The Eternal Erection of Victor Noir
BY TESS TICKLES
Paris has never been shy about mixing sex and death. The city’s got a knack for turning tragedy into titillation — and nowhere is that more literal than in Père-Lachaise Cemetery, where Victor Noir’s corpse has spent over a century getting more action than most men alive.
Victor was a 22-year-old journalist — young, idealistic, and stupid enough to mouth off to a Bonaparte. In 1870, Prince Pierre shot him dead after a political spat, and Paris turned the kid into a martyr. Sculptor Jules Dalou was commissioned to immortalize him in bronze — and immortalize him he did. Noir lies stretched out on his back, hat beside him, lips parted, and a bulge in his trousers so defiantly erect you’d think rigor mortis had a sense of humor.
Maybe Dalou was making a statement about virility in death. Maybe he was just having fun with it. Either way, the city noticed. Women began visiting the grave not to mourn but to mount. Rumor spread that rubbing Victor’s groin brought fertility, kissing his lips promised romance, and straddling his crotch guaranteed pleasure. Parisian superstition with a pelvic twist.
Today, the once-dull bronze gleams bright where fingers, lips, and thighs have made contact. His mouth and manhood shine like relics from some erotic religion — and maybe that’s exactly what they are. The French never did like the idea of letting God have the final word on passion.
Victor Noir, the boy who died for politics, lives on as a fertility idol — a saint of sensual resurrection.
A martyr with a hard-on, worshiped by generations who come to pay their, um, respects.
—TT
