Madame Belle Revry’s House of Gentle Remembering

Alchemyland Dispatch No. 2 - Boomertown

Madame Belle Revry’s House of Gentle Remembering

by Seeger T Fulson

Boomertown Dispatch No. 2 - continued from The Thirsty Dad

If The Thirsty Dad was where men went to avoid their feelings, then Madame Belle Revry’s House of Gentle Remembering was where those feelings slipped on satin gloves and told them to take a seat.

From the outside, it looked like a classic Old West bordello—red velvet curtains, a swinging sign with gold lettering, a faint scent of amber resin wafting out onto the boardwalk.

A discreet plaque read:

Madame Belle Revry’s House of Gentle Remembering

“Where the past meets the body in real time.”

Gentlemen welcome. Gratuities discouraged. Socks required.

It attracted more men than women. Mostly older. Mostly hopeful. They walked in with an expression somewhere between nostalgia and needing to be told what to do. They expected flirtation. Maybe comfort. A fantasy, ideally without mirrors.

Inside, the air was warm and slow. Velvet drapes. Beaded curtains. Candlelight soft enough to age you backward. The smell of ylang ylang, tulsi, and faint disappointment.

At the front desk stood Madame Belle Revry herself—corseted, composed, and entirely in control. A woman of curves, candlelight, and history.

“Here’s somethin’ to soothe you darlin’.”

“Whiskey?” I asked, not entirely joking.

She smiled softly, knowingly.

“It’s tulsi-rose with a splash of regret. You’ll want something that doesn’t blur your vision.”

She waved a lace-gloved hand toward the staircase, where a handful of robed women lingered on the balcony above. They were all ages—some young, some older, some unreadable. A few made eye contact. Most didn’t need to.

“People come here thinkin’ it’s a brothel,” Belle murmured, as if reading my mind.

“But what they’re paying for is the chance to be mothered without shame.”

I was led into the Consent Corral—a side chamber filled with oversized pillows, antique fainting couches, and what looked like a vintage massage table retrofitted with emotional repair memory foam.

My facilitator was Spirit Darlene, who wore embroidered gloves and a tiara made of quartz and pink tulle.

“We begin with the ‘Lean of Longing,’” she said, “or the ‘Backrub of Unmet Needs.’ You may also opt for the ‘One-Minute Maternal Gaze.’ No pressure. Everything here is invitational.”

“What if I just sit here and feel nothing?” I asked.

“That’s brave to just sit and wait,” she whispered. “That’s so, so brave.”

Somewhere, a chime rang. Someone sobbed into a lavender bolster. One of the women from upstairs descended the staircase and held a man who was crying like he’d just remembered something he’d never been allowed to say.

This wasn’t a brothel.

This was a spiritual trapdoor—and half the men in the room hadn’t noticed they’d fallen in.

A Gen-X guy in a Lakers jersey sat stiffly on a velvet loveseat, scanning the room for a pole and a dancer.

“Jeez, no one told this guy…I thought this was gonna be like… If I wanted to process abandonment issues, I’d just call my ex-wife and cry into her voicemail. Again.”

He stood, knocking over a bowl of polished “self-soothing stones,” muttered “I need to get the f&%$ out of Boomertown,” and stomped through a beaded curtain labeled “Exit or Breakthrough.” A nearby touch facilitator sighed and rang a tiny bell marked “Missed Opportunity.”

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Interview with Belle Revry

I followed Belle into her dressing room. She poured the tea herself, with a wrist flick that suggested she’d once been both a card dealer and a confessor.

“First time I opened a place like this, it was in Taos. 1987. Called it The Velvet Insight. My lover at the time—Elion Hawk—disappeared on a Yagé bender in the Amazon. Left me with a gourd and a mixtape called ‘Yee Ha, Yagé.’”

“That a true story?” I asked.

“Honey, all my stories are true. Doesn’t mean they happened.”

She took a sip.

“These boobs?” she said, giving them the gentlest of theatrical lifts. “They’re the bait. But grief is the hook. These men walk in looking for seduction. What they’re really aching for is permission…to feel somethin’ true.

Eyes up here darlin’.”

I looked up. Belle had turned to her mirror and was tucking a white flower behind her ear.

“Luna Loveflower,” she said, catching Seeger watching her in the reflection.

“White as light, dark as the far side. Don’t stare too long, sweetheart. She’ll whisper things you’re not ready to know.”

I didn’t ask what kind of things.

“Well, I guess I oughta pay you for your time”, I said.

“We only take $C0DA here— Codependency Coin. It’s the crypto currency for tradin’ emotional labor here in the park. Don’t worry about it darlin’, you’ll learn.”

On my way out, she pressed a paper slip into my hand. It was scented, handwritten, and impossible to ignore.

It said: “Seduction is just the soul asking for attention in red velvet.”

I took a sniff—white rose, dusty wine bottles, elderberry and nostalgia.