charles mee

the (re)making project

The Plays

Vienna: Lusthaus [sample]

by Charles L. Mee

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At the Café

I was at a performance of Fidelio last night.

At the Hofoper.

Yes. I was sitting in the stalls next to Leonard.


Kraus's nephew, you know, a man who is, in fact, quite congenial to me.

I'm not sure.

A man with whom, in fact, I have long felt I should like to make friends.

Leonard, of course. I understand.

At any rate, I was sitting there, quietly enough, inoffensive really, looking at my program, and all of a sudden, without any warning at all, Leonard flew through the air across the seats, put his hand in my mouth, and pulled out two of my teeth.

Aunt Cissi (boudoir speech)

At night Aunt Cissi wore a face mask lined with raw veal.

In strawberry season, she covered her face with crushed fruit.

Always, in every season, she took baths of warm oil to preserve the suppleness of her skin—though once the oil was nearly boiling, and she nearly suffered the fate of a Christian martyr.

She slept on an iron bedstead. She took it with her wherever she went. She slept absolutely flat. She scorned pillows.

Sometimes she slept with wet towels around her waist to keep her figure.

And in the morning she would drink a decoction of egg whites and salt.

Once a month, she had her hair washed with raw egg and brandy. And then she put on a long waterproof silk wrap and walked up and down to dry her hair.

She wore tight-fitting little chemises. And satin and moire corsets made in Paris. She never wore a corset for more than a few weeks before she threw it away.

She wore silk stockings attached to her corset by silk ribbons.

She never wore petticoats. In truth, in the summer, when she took her early morning walks, she would slip her feet into her boots without stockings on, and she wore nothing at all beneath her bodice and skirt, and she would walk forever. She would walk for four or five hours, every day.

She would walk forever and ever.

She could never get enough of walking.


I was in India several thousand years ago fondling a horse.

(Silence. She checks to see if this is going to be believed. Proceeds.)

A blondhaired boy was on the horse. We were strangers. I was touching the horse, and then I was touching him, and others were watching us. And then he came down from the horse and kissed my quim.
I thought...
He is French, because...
because he...
because he knew how much I loved to have him...
kiss my quim.
And I was very glad. And so we danced.
And I saw that he was very strong, and hard as a rock.
His penis was small, but very firm and round and powerful, and I loved it.
And I was ready to have him come inside me.
But he didn't.
I thought: perhaps this is the way it is in India.
Penetration is not important.
And I felt like a barbarian, expecting entry when he had something more civilized in mind.

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