The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 3

by Maxim Jakubowski

  Only when the orgasm died down did I wrap my mental/physical arms around her/the surrounding waters and whisper: Now that I know what to do for you, do we really need her around?

  Not after the end of the month . . . I only hire them by the month, just in case . . . But Sima, tell me, do you really need that shop of yours? The job of . . . personal attendant pays quite well –

  Resting my head against her watery shoulder, I thought it over, then said: Have you ever seen the photographs of a German called Gunter Blum? I have a feeling they’d go well with your decor . . .

  The Water Hole

  Michèle Larue

  Raymond’s place was a little one-storey affair in the shadow of Saint Eustache; twisted and grey, it stuck out like a wart on the front of an apartment building. The man had approached me at an opening in Saint-Germain-des-Prés. I’d been instantly taken with the intensity of his gaze. Dark eyes set wide apart, with a fire burning in them that fascinated me. The long white eyebrows curling up towards his temples made him look like a poet from the Midi. The owner of the gallery introduced him as a leading conceptual artist. I had only the vaguest idea what lay behind that label, something transient, fleeting. Raymond was old enough to be my father. He was from Toulouse, went back there now and then to visit a younger brother interned in a mental hospital. There were a few friends of mine at the opening, but seeing me deep in conversation they refrained from butting in for the ritual kiss: I had only eyes for Raymond. Whenever I tore my gaze away from his, I found him dumpy-looking. But that only endeared him to me all the more. I felt an abstract tenderness for his efforts to be gracious and charming, he belonged to that anxious species, the conquistador in jeopardy, the ageing Casanova. As I stepped out of the bubble he’d blown around me, I agreed to a date for the following week. And now, on my way to keep it, my heart was in my mouth.

  The huge bulk of Saint Eustache loomed through a heavy mist. At 2 p.m., it was almost dark. The trysting place was so run-down it seemed to belong to another era. Raymond opened the door and whistled at the sight of my black miniskirt. I wiped my shoes with a torn floor-cloth lying on the parquet. He returned to the chessboard on a table and resumed his seat. His partner, an elderly Asian, looked up. I shook the limp hand and began inspecting the room. I peered at yellowed volumes piled up on sagging bookshelves, old mirrors, tarnished candelabra, my new idol’s home surroundings. At 22, I was looking for male figures to admire. The old-fashioned setting conflicted with what Raymond had told me of his occupation. I saw him wreathed in the glory of the crazy artworks he’d told me about at the opening, such as covering a city with a huge mantle of parachute silk, stretched between a dozen helicopters. I toured his house. The toilets were located in a makeshift bathroom with flower-patterned walls. An ashtray kitchen, all the surfaces spattered with coffee-grounds. Perhaps my admirer was just a noisome hippie.

  Back in the sitting room, I couldn’t find a folding bed and concluded that no one actually lived there. I sat down in the only armchair and crossed my legs. My skirt rode up around my thighs but neither of the men so much as glanced at my knees. I took the opportunity to examine my host, noticed his baggy grey trousers needed shortening. Finally he did see me. His gaze slid over my legs and back to the chessboard. His stone-coloured beard clashed with those eyes which darted at me from time to time, two tiny black and silver pools, fluttering in the gale of emotions stirred by the sight of my body, prepared to give me the world. The divine love he seemed to feel for the insignificant little puppy I was, made me melt like sugar in a cup of scalding coffee. He thought I was bored, but he was wrong. I was getting a kick out of the waiting, the furtive glances he gave me, his opponent’s annoyance. He apologized for the game dragging on, and said: “Look round the room, darling, and help yourself to anything you like, a knick-knack, a book, whatever.” I walked to the table, picked up his queen and put it in my pocket.

  An hour later, our feet were treading the sandy soil of the Fontainebleau forest. The rain had stopped. Over the tops of the pine-trees, the cirrus clouds were breaking up. As we walked and talked, I wanted to put my hand in his, or rather wanted him to take it. He was doing the talking. About Nietzsche. About Bourdieu. When my hand had brushed against his pocket a few times, he caught hold of it. Nestling in his dry palm, my fingers quite naturally began to stroke it.

  Only a few minutes had gone by when I had a violent urge to pee. I pulled my hand away and skipped off, shouting, “I’ll catch up with you!”, then turned and ran to hide behind a tree. I could still see him. He had his back to me. I squatted down, keeping an eye on him. I peed sparingly at first, then with a gush of relief as my bladder emptied. The earth began to steam. The sickly odour rose between my thighs. When I put my hand back into Raymond’s – he had tactfully walked on – there was a long silence. Then he told me what had happened.

  It was just before my sally into the bushes. When we’d left the car on the parking lot at the Gorges de Franchard, he’d needed to pee himself. The sexual urge that prompted him to take my hand conflicted with that other, more bodily urge. When our hands joined, the bodily became excruciating. Though usually helpful in such cases, a Zen technique of abdominal respiration had failed to ease the pressure – breathing quickly and as far as possible from the prostate, which was partly responsible, he confessed, for his discomfort. Never again would our relationship be as intense as at this moment, he’d said to himself. Never would we be so close. And he held it back. Our hands fondled each other, my flesh gave off vibrations that went straight to his heart. He was right about the intimacy. I wouldn’t have let him touch my breasts, not even through my sweater. And since Raymond had wanted to keep that little moment of happiness alive, he’d decided to pee as he walked. Drop by drop at first, then in little spurts, letting the urine dribble down his pants-leg. And I hadn’t suspected a thing.

  A few months later, in August, I saw Raymond again. He was just back from Japan and made a date with me at the bar of a trendy restaurant near Montparnasse, la Closerie des Lilas. Avoiding the crowded dining room, we took supper by the terrace hedge. Elbows on the big white tablecloth, chin in hands, I listened to his account of Tokyo“ love hotels”. A prostitute who spoke no French had agreed to be his escort. Raymond was talking to me like an old cohort: I felt flattered and thrilled by a natural intimacy, a simplicity I’d never known with anyone else. Making extravagant gesticulations, he described to me those suggestive Japanese decors, revolving beds in the shape of a car or a woman’s shoe and painted a bright Chinese red, sulphurous water cascading down over the young woman (a devout Catholic) who laughed making the sign of the cross in an attempt to communicate. They’d watched a porn movie where the women wore white triangles between their thighs instead of pubic hair.

  He brought up what had happened in the Fontainebleau Forest the previous spring. If only he’d been able to catch a glimpse of me squatting . . . Or at least heard me doing it! He’d have closed his eyes, knowing I was behind the branches. But from that distance, it was inaudible.

  “Did it excite you to know I could have turned around at any time and seen you?”

  “A little. I was afraid . . .”

  “Of being seen?”

  “Yes. Ashamed.”

  “Would you have rather peed standing up?”

  “Like a man?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Like you in your trousers!”

  We burst out laughing. The waiter brought the desserts. Raymond glanced at his plate and looked me in the eye: “I would even have drunk from you . . .”

  We’d had a full bottle of white wine. I looked around. Two tablefuls of Americans were talking at the top of their lungs, like stock-market traders on the floor. I slipped my wineglass under the table and sat on the edge of my chair. With one fingernail, I pulled aside the elastic on my panties and peed into the glass. I regulated the flow with the tip of my index finger, aiming the jet by obstructing the orifice. My middle-finger gauged the level. I d
idn’t let it brim over, but I had trouble stopping. The glass reappeared and I handed it to him over the immaculate tablecloth. “Here . . . fresh from the spring.”

  He sniffed the warm wine, wet his lips and began to sip.

  Raymond dropped out of sight for years, staging musical comedies in New York. From time to time, we spoke on the phone.

  In the meantime, there was Joseph: tall, crewcut, he became my closest friend, my collaborator and, by dint of spending all that time together, my lover. After two years of a beautiful friendship, he whined for sex. A human being, he argued, could not be regarded as pure intelligence. Especially not him. Not the bosom pal who lived inside that big carcass quivering before me. I had to love the whole animal. Thinking back, I wonder if he didn’t lift those lines from some Rohmer movie.

  I’m still fond of Joseph, but I have a terrible time loving him physically, even the least little bit. However, we work together, we live under the same roof, and I don’t meet any other men. So I let Joseph fuck me. His tongue is coarse and clumsy. Sucking and lapping away without a break. Personally, I love the occasional time-out. Anticipation. Kisses inside my thighs. The mouth pulling away, breathing on the fluffy hairs, coming back to work. Sad for me, Joseph just loves to lick.

  When he fucks me, I come, but only then. A battering ram he’s got there, a long, thick sledge-hammer, a very efficient tool. But his skin repels me, and so does the obscene way he throws out his chest when he poses for me, kneeling on the bed with his thighs apart. He has the exhibitionism of a she-puppy. Besides, he’s too tall. When I lie on him, my mouth is nipple-high. Which makes kissing on the mouth a contortionist’s exercise. And Joseph is not very flexible. So I nibble. My fits of contained rage suit him to a T: he has sensitive breasts. Anyhow, I said to myself after our first screw, it’s just as well: he has halitosis.

  As soon as we became friends, Joseph had asked me to tell him about my sexual adventures. From the day we became lovers, every fantasy he had was based on some experience of mine I’d told him about. He’d do somersaults on the bed trying to suck his own cock because I’d had a West Indian lover who could do it. When he heard about what happened in the forest and at the Closerie des Lilas, he insisted on following me into the WC there he begged to be my receptacle, my chalice, my loving cup. He offered himself as toilet paper to wipe my lips.

  Today, Joseph and I have over a thousand subscribers to our Internet site, “The Water Hole”. Recently we’ve put live images on line, with credit card payment in advance (Visa and American Express only) but, aside from that, we provide all sorts of advice for golden shower enthusiasts, everything from diuretic herbs to tricks for overcoming inhibitions.

  While I sell my holy brew in chats with net-surfers who dream of the virtual creature going into action right over their faces, Joseph creates new graphics for the site. When it’s his turn to run the chat-room, he pretends he’s me on the Web while he gets an eyeful of the trickling video screens.

  Last month we installed a Webcam in our bathroom. Whenever Joseph goes to the toilet, he turns it off. Understandably: it’s the only time he’s ever really alone. When I’m not emceeing the chat-room, I’m peeing in front of the camera in real time. Our customers jack off watching me. I thrust out my pelvis with my weight resting on one hip like the dancers with silver wigs at the Crazy Horse Saloon. Except that my act is motionless. Only the stream trembles a bit. For viewers with classical tastes, I squat in the bathtub and pull down my white panties, an athletic model by Calvin Klein. Perched on the edge of the wash-basin with the camera behind me, I spread my buttocks with my hands so lips and anus are both in the shot. Standing in front of the bowl, I pee into it like a man. Naked under a wasp-waist corset, or wearing a gold chain around the waist and a black g-string which I pull aside with one fingernail, I do it into a wine carafe. I gauge the trickle. I concentrate on letting my belly fluids gush. Online wet-nurse. “L ’Origine du monde.” I soon learned to take sensual satisfaction from a pee. I came to enjoy it. But I miss the touch of other flesh: skin contact, violent caresses have become my most cherished fantasy. I envy prostitutes the warmth of the customer’s body.

  As for you Web-surfers out there, I know only your name, your age, the alleged size of your penis and sometimes the colour of your eyes. Not one pubic hair in sight. No odours except for Joseph’s, and he smells of piss. I suspect him of collecting drops from the enamelled bowl when I’ve finished my stint. I’m afraid of smelling that way, too. Sometimes, dear water sports lovers, I hate your guts.

  What about me in all this? I feel brutalized by my work. But the money has tamed my “me”. The Water Hole, on the other hand, has long since ceased to be a source of pleasure. At the gym, I meet young men working out. They’re vain and shy. I go straight up to them, propose we go to their place right then, that afternoon: “I’ve got this husband, you see . . .” And I’ll come like a bomb in some athlete’s mouth. Instinctively, mechanically. As if I were starving for sex. Light-years from those laborious orgasms with Joseph. Practical, acrobatic sex. I like to sit on top. Releasing an orgasm, I dribble a few drops out of habit, and sometimes one of them will pull a face. Not aficionados, just ordinary boys.

  And yet when Raymond, now seriously ill, invited me to dinner in his new apartment, I was delighted at the prospect of seeing him again. I didn’t hold him responsible for what had happened, but I wasn’t going to ask him to endorse “The Water Hole”, either. Nor did I plan to mention Joseph. Raymond is my secret garden.

  I got there around 8. He was heating a frozen meal in the micro-wave. A confirmed bachelor who’d never learned to cook. Here too, the sink was an ashtray: against doctor’s orders, he still smoked. We drank white wine, a Bourgogne aligoté. The moment I rose from the table, glass in hand, Raymond followed me down the dim corridor. Our ritual took place in the passageway leading to the WC. Six feet away from the closed door he stood with his back turned, listening intently. When I came out, he groped about till his hand closed around my potion.

  “Here, my friend . . . drink!”

  And at that moment, I actually felt a little something again.

  Translation by Noel Burch.

  The Adventure of Thomas

  the Rock Star in the Court

  of the Queen of Faery

  John Grant

  Because of his name, they called him Mad Tom and they called him Tom o’ Bedlam and they called him Thomas the Rhymer, but really he was Thomas the Rock Star, and he played lead guitar for Critical Assembly, ignoring the screams and yells of the fans and focusing entirely on his fingers and the frets as behind him the banked speakers sang and wailed as they slid from something that was a bit like Mozart to something that was a bit like Bo Diddley to something that was a bit like Led Zep. He was the quiet one of Critical Assembly, the one who always wasn’t there when the groupies penetrated the carefully lax security and gatecrashed the band’s hotel suite. He was the one whose long, pale, smooth, almost girlish face, framed in hair the colour of polished oak, the unloved imagined as they gave themselves comfort to keep away the loneliness of the dark.

  He was the one who once, after a gig, when the great auditorium was empty except for the echoes of that night’s excitements, found a backstage corridor that he’d never noticed before, and out of curiosity followed it to see where it would lead him, and discovered himself abruptly in a place of forest and insects from which there was no easy road back.

  The only thing that startled him about this sudden transition was how little startled by it he was. Although somewhere inside him a little voice was protesting that passageways backstage in a Chicago concert hall don’t lead to daylit leafy glades, that the whole thing was an outrage, most of him simply accepted the overwhelming sensation of naturalness coursing through him. He was not to know at the time that this feeling came about because he had been ensnared by enchantment, although later of course he would recognize what had happened.

  Thomas stood by the edge of a small, clear, s
low-moving stream, watching the reflection of his face with behind it tiny white puffy clouds in the blue sky, and rapid, unexpected, polychromatic darts of motion that he knew must be kingfishers flying overhead. He let his mind float like a dead twig on the current; he breathed deeply of air that sparkled like cold water and had not been breathed before him by automobiles.

  A sound that was no sound, coming from behind, made him turn.

  She was standing just inside the shadows at the edge of the trees, watching him through eyes that were the green of jade yet flecked with occlusions of copper. She was wearing a gauzy gown upon which his eyes refused to focus, and she had hair spun of midnight that hung to her thighs. Her skin was as dark as the shadows that framed her.

  “Who are you?” he said quietly, afraid his voice might burst the world.

  She said nothing, just continued to stare at him. A light breeze made the folds of her gown move like smoke. A sharp tongue-tip peeped from between her lips and flicked sideways, then was gone again.

  “Who are you?” he said again. “My name is Thomas. I’ve not long arrived –” he spread his hands “– here.”

  She nodded slowly and beckoned to him that he should follow her. Without pausing to see that he was following, she turned and walked slowly into the woods, the twigs and the grasses turning aside so that they wouldn’t catch in the light cloth of her gown. After a moment’s hesitation, he hurried to catch up to her, but always she remained the same distance ahead of him even though the pace of her walking never changed.

  At length they arrived at another glade, a cuplike space among the trees into which the sunlight fell to fill it. Here she halted, waiting with her back towards him, still silent. The sounds of his feet through the undergrowth seemed clumsy and intrusive to him as he moved to join her.