The year was 1726. I was twenty-four, and newly dubbed a professor at Manchester Medical School.

As has not changed, I spent most hours outside of my work exploring the captivating depths of nonfictional legends and scholarly volumes. My very essence seemed to thrive on the pages upon pages of irrefutable evidence that each leaf provided. Facts, documented data that eradicated meretricious myth and foolish fiction. I've always been a believer in facts, in sciences, for the very reason that they are made to be impossible to doubt. Or, at the very least, you'd have to have half a brain to doubt them when tangible evidence is provided.

It is not possible to survive with half a brain.

You see, that is fact.

The doctor, my mentor, my saving grace, my bosom friend, and the kindly owner of the private, cozy home library in which I was always welcome, felt that my attachment to the books was a distraction from something sadder. A distraction from something repressed.

Admittedly, he was right. I desired something so unreachable that I strived to avoid the very thought of it. I desired, and, to this day, desire, one thing that I cannot believe in. It isn't fact, but it isn't fiction. It can be both true and false. It is volatile, unpredictable, and far from the undisputed wall of truth that I shelter behind. I study diseases, for heaven's sake!

The very idea of romance... it made me ill. I'd had it once, as a boy, but it had been taken from me. He had been taken from me. He had been taken from the pains of our world, while I had been left—bereft— behind. His punishment for our forbidden fondness was inhumane and cruel, but mine was worse. I had to live with it all, for the Lord above had cursed me not only with sinful desires—a disease of its own— but with cowardice enough that I could not take my own life.

I escaped the panging of my hungry heart by satiating my mind, and I had done so since the doctor had taken me in on the day I, and I alone, buried my adolescent romantic. He had accepted me. He supported me. He never once told me that there was something wrong with me, or that I repulsed him, or that I was ill in the mind. And in all the study that I have done myself, I cannot find a single proof that what I have is a disease, which is what they say. A disease would suggest that I am impaired. I am not.

"Simon, we are going out."

That was how the doctor began our tumultuously tumbling evening. He entered the library with two glasses—one of wine, one brandy—and strolled to my favorite velvet armchair by the empty hearth to peer over me. Sweet-smelling smoke spiralled from his cherrywood pipe. The glass of wine was lowered into my sight, where it distorted the words that I cared far more for.

"I don't drink, Doctor."

"Close the book and take the drink. The carriage is waiting."

Forced to look up, disoriented by renounced efforts to read through the wine glass, my disinterest was transparent. My frown—ever-present, I'm told, with company— deepened as I launched brash argument with my companion. Of course, I argued. Had I won, the great disaster would not have occured, and I would not be out of a job today, four years post. He meant well, but it has never been my destiny to be any sort of social acolyte.

It took him all of ten minutes to usher me into his cozy carriage, despite my protests. I had one sleeve of my tweed jacket on, while the other dangled behind me improperly, and my vaguely coherent thoughts were red with sour defeat, but tinged pink with the effect of the wine. I've never been able to cope with liquor.

I hugged A Collection of Viral Illnesses; 1690-1710 to my chest, for I refused to leave without it. During the long, bumpy, noisy journey, I read a single page. The doctor indulged me in reluctant conversation for hours, though he was consistently vague as to our destination.

"We are going to Holborn."

"Holborn? Why on Earth are we going there?"

"For coffee."

"Coffee!"

At that hour, it was unheard of. One could not blame me for grumbling. And in Holborn, nonetheless! The doctor's home was situated on a private stretch of land in Nottingham, nearly a two hours' drive from Holborn. In close to the same time, we could have trundled to Leeds, which seemed a much more reasonable choice for socializing. Alas, I was not so fortunate.

Together, we climbed from our carriage to the grimy cobblestones of Field Lane. I clung to him in fear for my safety, my inexperienced eyes darting across the poorly-lit street, catching on every silhouette as though each shadow cast threatened to do me harm.

The seasoned doctor calmly strolled on, bejeweled walking stick clicking at his heels. He gestured ahead with a slightly cupped hand—he never pointed with one finger, for he thought it rude.

"Here we are, dear Simon."

An old building sung with the voices of many. Warm, muted light pulsed through its stained windows. Its sign read Bunch O' Grapes.

"A tavern? I don't like crowds, Cornelius, and I don't like alcohol."

"Ah, but what do you like?"

He strode past the tavern and led me with him to the smaller building beside. It was less remarkable. Its windows shed no light but for narrow cracks where thick curtains didn't reach. The look of the place made me shiver. Cold and hidden away, tucked between a place of bawdy mirth and a lifeless stone arch, it looked as though it did not want to be seen, though it stood plainly in sight. It was true that I had not seen it before. It was twinkling and gray as the soot-cloud sky, slicked wet with the oily rain spell from that afternoon. It cowered in the shadow of the tavern.

"Mother Clap's Coffeehouse," I read. "I'd almost prefer the tavern."

"Give it a chance, Simon."

He opened the door for me and prodded me in before I could determine the contents of the interior. The lights and sounds hit me like an idea. Instantaneous, brilliant, enlightening. Off-key singing drifted from behind a thick red drape. Laughter, lively, trilling piano, jaunty fiddling, and the sound of dancing. But the oddest thing—which I immediately noticed—was that there was not a woman's voice to be heard among it all. The obscuring drape taunted me. I couldn't help my curiosity.

"Is it a gentlemen's club?" But, why would it be called 'Mother' Clap's?

The doctor pulled the drape aside with the tip of his cane, and I reacted as though struck. "It is an opportunity," he answered.

I felt the blood in my veins run suddenly cold. Icicles pricked at my skin. My eyes gaped, my hands trembled. Men stared back at me with painted faces. Men stared back at me in elegant gowns.

I grabbed the doctor by his shoulders and furiously shook my head. He stumbled, letting the curtain fall back into place.

"This is a molly house, Cornelius," I hissed. My strict good sense was—I thought—a saving grace for the both of us. It could have been. "A molly house, a disorderly house. It is strictly illegal. We can't be here! We musn't. Let us leave before we are carted to the gallows!"

He brushed my hands from his shoulders in his characteristically gentle manner and smiled at me. Experienced at reassuring my frequently agitated self, he took hold of my paper-worn digits in his own and raised them between our chests, eyes earnestly finding mine. "I know what it is, Simon. I asked around, and I have a few students and patients that come here often. It's been running safely for a long while. I thought it would be good for you."

"I'll be ruined!" I cried despairingly.

"No, Simon! It is safe. As I said, I have patients and students that are regular here. Now, I am going to leave you for the evening, here, and I implore you to enjoy yourself just this once. Perhaps if you see that you aren't alone you might stop thinking of yourself as cursed."

"Doctor! Absolutely—"

He folded my fingers around a coin purse and gave my hands one last squeeze. "Have fun, Simon. For my sake. I'll retrieve you at midnight."

The way he looked at me upon his departure... it was as though he was leaving his son on the first day of school. And, knees trembling, with nervous perspiration tickling my brow, I felt very much indeed like that stranded, helpless child. Frightened of imminent education, lunchmoney clutched in both clammy hands.

The schoolhouse beckoned me. With curses, I surrendered my urge to run the other way.

Through the drapes I ventured, and far too quickly for comfort, lust swelled within me. It would be indelicate to describe in great detail the wonders of Mother Clap's. To be vague, to save you from great embarrassment, I found the accepting atmosphere enchanting and warm, though it was overwhelming, and frankly, risque.

Pairs of men gallivanted over a cramped dance floor, and though I could never be comfortable joining in, I admired their bravery. Baby-faced youths in gossamer lace and flowing silk sang in effeminate octaves, teasingly twirling ringlets of fine hair around fingers. Porcelain skin was exposed beneath raised skirts and sleeveless corsets and not chastened. Men kissed openly. When the workers there passed me, they would caress my cheek or rub my shoulders, and one even unbuttoned my vest. I let it happen. It was bizarre, but, oddly, I found myself romanticizing each aspect.

I soon found my coin purse lightened, and my belly filled in return with spirits. I can remember that I joined the dance once my sense and socially removed disposition was drowned. My partner carried me through it while I happily—but stupidly—stumbled. I met many men, whom I, in brief conversation, too quickly grew fond of.

Later then, I fell into a worn velvet loveseat and clinked glasses with a new companion.

"Pinkies up!" said he, which made me giggle, for we were not drinking the sort of elegant tea that would call for such manners. My pinky raised with my whiskey, and my fellow clapped me on the back and laughed and praised my drunken etiquette with vigor enough that my cheeks flushed a vibrant rose hue.

I was half-asleep there, whiskey spilled down my chest from when I had drifted off with tumbler in hand, when someone told our singing mockingbird to hush. I peered at the singer as he silenced.

"They are coming," warned the rude sir that had stopped the music.

"Who?" I scoffed, among others.

Too quickly, then, I was sobered. Too quickly, I was wrenched away from my fantasyland.

The sweaty informant ran without explanation. He bolted out the door. With the music absent, I heard shouts from outside.

"A runner!"

"Grab him, Morris!"

I was too slow to register. Many others remained equally puzzled. The already sober began hollering about police. They raced to the two windows on either side of the room and attempted to open them. Not fast enough. I barely managed to sit up, sunken into the sofa.

Three knocks sounded at the door. A crash startled those of us within as it was thrust open with such force that it hit against the wall.

In cloaks of black and night-sky blue, our wake-up call shred the red drape to pieces and trampled our vulnerable sanctuary. Their footsteps thundered like the beating wings of a murder of crows. They were an omen of death, which kicked up screams and cries like dust in the storm.

Glass shattered from windows, bottles and lamps. Skin like porcelain broke, just as fragile, trailing red ribbons. They grabbed our arms with thick leather gloves—gloves through which they could not feel the extreme temperatures of our goosebumped flesh—and wrenched us into orderly lines. They threatened us to behave with sharpened blades and heavy batons black as pitch.

"Ten in each line. Keep them awake. No trial for those that don't cooperate," ordered a well-fed constable. "This is an arrest, gentlemen! And one that will fill your pockets accordingly."

"Help me with the shackles, then."

I was suspended in stupor. My hands bled from the shards of my burst tumbler, my temples throbbed from a blow to my head. Crimson snaked from my brow and dripped from my cheek like sluggish tears. The shackles were too tight, and I could barely stand.

We were marched from the ruins, light and sound boding nothing but dread. Cackles of the constables' helpers and their certainty for reward, offensive slurs to the poor men caught upstairs with breeches unbuttoned, and the overwhelming silence from the tavern next door as patrons slinked to the streets to stare. Inconstant firelight from a swinging lantern washed our white faces with red, with yellow, with orange as we staggered past a constable in his tricorn hat.

I heard my name somewhere in the chaos. I heard it over the malicious murmurs of the supercilious bystanders, and I heard it over the watchmen who ushered them to move along. The doctor had arrived, but he was too late. The midnight bell tolled in the distance, and to its echoing chimes, four cramped carriages of fear-reeking mollies lurched into the night.

Many of the men were hanged within the week, namely those caught kissing or indecent. Namely those in corsets and skirts. I was among the lucky, who congregated in the confines of a cell for a single day before release. In that time we received interrogation. Did we act on our sinful lusts? We denied heartily in fear for our lives.

To each of us in private, authority reassured that there would be a cure for our disease one day soon. Until that time, they insisted we find a woman to coax us back into God's eyes.

But, I study diseases. I worship the facts.

I will never live a life of love; that is fact.

My desire is a disease; that is false.

The cure is on its way. That is fiction.