[Ed. Note: You’re about to read something very special. So unzip your pants and unscrew your favorite flask because For Shame! is bringing you, FOR THE VERY FIRST TIME (like a virgin, in case that wasn’t clear), a post by a guest writer! That’s right, it’s our very first guest post and we couldn’t be more excited. Let this be a lesson to all you scandal-lovers that if you’re funny and are amused by sex that happened a long time ago, you too could one day write for this very blog. I’m just saying, dream big, ok? Dream big. Without further ado, a guest post by KAB.]
When you think about the 1920’s, some pretty fly people come to mind: Velma Kelly, Al Capone, Albert Einstein, fucking George Gershwin. But I hope you know that I speak from the bottom of my heart when I say all of these bitches were tame compared to F. Scott Fitzgerald and Zelda Sayre. Said Lillian Gish, just one of their beautiful dirty rich friends, “They didn’t make the 20’s, they were the 20’s.”
Scott wrote a little number called The Great Gatsby, now forever populating Facebook favorite quotes and Tumblr accounts alike. He also had a bromance with Hemingway (to rival Tommy & Ezra’s, I think), peaced the fuck out of Princeton to join the army, and had a dope-ass haircut. Did I mention he lit cigars with 5 dolla bills? Ain’t no thang.
Now let’s talk about Zelda. In an era of (illegally) drunk bitches running around smoking and wearing obscene amounts of fringe, Zelda set the trend. I’m pretty sure they were all little monsters to her Gaga. With their forces combined, Scott and Zelda formed one of the most scandalous, mythified, and seriously fucked up romances of all time. These guys lived fast, drank hard, and were quite possibly the worst sinners since Adam and Eve.
Let’s start at the beginning, shall we? Scott and Zelda met when he was stationed at Camp Sheridan during his I-want-to-be-a-war-hero stint. They hit it off at a little country dance (read: underground Alabama club scene), and Scott immediately has a hard-on. He said that he “fell in love with a whirlwind.” Such a way with words.
And let’s be honest, this chick’s name is Zelda. Tell me I’m wrong, but she has one of the biggest legends of all time. Not to mention girl was voted “Prettiest” and “Most Attractive” in her high school class. Legit as fuck.
So after a brief courtship and at least a dozen handles of gin, Scott built up the courage to ask for her hand in marriage. Zelda was interested in Scott for sure, but at this point Scott was not super successful. I’m not saying she was a gold digger, but she wanted a bit more financial stability to lead her ideal life of sex, drugs, glamour, and a dash of alcohol.
Scott was pretty keen on snatching up this bitch for life, so he hauled ass to St. Paul, wrote This Side of Paradise, and had it published by Scribner’s in a year. This Side of Paradise made critics AND readers blow their loads, so around this point Zelda caved and agreed to marriage. For the wedding, Zelda wore a midnight blue suit and matching hat with leather ribbons and buckles. She had an orchid bouquet. There were no photographs. Jazz age SWANK.
Here’s where the fun starts. Scott was on fire after This Side of Paradise; every post-WWI kid felt like Scott just understood him. What do we do with ourselves after this time of destruction, war, and existential crises? Get shitfaced, obvs.
The Fitzgeralds were the anti-Brangelina of their time. Instead of adopting babies and trying to save the world, they were just hedonistic hot hip things that lived like kings. Everyone wanted to know what they were doing, what they were wearing, how much they were drinking, and what the fuck they did while drunk, which included:
- Jumping into the Plaza Hotel’s fountain fully clothed.
- Riding an open car through the streets of New York City (probs more scandalous than it sounds).
- Getting thrown out of their honeymoon suite for rowdiness. I guess that’s why Scott would later describe their behavior as “sexual recklessness.” Was the kama sutra a thing in the ‘20s? Either way, I’m sure lots o’ blowies were involved. (See LHB? I used blowies!)
And then, outta the blue, Zelda’s knocked up! They go to Europe because they feel like it––EXPATS EY OH. They start in England, but they thought it was boring, so they moved to Italy, which they didn’t like, and were finally satisfied with living on the goddamn French Riviera. When their daughter (Frances Scott “Scottie” Fitzgerald, talk about living in Daddy’s shadow) is born, Scott writes down Zelda’s first drugged words after giving birth: “Goofo, I’m drunk. Mark Twain. Isn’t she smart––she has the hiccups. I hope it’s beautiful and a fool––a beautiful little fool.”
Then the dynamic duo and their new baby side-kick returned to the good ole USA where they rented a place in Great Neck, Long Island (English major side-note: the place that would inspire West Egg in Gatsby! Cool story, bro!). You think you’ve been to some crazy ragers in your time? Think again. The Fitzgeralds would have house rules, like asking their guests not to break down doors in search for liquor even if Scott and Zelda, in a drunken stupor, told them to do it. Another rule was a safeguard against guests spending the night even if Scott and Zelda, still in a drunken stupor, told them they were welcome.
Bored again with the USA, they returned to the French Riviera. Scott was busy with his whole writing gig, and Zelda was bored as shit so she found herself a French pilot, Edouard Jozan, to toy around with on the beach. Supposedly the relationship was unconsummated, but that’s boring, and Zelda was not a boring bitch. I’ll let you draw your own conclusions with that one. This is around the same time Zelda called Scott a fairy and accused him of having an affair with Hemingway. To prove her wrong, Scott called up a female prostitute and had sex with her. Why Scott couldn’t have just had sex with Zelda? Good question. Another good question: What the fuck was Scottie doing this whole time?
Scott and Zelda went on a violent streak, and not in the sexily deviant way. While vacationing in the Mediterranean, Zelda threw herself under their car and dared Scott to run her over. Rumor has it that Scott actually started the car. (In all honesty, it would have saved him a headache later.)
Shit gets even shittier. At a party in St. Paul, Scott casually hits on this dancer chick Isadora Duncan. Scott def keeps his dick in his pants, but either way Zelda is not a happy camper. This slut Isadora goes a bit too far, strokes Scott’s hair, and calls him her “centurion.”
And, in what is perhaps an overreaction, Zelda throws herself down a staircase for attention. When the hosts find her, they actually think she might be dead. Thankfully, she recovers to continue a string of mild overreactions to Scott’s flirtatious tendencies, including:
- Stealing all the bling from her rich-ass party guests, putting them in a boiling pot of water, and pretending to make soup.
- Throwing her platinum watch off of a moving train.
- Setting fire to her clothes in a bathtub. (Zelda actually causes two separate fires––one of which burns down an entire building––and then she ends up dying in a hospital fire. Sorry, but crazy had it coming.)
At this point, everyone’s kinda wondering what the fuck is going on with Zelda. She starts to obsessively practice ballet––we’re talking 10 hours a day. Bitch wanted to be perfect (but probably not as much as Nina, amirite?). Zelda was taking dance lessons in Paris and once ran out of her taxi through through traffic in a tutu to make it to her class on time. She also started to burst into inexplicable bouts laughter at meals. Scott and their flapper friends are reasonably concerned.
In 1930, she’s checked into Malmaison clinic outside of Paris, and from then on is in and out of hospitals for the rest of her life. At this point, Scott and Zelda are kind of calling it quits. She writes him letters from the hospital of happier days, he continues to support her financially, but they’re pretty much caput.
Actually, not true, they take one last hurrah vacation to Cuba, but all that’s not well, um, does not end well. Scott drinks his ass under the table and tries to break up a cock fight, and then gets the shit beat out of him. And that’s the last they saw of each other. Try not to swoon.
All right, so they loved each other for a while, then hated each other, then made each other’s lives miserable to the point of insanity, but isn’t that what love is all about? Come on. They even wrote thinly-veiled passive-aggressive accounts of their lives together in books published back to back before they died. That, my friends, is too cute to be forgotten.
Before I get into the good shit, there are some points that need to be made:
1. Yes, we were shut down for roughly 12 hours earlier this week because WordPress thought we were spam robots. Because what robots AREN’T writing about historical sex scandals these days, RIGHT?! Anyway, even though he’ll never ever see this, we want to thank kind, sweet Anthony at WordPress headquarters for very promptly and apologetically righting this grave, grave wrong.
2. In related news, we recently were on the receiving end of the best spam comment of all time ever in the history of spam the internet junkmail thing and also Spam the canned pork product. It was that good. It was an ad for a free eBook on giving blow jobs. I just….it’s too perfect. I mean I half believe that it wasn’t spam at all and that someone, after reading a post or two, thought, “Know what, I got just the thing for these sassy little ladies – my eReader-compatible sex tips book.” The idea of a blowj instructional guide on a Kindle will never NOT make me want to pee my pants. So here’s a message for that robot/person who knows us so well: I know it’s free (and God bless you for that) but take my credit card number, take my Social Security number, take my firstborn child. I want that blowj eBook more than I want Paul Schnieder, Chris O’Dowd, and Jason Segel to be my brother husbands. And I don’t even believe in eBooks.
3. Another thing that I want is for someone to Google any one of those three celebrities plus “blow job” and/or “free blow job ebook” and subsequently find our blog. Because this is just where that person should fucking be.
4. Remember that time I wrote a post about the Effie Gray/John Ruskin/John Everett Millais love triangle? Well, Emma Thompson (Professor Trelawney, for you unsophisticated ones) (by unsophisticated I just mean that you, unlike me, haven’t deluded yourself into thinking that you’re worldly because you watch a lot of British costume dramas) must have read that gem, because I just saw today that she’s turning that scandalous story into a moviefilm. I’m sure she’ll be in touch about giving us a cut.
5. The GRE is the worst, and if you invented it I want you to bury yourself alive, after which I will stick a funnel into the earth and softly whisper words like “abstemious” and “virago” and “splenetic” that no one ever needs to fucking know nonstop until one of us dies.
Okay, now for the fun. It’s time for MRG to shamelessly continue her pattern of desperately writing posts loosely relevant to significant historical events according to the date because she’s not creative or motivated enough to search for lesser known scandals anymore and you don’t like those posts as much anyway!
According to Les Miserables, some shit went down on July 14 in France in 1789, and according to the Wishbone episode based on The Three Musketeers it all happened at the Bastille prison, and according to the shit-tastic Jason Schwartzman vehicle Marie Antionette, a lot of important Frenchies got their heads chopped off as a result. Don’t ever say we don’t cite our shit here at For Shame.
We’re talking about…….BASTILLE DAY!!!!!!!1 A day that changed France forever. At least politically. I’m pretty sure they all smelled bad and ate snails and wore berets before the storming of the Bastille just as they do today.
Anyway, ever since we started this li’l puppy we’ve had a lot of people suggest that we do a post on the Marquis de Sade. And ever since four days ago I’ve wanted to do a post on a Revolutionary Frenchie. I’m no scientist, but I think that A + B = a veritable match made in sexy, scandalous heaven. And I’m no scientist, but I think that was math and not science.
The Marquis de Sade was a nasty, deviant, freaky, scary sex maniac. To say that he was a prolific libertine is like saying Oprah is a taciturn woman of modest fortune. The term “sadism” comes from his motherfucking name, so you can only imagine. Actually, you don’t have to imagine because I’m going to tell you all about it and try not to throw up or have nightmares. He was an aristocrat writer, philosopher, and hedonist living in Revolutionary France and bangin as many ladies (and men) as he could along the way.
Starting in 1763, Parisian prostitutes started complaining about him and his bedroom demands, which apparently were pretty fucked up, and by 1768 he had been incarcerated and exiled to Lacoste (the town, not the alligator polo shirt company). Note that the first anecdote in this story is that several PROSTITUTES, women who illegally have sex with men for money, were so revolted and disgusted by him that THEY had him put away. It can only get better from here.
By 1768 Sade decided it was time to get back in the saddle, so he hired another prostitute (because he’s had so much luck with the ladies of the night already) and IMPRISONED HER IN HIS HOUSE and sexually abused her for a week until she was finally able to climb out a window or escape via a tunnel she chisled with a rock hammer and hid with a poster of an Old Hollywood film star or something. He decided the best fucking time to do this was Easter Sunday. BUT his mother-in-law (oh yeah, he was married and had kids) managed to get him a lettre de cachet from Louis XV, which was essentially a piece of paper saying “BE COOL, dudes. This guy’s with me.” Which meant that he was not under the jurisdiction of any French court. Excellent use of your power in a time of growing civil unrest, Lou.
Now this is where shit starts to get real. If you’re reading this to a child, grandparent, or boss, stop.
This handout from his mommy-in-law convinced Sade that his wife Pelagie was going to be a big help in his quest to earn the title of World’s Disgustingest Man Ever No Matter How Long the Human Race is in Existence. And help she did: after this little rape/imprisonment incident during a little spring cleaning at their Marseilles home, he said “Oh mon petit fleur, I was Swiffering the basement, and I had the greatest idea. You know how we’ve been saying we want to entertain more? Why don’t you get four prostitutes to come over and we’ll all have an orgy?! And by ‘all’ I mean me, my manservant Latour, and the ladies. You’re not invited.” And she must have emphatically said “OKAY!” because that’s exactly what happened. Actually THIS is exactly what happened:
This elaborate encounter, which took place on July 27, 1772, involved the consumption of Spanish fly, and a number of ménage a trois scenarios, wherein the Marquis would either whip a prostitute while masturbating his valet, make love with a prostitute while being sodomized by his valet, or sodomize a prostitute who was simultaneously performing fellatio on Latour. Among Sade’s more bizarre and startling requests was for his female companions to consume a great deal of his Spanish fly candies: his goal was to give them gas so that he might “take in their wind,” as it were. He also requested that he be able to whip the young women with a particularly violent-looking implement, one that was already covered with his own blood. (Don’t yell at me. I got this here.)
And it gets better/worse: Sade planned on this orgy of terror lasting SIX motherfucking WEEKS. Let’s put that in persepective. Remember when you got your ears pierced and all you wanted to do was change your earrings but you had to wait FOREVER so that your ears didn’t get infected? Yeah, also six weeks.
Anyway, the prostitutes were held against their will and I guess did what they had to do until Sade and Latour finally let them leave. But then they weren’t satisfied, so they went out and got ANOTHER hooker with a heart of gold named Marguerite Coste, who was like “You’ll pay me HOW MUCH?” and subsequently made the biggest mistake of her undoubtedly mistake-ridden life when she agreed to come over for a little par-tay. Sade wanted to do anal, but she was like “Uhh no way dude, don’t you know sodomy is illegal????” Oh, Maggie. So sweet, so naive.
Anyway, I guess she felt bad about denying him (the customer is always right), so she went ahead and ate a whole box of those Spanish fly candies. Which Sade had because the Spanish fly was supposedly an aphrodisiac (who the FUCK discovered that?), but it was also poisonous in large doses. A whole box of Spanish fly Tootsie Rolls = a large dose.
Sade was like “SHIT” and booked it outta there faster than you can say “c’est la vie!” Maggie survived just long enough to give testimony to the local magistrate, which was also compatible with the testimony of those four prostitutes. Sade and Latour were being tried for sodomy, and would receive the death penalty if (when) convicted. So naturally they got the fuck out of there and went on the lam in Sardinia. Because what’s more unnoticeable than a pair of powdered, silk-clad French sodomites on an island populated solely by swarthy Mediterranean fishermen and their tuna?
Anyway, he was eventually found and ended up spending a couple months in the Revolutionary France version of a minimum security white collar prison. Upon his release, he went right back to the same shit and recruited his crazy bitch/wife to help him with that whole six week orgy thing.
I know this is getting long, but we’re approaching the climax (which is a euphemism for orgasm lolzZ). And that zenith of Sade’s sexual deviance has come to be called “The Little Girls’ Affair.” Holy shit. Holy, holy, holy shit.
He had his lawyer go into town to hire six teenageish girls to work as maids in la maison de Sade, and then proceeded to keep them there for said six weeks, the whole of which was an elaborately orchestrated bacchanalian non-consensual sex fest, featuring fellatio, sodomy (of the man and of the lady persuasion), sodomy chains (!!??!?!!!?), masturbation, and lots of whipping and hitting and stuff. This probably would have gone on for a while had the parents of said girls not looked into it. You may be thinking that it was shitty of these parents not to check this out sooner, but shut up. Remember that in this time, domestic service was a 24/7 job and you almost never got to see your family; you only wrote to them, and only when you had money for paper and postage. So the girls got out alive, but as per usual de Sade gave his typical “Uh well I was drunk or something? I don’t know, I’m rich and the King likes me,” testimony and basically got a slap on the wrist. Which probably gave him a boner, because he was into that shit.
This post has gotten really long and depressing and it’s sort of impossible to make jokes about behaviors this terrible and true. But hey, America’s about to come to the rescue like she always does! So that’s good, right?
By “come to the rescue” I really just mean that it was 1776 and we were all holed up in Independence Hall exploring Enlightenment ideas about justice and freedom and whatnot, and even though he was on the run Sade probably saw what we were doing and thought “OUI, IT IS TIME FOR ME TO MAKE AMENDS!” And so he decided to head to gay Paris (which is the center of government and therefore last fucking place a fugitive should go) to apologize to his mother-in-law, who understandably hated him.
He arrived at his li’l Parisian pied a terre, opened the door, and was greeted by an investigator holding a warrant signed by Louis XVI. BOOM, arrested!
And he eventually ended up at the Bastille! Where he remained until July 2, 1789, until someone took a second look at his file and said “OH, this motherfucker is crazy!” and he was transferred to an insane asylum. The storming of the Bastille happened twelve days later.
Anyway, after he got out in 1790 he continued publishing and having lots of sex, although less weird and more legal. But he had to go out like a champ – four years before his death in 1814 at age 64, he’d begun a sexual relationship with a 13-year-old girl. There’s our guy!
Listen. This might have been one of the longest posts to date. But I think that the length of the post should match the size of the libido, don’t you?
And instead of ending pithily, I’m just going to show you some drawings printed in his “philosophy” books. And then I’m going to clear my browsing history. Enjoy, buttons!