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I want some mad scientist to strap me down to a slab for his experiments. He’s obsessed with the idea of the soul and how it can be connected - or disconnected - to the body and he sees me, an insecure woman who doesn’t quite look right or comfortable and knows that I’m perfect for what he wants.

I struggle against the straps on the operating table as he takes the very first step in the process - just an injection of a serum he’s concocted, the giant brass syringe gleaming in the gas lamps as the needle dives straight into the meat of my thigh. It pinches, but I take it. I beg him not to but he coos and assures me it’s all for my own good. He keeps me locked in the cellar in between injections to make sure his precious test subject doesn’t escape.

He makes meticulous notes, documenting the entire process of the change. Measuring the increase in density of my body and facial hair, the growth of my muscle mass, the lengthening of my clit as it begins to morph into a more cock-like organ. He makes sketches to illustrate the process of my Adam’s apple becoming more pronounced in my throat. And with all those notes he also documents how my attitude changes each day. How I go from begging to not be experimented on, trying to convince myself I like being a woman to slowly realising that the changes do feel good. I stand taller, smile more, look more comfortable in my own skin.

I no longer fight the weekly injections. In fact, I begin to look forward to them. The mad scientist starts to leave the cellar door unlocked, stops strapping me down onto the medical table, lets me wander around his house, knowing I don’t want to leave anymore. He brings me clothes so that I can dress exactly as any good gentleman in polite Victorian society should, abandoning the corsets and petticoats for morning suits and day vests. He brings me a razor with which to groom my unruly beard and helps me cut my hair into a more suitable style for a young dandy such as myself.

By the time he wants to test out the first of many surgeries on me, I practically leap onto the medical table - the sight of syringes, forceps and surgeon’s knives doesn’t frighten me anymore. It excites me. I’m practically begging him to operate on my chest, to finally sculpt it into the image of a man, and to let me see, no matter how painful the operation will be. I want to see me becoming who I really am in real time. The mad scientist can only smile as he obliges. He already knows his experiment to match a disconnected body and soul shall be a success.

Hartford, Connecticut

built in 1890

Ring to commemorate Queen Victoria's and Prince Albert's marriage, 1840.

Wedding dress, American, silk, c. 1851.

This wedding dress presents a conundrum in that some stylistic aspects of the dress appear to be later than the marriage date of 1851 provided in the original accession records. While the bodice has very fashionable full size pagoda sleeves, which were a new shape in 1851, the skirt with bustle, train and ruffles at bottom is more consistent with the 1870s rather than the dome shape of the 1850s. While it is possible that the skirt was re-made for a later bride, there is no obvious indication of that being the case. Wedding clothes have traditionally been vehicles for fantasy and historicism, however, which may be the case in the styling of this one. It nevertheless is a grand dress made for a wedding in Grace Church, a high society Brooklyn house of worship.

The MET Museum

When I look around me and find myself alone, I sigh for you again; little sigh, and vain sigh, which will not bring you home.

Emily Dickinson.

(x)

Chopin's piano and manuscripts, Cartoixa de Valldemosa, Valldemosa, Mallorca, 11-12-23

A photo from Spelman College. This keeps coming up on my FB on the anniversary of Spelman's founding (April 11 1881) on my vintage Atlanta pages, and I LOVE this photo SO MUCH...but with what I know about 1880s fashion, tbh it looks more like the end of the 1880s. Also, I keep seeing this photo with no information on who these women are, and that's what really saddens me. If anyone has any ideas as to how I can find out more about who these women were or anything, I'd really love it. If not, well, it is still a beautiful photo to enjoy

Seeing tumblr users talk about how small Ratigan is compared to the other disney villains and just imagining an obsessive victorian lady keeping him as her pet.

My favorite inadvertently creepy photography convention from Victorian times actually is the "hidden mother" photograph. As we know, taking pictures of wiggly babies is hard, especially if their mothers aren't holding them. But for some reason people keep insisting on having baby photos taken with only the babies.

The Victorian solution to this...was to just throw a blanket over the mother and pretend she wasn't there.

whoever said modern clothing is better was LYING. i put on my victorian menswear and i immediately feel amazing. nothing can touch me! i have four layers on and you have no idea what my body looks like! i'm the hottest motherfucker ever! sure t-shirts are cool but have you ever tried a vest that gives you a slutty little waist?

Wallingford, Connecticut

built in 1850

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