Dark Night of the Soul (Album)

It was in the middle of November, and but about a month only after I had said good bye to Rosa W***e. — I was walking along the Strand, one very nasty, muddy, dank, dark night. The whores were lifting up their petticoats, partly to escape the mud, but more I expect to show their legs, as high as they dare and I was gazing on them with pleasure, my mind wandering from their legs to their backsides. I passed a female nearly, then stopped — as I seemed to recognize an old carnal acquaintance. “Why, it's you Betsy.” — I turned round, and passed into a side street, followed by the female. “I don't recollect you, yet I know the voice,” said she. —I made myself known. Several years had passed since I had seen her. It was Betsy Johnson, whom I had fucked just after she had turned gay, and at about the time I was in love with Sarah Mavis, and had quarrelled with her. Betsy was a middle-sized female, but her plumpness and roundness were delicious. Her form was lovely then. She had a delicious skin, as smooth as ivory, fine chestnut hair, the same color on her cunt hair, of which she hadn't much. She had two defects ...»