Spent the day at pride in Charlotte, with Charles and Honoré. Charles smoked, Honoré fed the ducks. Charles... oh, poor Charles. He says, "I had no idea that marketing my particular vice could be so lucrative."

Honoré pointed out there wasn't much of a market in the 1830s.

Ah, yes, well.

We were there hanging whilst Madame -- Elzelina -- gave a speech on Things Useful to North Carolina Gay Rights. Whee. There were drag queens. So many drag queens. Whoo. I think the country line dancing made Charles wiggy.

Actually, I think the whole thing made Charles wiggy. Or Amused and Appaled and Perversely Intriuged. So gaudy. So many colors. Though he liked the drag queen in the red velvet long coat. Actually, he likes colors... blues, mostly.

By the time Honoré and we were sitting on the grass with the vanilla glaces, we were having wierd, surreal Jardin du Luxembourg flashbacks, whilst Elza schmoozed and networked and possibly got Honoré and I into being a part of a 18th century drum and fife corps.

We used to play the drums, you see. In a marching band. Woo hoo. Never suspected that one could use this talent to further the cause of gay rights.

Well. Then.

Charles, if I'd not mentioned, is the Past Life currently known as Caudelac. A sobriquet to be sure, but that is all right. It will do till his true identity is uncovered. Besides-- I like it.

ikio85 <----- So says the cat, who is almost eerily cognicent.

On the way home we talked about places at the Tullieries in which to dissappear for a tryst; the complications created by 19th century undergarments for women, when your trysting partner is the daughter of a Marechal, and when your trysting partner and you are both male.

Which was born out of a discussion about gender roles in the 19th century vs. now. The dullness if men's formal wear, and the way that male impersonation was the hot ticket then that drag Queens are now. The lure of the forbidden. The days when the cavalry officer spent as much time preening as the debutante, and real men wore lace cuffs, slightly longer than an inch.

Oh, oh, those /were/ the days.

Now stop angsting about the Tenor, Charles. I've done with Angst for the evening. Go flirt with D'Artagnan, now that he's done flirting with Sophia.

Or not, he says, still smoking those terrible french cigarettes.

Ah well. Tomorrow, Aramis plays a young half-vulcan boy.

I can't wait.

<<agé chose>>

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