The hot pink rabbit slippers are a sharp contrast to the red and black smoking robe, but I love these little bunnies. They make me smile and this strange outfit is pretty representative of me with vintage and new mashed together.
Comfort mixed with style, a love for the old, with an appreciation of the absurd, as all adult bunny slippers are truly absurd. I couldn’t help but give myself some of the indulgences I had been denied in childhood.
I remembered my past in shades of taupe, bland like oatmeal. My parents never wanted to stand out in our small town. They preferred me to be a shrinking violet, which was already difficult with my heterochromia and macabre tendencies.
Something wild, like bunny slippers or hot pink, would have simply been too much for my parents' simple tastes. My “struggles” were just about as exotic as you could get in my family. Though behind closed doors, I’m sure there was a fair amount going on in my hometown.
My bunnies and I go back to the kitchen to put the now empty cup in the sink. I don’t love all of adulting, but picking out wild slippers and drinking in the tub are clear winners. The coolness outside the bathroom feels wonderful against my flushed skin.
I open the back door and call for Lucifer, like I do every night before bed. Sometimes he is there waiting, but other nights, like tonight, he is off on his mysterious cat business, so I head upstairs.
I converted the entire attic of the long and narrow row home into quite a lovely bedroom, keeping as many of the little details, like the exposed brick of the chimneys and wood floors, as I could.
Both gables hold original stained glass diamond windows, each one with just four simple colored panes. I love to watch those colors drift across the floor with the changing of the day’s light.
Gathered around a fireplace near the stairs is a small seating area. The focal piece is a wonderfully redone chaise lounge with an organic alpaca throw that I love to curl up in and read.
Despite the dark, moody maximalism that is pervasive in my shop, my bedroom is light. The walls are the palest pink; the hue changing with the light. My seating area furniture is emerald green velvet with a white fur rug pulling the little space together.
In the center of my bedroom, hanging from the peaked ceiling, is one of my favorite pieces. A vintage fern chandelier, dripping with crystals that cast rainbows on my walls.
The room is opulent with its pale pink and emerald green color scheme. And the cherry on top is mypièce de résistance, a taxidermy standing mount of two flamingos in love.
I have zero regrets about this massive purchase and had them lovingly restored by Wren. She is a whiz with restoration. That had cost me almost as much as the original piece, even with my friends & family discount.
The flamingoes are huge with their necks entwined and heads together, forming a heart. The one I dubbed the girl kicking her foot up like a Hollywood kiss. If a Hollywood kiss had a backward flamingo knee, that is.
I don’t just sell oddities—it is my way of life. I thoroughly appreciate the art of collection and display. Perhaps because I had grown up in such a sterile and minimalist environment, discouraged from displaying any more of my quirks, as my eyes had already declared me different to the world.
I make my way to the far end of my room to the antique bed. I always wanted a four-poster canopy bed with curtains, but the roofline of the converted attic would not allow it.
So instead, I fell in love with this old brass one at the local flea market. Jo and I had laughed as we stowed the headboard in my convertible Volkswagen Bug, putting the top down and precariously balancing it in the back seat.
It had been early spring then, and we froze our asses off driving it back to my place. Between the two of us, we lugged it up the two flights of stairs to my bedroom. It was a bitch, but together, we could do anything.
Once we had successfully gotten it up to the attic, we had collapsed in a heap on the floor, laughing. I couldn’t wait to see her. It had been too long.
Smiling at the thought of my friend, I walk to my bed and sit on the edge. I kick off the pink bunny slippers and squinch my toes in the plush vintage Persian runner along the side. Finding just the right colors in an antique rug to match the room hadn’t been easy, but I loved a decorating challenge.
I put my phone on the wireless charger and turn on my lamp on my version of an end table, a stack of old suitcases, yet another flea market haul. I am so tired I slide under the covers, still in my smoking jacket, barely getting the alarm set on my phone before falling asleep.
* * *
I wake to a tremendous thunderclap,the lightning flashing white. My bedside light, a replica of a Tiffany’s cobweb table lamp, had been on when I had fallen asleep. It is now off, and when I pick up my phone, it is no longer charging. The storm must have knocked out the power.
I roll over to the other side of the bed where there is a candle on the old smoking stand. I grope around and find a lighter for it. The flame provides a cozy and comforting glow in my room, chasing away the darkness. I can barely hear the crackling wooden wick over the storm.At least it isn’t another penis candle,I think with a smile.
The smell of tobacco and leather fills the air. No girly florals for me. I like my candles like everything else, dark and spicy. I pause on that side of the bed, thinking about what else that table holds.
After all, it is the middle of the night and I am wide awake, startled by the lightning. I quirk an eyebrow, picturing an easy way to relax myself back to sleep.
Well, why not,I think and reach into the drawer to pull out one of my battery-operated friends. I fluff up my pillows and lean back against the old brass headboard. I open the sash of the smoking jacket I had fallen asleep in and slide my hands down to my breasts.
I cup them, appreciating their weight, then move to toying with my nipples. They quickly harden to firm peaks, and I trail my hands down. My mind drifts to the odd customer from today. How could it not? He was some serious eye candy.
I try to recall the good parts of the dream from the tub and shy away from the actual biting part that had startled me sharply awake, but then let my imagination drift to wonder how indeed a vampire bite would feel.
In the massive amount of vampire fiction I've read, and virtually every vampire movie ever made, the bite often seemed orgasmic. As my hands make their way down my body, I realize the candle smells like McHottie—tobacco and leather with the faintest hint of something light underneath, a balancing freshness.
