Demon Stories

Beau: My Sparrow is My Firework, 1960-1961, France

Pretty sure this one is rated R. Sorry.

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Beau

My Sparrow is My Firework

1960-1961, France

Throughout the years, your favorite place has always been France. It is easy to see why. England has cast you out. It is no longer your home. So your singer heart went the only other place where it feels it can spread its lungs: Paris. For Paris has long been the home of artists and musicians. You were there and a blossoming Bohemian in the late 1800's. You were there during the roaring 1920's. You had to leave during World War II, but you are back here now. And I am with you. If only for a little while. 

On the balcony of your little flat, I'm here with my head on your lap, staring up at your face as you play with my hair absentmindedly, your fingers twisting gently here and there slowly. You're staring out beyond, waiting. You want to see the pretty colors come to life at midnight. The strange fireworks the artists make, a hush-hush operation perhaps because we both are not entirely certain its legal to shoot fire into the city sky independently. But artists never care for such stupid things as rules. 

Your mouth parts gently, your eyes unfocus a bit. And I know what's coming. My breath catches. 

Slowly, like a whisper, the words start to flow out of your rouged mouth in your favorite language, French. The song glides out in your singing voice which is not your feminine opera voice, but a strangely masculine voice for one who looks exactly as a woman looks. It is deep and full bodied, like a strong cup of coffee, but which has a flavor of some kind of robust nut stirred in with wide strokes. Yet, there is still something else in your spiraling voice, a hint of a shining light, such as on a bright late Spring morning, a white blinding light which pales the darkness and begins the sunrise. Or the light of a star, shining down and winking at all who are lucky enough to catch it in their eyes. 

Josephine. My Josephine. I can't help but be mesmerized. How does your spell not reach all others? I am the lucky one who caught the shine of your star in my eyes. And I still try with all my might to catch your heart.

The luck of this evening was a spell of its own. A wish granted. I knew of course where you'd be. You can be so easy to predict, yet so hard to read. Of course you would be among the artists on New Year's Eve. You can't resist such excitement among such a group of talented people. They'd be out in fever this special night, for they never give up a chance to party. But as always with such a group of people, they exchange ideas irresistably and you want to be up on the latest goings on of such talent. You are like a cat drawn to milk as you are drawn to their ideas. 

I clip earrings onto my ears in my hotel room and checked my silhouette. These new tight kinds of dresses can be hard on someone with my silhouette. The sleeves are off-the-shoulder, part of the neckline going straight across the chest. The neckline is just high enough to hide any kind of cleavage a woman might have, so it hides my padding in that place completely. I have also padded my hips, so there is a nice hourglass kind of shape going on. I exhale in relief at my experience doing this sort of thing. Why can't the flapper style of the 1920's come back, where the ladies bound their hips to appear more as with a boyish silhouette? It was so easy back then. Instead, they delight in their ridiculous curves now, making tigher and tighter hugging dresses. But I need not worry. With the crowd I'm about to go into, I will by far not be the only man wearing a dress this evening.