Confessions: “My purpose is to display to my kind a portrait in every way true to nature, and the man I shall portray will be myself.' Like Rousseau's Confessions, My Secret Life is also noted for its detailed account of the author's more humiliating and shameful moments. 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. Collecting. Collectors began publishing clandestine lists of erotica, notably the Index Librorum Prohibitorum by Pisanus Fraxi (pseudonym for Herbert Ashbee, the Latin for “ash-bee” – “fraxinus-apis” – erogenously rearranged). The ruin of many girls is commenced by reading the low trashy wishy-washy cheap publications…about the sensualities of the upper classes…in the habit of imbibing for maidens of low degree “whose face is their fortune”. But I can't see here — open the shutters" — "e troppo caldo Signor." — I did not care, I insisted — I had come to see, specially to see the three graces — to examine, to compare, to see if they were sisters or not. — After much trouble, I got one of the rooms I had had before, smaller it is true, but where with blinds up, I had all the brilliant light of day and no sun, and then my pleasure began.

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I pulled her chemise about, for the traces of seminal discharge and sanguinary evidences delighted me. Baudy possibilities in wonderful variety came thro my mind. I got out of bed and stood looking at her thighs and cunt. I kissed her belly, slightly pulled apart the

Don't — for shame.' — 'Shan't — Pough — all my eye, Molly — show him yours." — "Shan't — you're dirty." — "Didn't we look at each other's last night, Molly?" "Not before a man — don't now, Betsy. — Oh, don't before him." — It was said quite naturally. All was useless — no she wouldn't — never —. "Why?" — She wouldn't — she would do anything else rather. — How could she, — now that she had run away? — What would be said? — I didn't know, I re-marked. — No, and I shouldn't know. Much in that style ran her answers and remarks, to my advice, supplication, and offer of assistance. Then I sat silent for a minute or so, wondering at the strangeness of the incident, and thinking what I should do.

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My friend called soon after and we went for a walk. I asked him where he took his women to. (He was a bachelor and had said he had no mistress.) He took them to his own rooms. — No one objected there. — What could I do I asked, if I wanted a woman. — Eyeing me curiously, he said I might bring a real lady to his rooms, if I'd give him notice, so that he might absent himself. That did not of course suit me — and he shewed me one or two very nice houses, where on the first or second floor of a public staircase, good accommodations might be had. "But you needn't go there much," said he. "Ladies will manage it for you in their own houses. if you take their time, they are clever at it here." — "Whores are not assumed to exist, there are so many priests, tho there really are lots of whores, and you need never fear going home with them, for on the slightest complaint to the police, you will get any one of them sent out of the city. — That keeps them careful. They know it, and are well behaved. And if a man opens the door, be not afraid. Men manage often these things here." And indeed I had found at several Italian towns, men attending at brothels. The customs of nations are different in sexual, as in other matters. I met Betsy a little time afterwards by mere chance, and was going to pass her, but somehow she recognized me and touched me on the elbow, saying hastily, — "Come here, come here I've been looking for you for a week." — We turned up a side street. — "Oh if you mean it, I think I've got such a nice girl for you, but I shall run a risk." — We had a long conversation, I gave her money to make presents to the girl, and some for herself, but not much. — "I think she will, but if I can't get her, I can't, and then you'll think I've chiselled you." — "No I shan't," and we parted.

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. But she would not let me mount her. In vain Betsy coaxed and bullied by turn. — "No — no," — she had altered her mind. — She was frightened — it would hurt, — it would make her bleed. — Then she burst into tears and cried. I desisted, Betsy quieted her, for fear of the people of the house, and when she had done she spoke to her in a subdued voice as nearly as possible thus. Yet how to hear their authentic voices? Their secrets, free from censorious moralising? To hear “those most mysterious of mysteries, the mysteries which are at our own doors” (Henry James, praising Wilkie Collins). When I awakened and peeped, she was on the bed alone and asleep. I wiped off my sperm from the door, and dressed myself, peeping, and awaiting further movements. At length I saw them moving about but nothing of their ablutions. They still seemed unaware of the facilities for seeing and hearing, in an old fashioned French hotel, and from their talk, felt now sure My Secret Life, by "Walter", is the memoir of a gentleman describing the author's sexual development and experiences in Victorian England. It was first published in a private edition of eleven volumes, at the expense of the author, including an imperfect index, which appeared over seven years beginning around 1888.Home | MySecretLifeVol.1 | MySecretLifeVol.2 | MySecretLifeVol.3 | MySecretLifeVol.4 | MySecretLifeVol.5 | MySecretLifeVol.6 | MySecretLifeVol.7 | MySecretLifeVol.8 | MySecretLifeVol.9 | MySecretLifeVol.10 | MySecretLifeVol.11 Yet he also tells of Yellow-Haired Kitty, insisting she was no prostitute but sold herself for “pies and sausage-rolls”; Camille, the quiet French prostitute who enjoyed telling him of lesbianism and sodomy; and every class of encounter from penurious alleyway gropes to persuasively lecherous travelling ladies. Walter considers any woman fair game. Now, in Collins’ Armadale, I can read into the hero’s wooing of Miss Milroy the same shadow of ruination that Walter senses seeing a woman drop her handkerchief in the street. For half a minute I gazed at her with delight as she lay with wonderfully large thighs, and legs, and would Again a long pause, again I repeated my offer. She eyed me closely, seemed almost to be trying to look through me, her lips moved as if she was speaking, but not a sound came from them. — Tired of this, and people noticing us as we stood together, tho but few passed in the by-street, and thinking now that I was only wasting my time, I said, "Good bye if you won't go home, and won't come with me — I'm going" — and I turned to go. — As I turned round, — "What are you going to do, where are you going?" said she hurriedly. — "Take you to a house where we can talk comfort-ably, for we can't stand here longer." — "I won't — "Good bye then." — A pause. — "I don't care, — said she sullenly — and she stood upright, still looking at me curiously. — "Will you come at once?" "I will." Moreover, I had set my mind on the maid, and did not wish all my stiffness taken out of me, by that slim piece of nobility, tho I felt somewhat honored by the distinction she had conferred on me. Then I thought of my friend's remark about her, and began wondering, whether other travelling strangers had been similarly honored, for her husband seemed to be mostly away from her, as far as I could learn.

I distrust censorship. The BL’s Private Case seems laughable today. But the panic behind it was real – as real as our fears about internet safety. Walter defended his amatory memoir as rekindling his own pleasure while offering inspiration to sensual adventurers. But those adventurers enjoyed the impunity of a time when prostitutes were dispensable, the poor inconsequential, and wives their husbands’ chattels.I had approached her half from behind, and had, before she squatted, tho but for an instant only, seen her standing a little in the stream, with petticoats still tighter beween her legs, and legs naked above the knees. Then she afterwards squatted as told. She had not noticed me approaching her. my hand on the foot. "Oh, what a sweet foot, what would a dancer give to have that," and I respectfully felt the silk. I said that she thought me too timid, for putting one leg quite delicately up over the other, she shewed a little way up the calf. She was lewed, and I believe in the contagion of lust, when man and woman touch each other. — Desire ran through me. — I put my hand higher up, praising the leg and the silk together, higher till I reached her knee. "What a lovely leg" said I, (tho it wasn't). Then she made a sham of pushing my hand away gently. — "Ah signor, you English are rude, is that the way you treat ladies in your country?" But she laughed, her big eyes were staring into mine. — "Oh, let me one moment, just above there" — and up went my hand. Feeling this, I left without noticing her (she had not bestowed any recognition on me but a slight stare) but