The Cocktail Bar

NOTE: This conversation runs backwards! For the benefit of regular readers the newest comments are put at the top.

Music Playing: Fascinating Rhythm by the Red Hot Pepperettes

Dateline: 5 November 1951 Quirinelle Time

Hello...this seems deliciously fascinating!

Hello! ::She delicately places herself on a convenient barstool, her sleek black pageboy bobbing slightly as she looks about the room:

 I think I'm going to rather enjoy myself here...I'm a new visitor, and it's only by chance that I stumbled upon this place -- kismet? Fate? Who knows? At any rate, I feel quite at home....

 I took a peek at the stocking page, and I found it to be got me into a bit of a shopping mood, and I'm still debating as to whether I should purchase a pair or not.

 I'm babbling again, aren't I? Quite's a nasty habit of mine. Well, it was rather nice to meet you all!

And we're delighted to meet you - do babble away, we enjoy it! - but honey-sweetie, what's your name?

I Saw It!

Well, I did see the naughty comment the censorette snipped out, and she was quite right to do it. Of course there will always be discussions about exactly where the line should be drawn, but it has to be drawn somewhere, or we'd end up with smutty anarchy, just like the Pit; and (perhaps more to the point) it would take all the fun out of the thing. What's the point of being riskay and daring if you can say anything anyway? Before long you have naughtiness-inflation and nothing matters any more. That's what it is like in the Pit, and that is why all the fun has gone out of it there.

 What I say is, thank Dea there is somewhere in the world where there are still some civilised rules to try to bend! That alone would be sufficient reason for coming here!


Unsuitable for Children

Queen Elspeth of Quirinelle recently said "Most things that are considered unsuitable for children are unsuitable for grown-ups too." And I quite agree with her.


Music Playing: Annette Hanshaw singing Six Foot of Popper, Five foot of Momma

A Messengerette Pops In

Excuse me....uhm.... Miss Sweetipops, I hope I am n-not intruding, but I am Miss Manuela's bi-bilingual secretary and she asked me to give you this note. Usually I am in charge of all her correspondence, but despite all confusion and commotion at home she insisted on writing this herself. Regrettably at the moment she is not in the position to join you, for the young Miss Marie-Louise was taken ill last night and had to be taken into hospital. When Miss Manuela finally returned home this morning she rushed over there. But she did ask me to take a peek in the Archives to make absolutely sure she wasn't mistaken, so I did and she wasn't. I mean, she was right of course. Therefore I herewith inform you that it is her belief that Management must have employed a new and rather inexperienced censorette, since your, and I q-quote...uhm.. 'most explicit (and de-delicious!) conceit' apparently did not cause offence in earlier conversations. She also asked me to assure you that since she hangs on your every word she was just in time to e-enjoy and sa-savour, I am afraid I have to quote again, ' your c-cunning lingual deceit'. She also mumbled something about a certain Popper and utopian thinking leading to totalitarian thoughts, but I didn't quite catch that, so I can't be exactly sure that it had anything to do with anything.

 G-golly, if this is where Miss Manuela has spent a great deal of her precious time lately I don't think I can blame her...and I don't think she'll blame me if I would have one ti-tiny little drink here.

 Sincerely yours,

Ahem, well, if any one else caught that belated touch of the blue pencil (We mean caught what was there before it got touched out), I think she may agree that you've got to draw the blue line somewhere in what is, after all, a family site (Brunette Mummie, Blonde Mummie and all the little light and dark curly-tops).

 Gosh, we let you pettes sail quite close enough to the jolly old wind, as witness the missive above. But this is Elektraspace, you know, not cyberspace.

 But Popper! All we want to say about Popper is that if Platina is an enemy of the Open Society, we'll take Platina any day of the week (well, that isn't all we might say about Herr Doktor Popper, but this isn't the Academy Seminar Room). And if Cyberspace is an example of the Open Society, we'll even take Francesca Kadorianhe. And if preserving a modicum of maidenly modesty amounts to totalitarianism, well, you'll just have to take your complaint to the District Governess.

 Popper! Good gosh, it'll be Wittgenstein next!

Our Sparkling Sweetipops

La! A light-hearted, sparkling Sweetipops, here, my dainty, delicious, delicate and delectable darlings! I think that my magnificent Manuela will be along shortly, unless, of course, she is already here, in which case...well...she will have arrived before me, I suppose...and, then...well...My goodness, and I do mean goodness, you all know how trying it can be for a blonde...but, then...if I wasn't a blonde, I wouldn't be all a-twitter like this at all, would I?...and I wouldn't have found myself in the tender touch of a beautiful brunette in quite the same way, would I? it isn't so hard to be a blonde after all! Or is it?

 Well, whether or not Manuela is here yet, I want you all--especially my sensitive censorette, her shapely, stockinged legs perfectly crossed, one foot rocking delicately, mascara flawlessly applied to her naturally long lashes, her superlatively defined and shadowed eyes keenly focused on every word, resting one of her fine, faultlessly manicured, feminine fingers against her remarkable ruby red luscious lips whilst the other is poised over the blue-penciling (and not for eye-liner, darlings!) delete key--to know that I will be a good girl...I really matter how hard it will be...I won't kiss and tell...really I won' matter how hard it may be for a blonde to keep her secrets to herself, I will be strong...well...I won't exactly kiss and tell...and even if I wanted to, which, of course, I most certainly do, I couldn't, see...I'm so utterly and completely fulfilled beyond even my most daring of delicate dreams that I am absolutely speechless...well...almost speechless...

 Oh, my precious, pretty and patient pettes! What an extraordinary example of fabulous femininity, what an entrancing enchantress, what a sensuous, sizzling, sensational sweetheart is the magical, multifaceted, marvelous Manuela! If ever there was a heaven on earth...why, how silly of me! The Cocktail Bar is heaven on earth! Well, just listen, then, darlings...blondes only, of course...but then, even brunettes have a little blonde streak in them, don't they? Oh, well...

 From virtually the first kiss: languorous, luscious, lingering lips softly parting to permit a first, hesitant, uncertain savor, the air around us alive with our blended fragrances, her warm, assured hands caressing my cheek, slipping over my almost bare shoulders, encircling my waist, tugging me against her, our temperatures reciprocally the last exhalation: a sensual, satisfied sigh of total, mutual satisfaction, I transcended this mundane sphere, step by sensational step, and felt the communion with all life, that merging of a pette's physical/spiritual being with that of another, momentarily erasing all sense of individuality, that I wanted so much.

 Listen, pettes...if ever a goddess walked the earth, a charismatic creature with the power to transport mere maids from giddy, vulnerability to ecstatic bliss...well, she couldn't have done it more completely than the beautiful brunette into whose amorous arms I have so recently fallen! I wonder, darlings, if that is why brunettes are brunettes and blondes are blondes? Oh, well, as soon as I see her again, I want to tell my exotic European enchantress that, as long as I live, whenever I am alone and in need of someone to be close and affectionate, I will recall the vision of Manuela. She will forever be part of my heart and soul, a remarkable and unexpected presence whose every word I will cherish, recall, and re-read with pleasure and excitement.

 There...I was a good girl, wasn't I?

 A few more things before Manuela gets here...Diana, distresses me to see someone as wonderful, as generous as you, not only wearing blue, but feeling that way, too! You look so lovely, and, if my heart didn't, for the moment, belong to Manuela, I simply wouldn't be able to resist you! I can't believe that you are sitting by yourself. If there is anything that I can do to dry those tender, itty, bitty tears, sweetheart, please...let me know...

 And my dearest Donna...a great big blonde welcome to you, my sweet! As our anonymous sagette observed, you seem quite at home here. And please...all of you precious, silent pettes here in Aphrodite...yes!...all of you...don't be shy...all of us love a good conversation and we could all have so much fun together if only everyone would speak up and join in! Because, after all, if pettes don't converse, then...there isn't any conversation, is there? And...honestly, I speak from some can say almost anything you long as you aren't crude and revolting, of course, or...perhaps...a little too explicit...there are limits, aren't there?...but, if you are crude and probably aren't reading any of this, anyway, are you? And, if some more of you don't talk, you'll just have to keep putting up with me! And my beautiful Miss Barbara...your adorable anecdote was so observant, sweet, and amusing, and your genuine affection is apparent. Here, my darling, let me give you a tender kiss to let you know that I love you, too! Oh, my! Your skin is so soft and lovely, and your fragrance is simply divine...but, then, honestly, I really didn't expect anything less.

 Well, I'm going to sit down over here by the potted palm and wait for my magical Manuela. Here! beautiful barpette!...a martini, if you please...straight olive...why, thank you! You look so lovely, too! Such charming help around here, don't you agree?

 Contented and satisfied I remain,
Your Sweetipops,

Music Playing: The Quirinelles singing Peggy Sue

Home (away from home) at last!

Hi girls, I'm Donna. I can't believe it. It seems I've spent my life (considerable, though I hope it doesn't show too badly... lord knows I spend enough time on this makeup!) stumbling around the Pit looking for a place like this... but to no avail, for it simply had to be a "space" like this, didn't it? Anyway, I'm so... I don't know... relieved? to find Femmeworld. It feels like home already. Sort of a home away from home.

 Oh, me? Well, I'm a brunette in spirit and in appearance. You know, I live a good part of my life in my own personal Femmeworld... you know living in what in the Pit is the past. The nostalgia of the femme elegance of the fifties is where I hang out in my mind. And look around us... here it is in Elektraspace, too. Shoulda known? Huh?

 Well, oh yes. Me. I'm a product of that age. Wore crinolines and nylons and heels on dates (some of them imaginary) on Saturday nights, necked in convertibles and just wouldn't put out... but wanted to... but didn't want to... but... Those were the best days of my life despite the whacky morality, and I do relive them constantly in my own world of nostalgic reverie.

 Oh, hi. Thanks. I'd love a gin and tonic. Thanks. I'll just perch here on this stool.

 Gosh, she's pretty. It is a bit warm in here. Gee, it's great here. It really does feel so homey. I wonder... has anyone seen a pretty blonde cheerleader named Pam? Or a tall brunette color-guard girl named Penny? They were such good friends back in highschool... we learned so much together... no, we didn't take the same classes... well, not mostly. I mean about life. I still stay in touch with them. I'll have to tell them about this place. They'd love it. And I KNOW that they would have told me if they'd found it first. We see each other, but not often enough. Let's see... it's been 3 years since I saw Penny. But I did visit Pam just last summer, and her folks. Penny's folks are gone... as are mine, but I learned what it meant to make someone feel at home at Penny's house back when we were in school. This place gives a girl the same feeling... welcome, homey, elegant, but still, a place a girl can be all girl... let her hair down and not worry about the rest of the world (read Pit), or that other sex... what did they call them out there?

 Mmm. Good drinks, too.

 Oh, did any of you girls get a pass to the Inner Sanctum? I'd love to look around. Maybe one of you could introduce me to somebody who could... well, just a thought.

 Oh, love, you've got a run. I know. I almost caught my nylon on this metal stool leg too. Here... come with me. Peggy-Sue, wasn't it? You know, I've always loved that name. Listen. I've got an extra pair of seams in my purse. I expect you'd do the same for me if the roles were reversed. Come on... my nose needs powder and my lipstick is mostly on the lip of that tall gin and tonic glass. We'll go change that stocking and I can get the bags out of mine. Don't mention it. See you later, girls.


Welcome, Donna. Not only do you feel home, but we feel you're one of our own girls right from the first moment (got confused about "whacky morality" sentence, though. You meant the Pit, not the 1950s, surely). Anyway we look forward to seeing a lot more of you - which we might when you jive in that lovely crinoline. Sorry. That was a naughty thing to say to a new girl! I do mean, we hope we'll be seeing you lots more.

 Oh, yes, of course we'll give you a key to the Inner Sanctum. You're a brunette, so we're sure you won't throw any fainting fits like certain blondes a while back. Well, fairly sure.


Um - sorry. Some of the recent postings seem to have disappeared. "Seem, Madam, we know not seem" as Hamlette so neatly put it. They have disappeared. Gone from Elektraspace. Gone from the Aristasian Embassy super-ordinator. Gone even from our catch-all security system. Don't ask us why. We don't know, and there isn't an ordinatory brunette in sight to tell us. Sorry pettes. It doesn't happen often! If any one has been completely lost, please forgive us.

Philosopherette Barbi

Taking a cooling moment away from the rather -um - grown-up atmosphere of the Cocktail Bar these days, our delicate Sweetipops has made a quite different sort of contribution in the Seminar Room of the Feminine Academy. You pettes might care to pop over and see it.

The Tender Trap


 It is warm in here, just as Miss Violet says. It seems that everywhere a pette looks, romance is in the air. Are we all in Miss Fox's seasonal condition, for spring does seem to have sprung, reminding me of a little ditty, "Take your girl for an auto ride, make that girl cuddle by your side, on a beautiful night in June." It may not be June, but snuggling seems to be in the air. Even that adorable couple over in the corner. They just met and as I was on my way to the Little Brunette's room, I overheard their first romantic exchange:

 Brunette: "Well, hello there Blondie. What is your name, sweetheart?"
Blonde: "I don't know, but I'm pretty."

 Well, after a shared giggle, the brunette, captivated and completely caught in the tender trap, offered to buy that cutie a cup of cocoa, with a touch of the diffie, of course.

Love to all the lovebirds in the room,

really, not quite the prude everyone seems to think.

Now who thinks that, Miss B? Not us.

Forlorn Brunette

Oh, my! Oh, my dear goodness. Is it getting warm in here? Mmmm. Oh, my, my. All this intimate exchange is bringing a rather longing flush to my cheek. I sit here, chin in hand, elbow delicately placed on the bar. Sigh. Is there any Aristasian beauty out there for me? Although I truly enjoy the happiness of my friends, and am sincerely delighted to see the blossoming love of Barbi and Manuela, I must admit that a little self-pity is in my heart. I am, to coin a phrase, a brunette who is all dressed up with no place to go.

 Well, I must pull myself out of this morass of self-pity. I got this lovely little cloche hat and this silk scarf just for the cocktail bar. What do you all think? They do go so well with the purse and shoes. And I really do believe, dears, that blue is my color...

 Well, this isn't working. Does anyone have a hankie? I gave my last one away...


Music Playing: Kiki lia Caerelinde (on a record we fear) singing "You were Temptation"

First Kiss

An ecstatic, enchanted Sweetipops here, my oh so gracious darlings! Because I was powerless to prevent myself from taking up so much of your collective time, and possibly straining your delicate eyes as well with the effulgence of my outpourings of affection and supplication for my magical Manuela, and since the censorette's hand has swiped away my most explicit (and delicious!) conceit, I am hesitant to say any more at the moment than...I am grateful for your indulgence of what I expect some may think of as my excesses. At this most delicate and endearing moment in my virtual this wonderful place where fantasy and reality intermingle and merge in mysterious and thrilling ways...Manuela, dearest...your appreciation is the sweet nectar that soothes my distress...never has a hand on my waist felt so fulfilling...never have I anticipated a lover's soft touch, whispered conversation, and first kiss (can it really be the first?) with such bliss...never have I looked into such deeply responsive eyes...never have I sensed such a rich sense of humor (I'm glad that I didn't ask the hotel to provide satin sheets!) coupled such heartfelt feeling...never...well...never have I wanted to leave the Cocktail Bar as badly as I do now! My marvelous Manuela...take me to that lime tree, darling, and, rest assured, my sweet, shopping is the last thing on my mind...

 Goodnight, for now, my precious pettes!

 Eagerly and ardently,
Your Sweetipops,

To her consenting mistress

Dumbfounded (or should I say, almost dumbfounded) I come before you, quivering like an unfledged brunette. Aristasia, this precious book of love, has made me an unsurpassed gift in you, Barbi my Sweet, my unbound lover.

 Our charming postnuptial lovebirds were right, kneeling is indeed a sign of submission: utter and complete submission to the glorious goddess standing before me in all her unbearable beauty and immensurable wisdom. I bow to your heartbreaking celebration of my voracious hunger for you. Oh Barbi, my muse, would I were a language, or if that is too much to ask, a mere word, don't read me wrong, dearest, but to even be a morpheme, a morsel of intelligibility in your apprehensive hands, playing around in your delightful mind, being skilfully dressed in your love and discretion is my wish before dying of perfect happiness. Never have I met someone like you. Avidly drinking in your elocutionary magnificence I ought to feel I am penetrating your prodigious profundity deeper and deeper, yet I now know it to be unfathomable. My passions are ruled only by you, unmistakable mistress of this universe. Your slightest touch will easily unleash them, though I have &c.

 What a delicious dilemma you present me with, Sweet. Either to prolong this exquisite torture by returning to the Cocktail Bar. Whetting our amorous appetite with seemingly idle chat whilst I devour you with my eyes, wistfully, as I have done so many nights before and putting this lovely spell to the test of all those recent enticing and potential brunettes who have entered the stage, such as the uncannily promising Miss Violet, in the secure knowledge that my savage craving for you will ultimately be answered by your utterly blonde cries in the throes of passion. Or to consummate our happiness without further delay by delicately retiring to your rooms, where you will sling back your blue satin pumps one by one, and as they land on the floor neither of us will be able to distinguish its thud from the pounding of my expectant heart. Although I am bound to be a trifle bashful in the beginning, since this is the first time we are actually alone together, not counting our conclave in this pink-tiled powder room, where every once in a while a blonde or brunette head will appear around the door to be discretely withdrawn again (poor accommodating dears, we must be making unbearable demands on their bladders) the loving tenderness in your eyes will rapidly restore my brunette confidence. And the slight tremble of your hand as you touch my face to draw me even closer assures me once again you are as anxious as I am to shed not only our inhibitions but other garments as well. You will forgive me for discovering your satin clad body with relative haste, as I seem to have developed a nasty allergy for this particular fabric throughout the years. But then vexingly, languorously slow I'll begin to explore your innermost secrets by running my hand over your beautiful skin, and then I will stop to allow you to recover your breath and before I resume my peregrination we'll talk some more because we have world enough, and time.

 Come now, my Sweet, give me your hand and I'll slide my arm firmly around your waist (just in case it enters your head to dash off to do some shopping) as we walk into the magical night of Elektraspace, where a pink moon will beam on our bliss and beneath a lime tree we will halt for our very first, very deep kiss.


I'm feeling faint and very, very warm!

I just passed by to amuse myself for a few minutes before I had to head off for an engagement (in the Pit). I definitely need to enjoy a slight diversion before I offer myself, however unwillingly, to its dark reaches.

 Oh but what a sweet, sensuous, truly delicious use of words I've come across. What lovely sentiments these are indeed! I'm feeling faint and very warm and must bid you farewell for now --I need to recover very quickly with a glass of water (which I will splash ever so delicately in my face), a fan, and a bucket of ice (which was chilling some very nice bubbly for later this evening) so I can complete my obligations for the day.

 I know these words were for Manuela, but I could not help but peek. I tried to stop myself from reading on, but to no avail. Perhaps words are mightier than the sword [as claimed, I think, by Cyranette de Bergerac]. Oh what a rapturous connection Manuela has made. I must confess, I'm planning to peek in later so I can enjoy these words again. Good-bye for now--I have to run and redo my make-up.


Passionate Secrets

A solicitous Sweetipops here--but not for my dainty darlings this time--only, and completely, for my beautiful brunette, my magical Manuela. Forgive you? Understand you? How could I do anything less? How could I look into your eyes and not see the pain that you feel, and not feel it myself, knowing that I am the source of your anguish. Surely, your vital Victorian restraint has amply demonstrated your brunette character and your distance from the Pit, with its pornographic demands on even the simplest encounters, and its derisive disregard, indeed, ignorance, of the sensitive and delicate emotional dance in which you and I have been engaged for all this time. If only it were in my power to reflect your heartbreaking honesty so that you would redeem yourself in your own eyes and remove the false stigma of shame from your lovely eyes! Thank goodness, and I go mean goodness, that brunettes aren't really made of stone!

 Your passionate thoughts...beastly? Monstrous? Could your urges toward burning, ardent fulfillment of our mutual physical desire, erotically fueled by our verbal exchanges, truly be characterized so harshly? Is the vision, so lovely and exciting to me, of our sensual selves in passionate embrace, moving to the music of our senses...our touch, our whispered exclamations, our climactic horrible for you to entertain...or more than Aphrodite can tolerate? No, my can't be true! Oh, my brilliant brunette, my magnificent, marvelous Manuela, please, my dearest darling in all of Elektraspace, don't chastise yourself so mercilessly for answering, with such apparently discomforting, compulsive urgency, my all too subtle call for union and communion between we two. Passions such as yours, protean brunette cravings, ultimately tamed and civilized by a sensitive spirit such as yours, but ready for vivid realization at the first removal of a blue satin slingback pump, and the slow, tantalizing unrolling of a stocking, are the stuff of a blonde's most exquisite, albeit indelicate, fancies!

 Didn't you know that I wanted nothing less than your physical affection in its most complete expression...that you couldn't have offended me--unless you made such a private request explicitly public, of course!--that my consensual agreement in the realization of your fantasies, whatever they might be, would be affirmatively understood, were you to whisper them into my receptive ear? And wouldn't the fulfillment of my fantasies...blonde, ultra feminine ones, of course! realized by your accomplished, brunette attention?

 But, please, help me to forgive myself for causing such discomfort to one of the most enchanting pettes I have ever known! You have risen to the occasion, restraining your untrained, Pit-bound impulses like a queen, in an environment that finds, restores, and nurtures the original innocence of our mutual feminine attraction...something so misrepresented after the Eclipse. Are we expected never to feel truly sensual, never to feel a hunger for an affectionate caress or kiss in our most secret places, never to experience an aphrodisiac fantasy so complete that it almost parallels reality? Miss Barbara, perhaps, to the contrary, I think not. Haven't we, my sensitive sweetheart, pushed at the borders of innocence and restraint without succumbing to the Pit demand for explicit expression? Isn't our imagination, complete with its constraints and excesses, ultimately the sine qua non of Aristasia? Don't we build the meaning of Elektraspace with our thoughts and words? What else could the epigraph mean...Aristasia is one long conversation? And then, like us, isn't Aristasia is still growing?

 My enticing European, my admiration for you extends by leaps and bounds. You are the mistress of your more unruly, but never ugly, passions, and, for now, you are my mistress as well. Could it be any other way? Could there be any doubt that I would melt and gush at the mere sight of you! I was so afraid that you had left...that I was alone and unwanted...that I had failed to let you know how badly I sought a more complete expression of my attraction to you! The sound of your voice, the cadence of your words are balm for my blonde spirit. Please, my precious princess, don't leave me.

 Oh! Look! In the mirror behind you! Turn around, my luscious lass and look at the two of us! My eyes are somewhat red and teary, perhaps...I was so worried!...and never looked more gorgeous! Don't we make a charismatic couple? Put your arm around me, my dazzling darling and see us together as others see are so!

 Well...are you feeling better? I do hope that I have made it clear how special you are to me. I feel blessed that Elektraspace has brought us together. So many things that might just be impossible in the Pit can happen here.

 What do you want? We could rejoin the feminine company in the bar, if you wish. There are some lovely new pettes that have arrived...the vivacious Miss Violet...and a ravishing redhead named Michelle...or, perhaps...perhaps the time for keeping our precious secret selves from one another has come to an end...I am deliciously, willingly, unreservedly in your thrall...the decision is entirely yours...I'm staying at the Algonquin Hotel, a very Trentish establishment just down the street from Aphrodite...and, yes...Miss Dorothy Parker still shows up there quite regularly...Perhaps, we should call that taxi that I talked seems like weeks ago, doesn't it? Ah, my miraculous Manuela, I love the charming curl at the corner of your luscious lips when you smile! Once there, we could slip into something a little more comfortable (I have an extra pair of stunning purple, satin pajamas--I have no idea why I brought them--that are just your size!), share a glass of Moet for a little while...about secrets...

 Your enthralled and anxious pette,

Some one has described Aristasia as "one long conversation". Well, Aphrodite is rather like that. If you want to catch up on the conversation so far, the Archive is the place to do it.