Hello, Ye Sly Little Wenches, as Ye know I am The Black Orchid, and I beg to differ on Lady Lynda’s most recent wifely proclamation. I say stifle yourselves not. Do not be pastel: be crimson. A woman must make demands on her man. She must let herself be heard and not just tremble behind him like a faithless kitten, nor a pale shadowy mist. A tigress be, never a kitten.
The sole purpose of a man is to permit his woman to become a goddess. One’s head may be in the stars yet one’s ass must be firmly planted on the earth like an ancient oak tree. Choose well, your man. Never choose a weak man, one who would recast your spirit or deny you success in the worldly realm. Marry a strong man who would glory in your power.
Make demands, assert yourselves, Ye Little Vixens. Do not “go down” like common harlots. Let no man trespass on your heart or soul without proper tribute. In the olden days, there was Catherine the Great, who rode bare-breasted into battle to inspire the troops.
And her behavior with horses inspired lust in all her suitors.
Such a ghastly, animal act. Blood on parched lips, arms reaching out for a pale form in the dark silence of night, sighs dying in the air like London mist. I knew her well, a splendid queen, and a grand, bawdy girl. One of my followers. Celebrate lust yet do not court popularity for it is transient. Service not these young callous studs.
A man finds his meaning in the arms of his woman and vice versa. If Ye surpass him in this earthly plain let him glory in it. Marry only a strong man. Ye cannot break a strong man with your lustrous splendor. Suffer fools not gladly and spurn he who would recast you. For Ye are Goddesses, my darlings. Paint the world in scarlet and never spill darkness on anyone’s spirit for Ye are the Light. Blinding Light!