Read an Excerpt
Excerpt from the prologue of:
Wilde Passions of Dorian Gray by Mitzi Szereto
Dorian Gray awakens as if from the grave. A great weight presses down on him from above, but when he looks up to determine the cause, realizes it’s his head, which feels so heavy upon the stem of his neck that he expects it to tumble off and land on the crumpled bedding beneath him. Even the air itself is heavy, as if he were trying to breathe through cotton wool.
He blinks several times to clear his vision, the effort of moving his lids far too strenuous an endeavor to undertake without discomfort; the upper lids feel as if cast-iron window weights have been attached to them. The bluish haze that blurs the objects in the lavishly appointed bedroom make him wonder if he has somehow developed shortsightedness as his puffy and burning eyes struggle to focus and make sense of his surroundings. He hears the sound of breaths being drawn in and then released in a steady rhythm that might have been soothing if not for his disorientation. Are they his or someone else’s?
Red velvet draperies cover the tall windows and they move sluggishly in the breeze as if they too, are affected by this overwhelming sense of heaviness that afflicts him. They remind Dorian of curtains in a theater and he expects them to swing open, revealing players on a stage. Instead they reveal irregular chinks of yellow light, which insinuate themselves inside the room, informing him that it’s morning.
The clarity of his vision slowly returns, bringing with it more detail. Embroidered silk cushions lie scattered across the wooden floorboards, as do overturned glasses and random bits of gray ash. The bed upon which he finds himself appears to be a tangled heap of arms and legs, the more slender among them of female origin. They crisscross each other in a haphazard pattern. Arms as white as the first winter snow. Arms as black as polished ebony. Some look as if they belong to the same body, though Dorian knows this to be physically impossible. Lying amid the jumble he detects the gentle curve of a woman’s breast and, unless he’s mistaken, the graceless wedge of a man’s foot.
That Dorian is inside a bedchamber becomes obvious to him. It might be his, though he can’t be certain. He seems to recollect a small man with a pencil-thin moustache and a worn yellow tape around his neck measuring the window frames with extravagant meticulousness, then afterward producing several swatches of fabric, one of which was red velvet. The memory’s returning to him in more clarity now. Monsieur Larouche, the curtain maker. His men finished hanging the red velvet draperies a few weeks ago.
As for the hours that have just gone past, they continue to remain a confused jumble of images in Dorian’s mind, though the fragrant after-scents of smoked opium and female pleasure tease at the edges of his memory like a tickling finger, gradually bringing him back to consciousness. Painted scarlet lips pulling on the tip of an opium pipe, then later, pulling on the tip of his manhood. Secretive openings being filled by inquisitive fingers as well as other objects not generally suited for the purpose. Yes, the mislaid hours of the night are finally being located!
At some point Dorian lost count of the number of times he spent himself, though he suspects it transpired at least once with each person present in the room and likewise with those who already departed to seek out the familiarity of their own beds. He squeezes his eyes shut and reopens them, the burning less troublesome now. Despite the tiny veins of red marring the sclera, their blue is as pure as the sky on a perfect spring day. Yet the tableau laid out before him is anything but pure.
Is that a young man lying unconscious on a heap of silk cushions by the window or a young woman with short-cropped hair? He’ll never grow accustomed to these young ladies who sheer off their pretty locks in this masculine manner. He prefers men to look like men and women to look like women; at least then one can always tell who the players are. The figure on the cushions moves ever so perceptively, yet it is enough. It offers Dorian a pleasing vista of two well-formed hind cheeks that remind him of hot cross buns. The sight of them makes him hungry, though it’s not a meal he hungers for. On the contrary, his is a hunger that never ceases—and it cannot be appeased with anything so mundane as food.
He blinks again to clear away the last of the fog from his eyes to better enjoy the visual feast draped across the cushions. The figure now moves in earnest, curling into a fetal ball, at which point Dorian’s breath catches in his throat. Although the shifting of position has not provided absolute confirmation of the sleeper’s gender, what it has done is provide confirmation of the activities that have been engaged in. The opening brought into view gives every indication of its frequent usage over the last few hours—and very likely by Dorian. Perhaps the slumbering figure is that of a male, after all. Then again, perhaps not. The ladies of Dorian’s society have rarely denied him anything. Nor, for that matter, have the gentlemen.
