by Bernard Uzan
“Well, how do you think I look?”
“Devastating, and on top of it we can have a real conversation; you’re really intelligent and we communicate in spirit.”
“Please don’t make fun.”
“I’m not making fun. I was very much interested in your ideas about the workers and the socialist countries; it was truly fascinating, really very interesting.”
“Would you like some more whiskey?”
“No thanks. Come sit next to me.”
“Julien, I think I missed you a lot and I never realized it. I must have buried the memory I had of you in the bottom of my heart and tried to forget that you existed.”
“But I also missed you. Life is very strange. You see someone again after so long and you feel you’ve always been there.”
What am I saying? I had sworn not to use any of those asinine statements.
“You know, life is so strange. When I was with Jean-Pierre I often thought about you, and now you’re here next to me. I believe in fate...”
She believes in fate and she dares tell me that? She believes in fate and she has the audacity to throw that right into my face… What about me, did I deserve my fate?
My fucking, shitty fate, so then shut up, don’t mention fate. Say anything you want, tell the story of your life, of your sorrows, your successes, your dreams but do not talk about fate.
I hate fate, this fate thing makes me lose my hard on, capish?
I thought about all this without saying it, without a whisper, without a sound, without saying a word, with a pinch in my heart.
She goes on with what is supposed to be an erotic and desirable tone.
“Oh! I love your hands. They’re so soft and yet so masculine. Oh, caress me. I want to feel you all over me.”
She will not keep quiet; women are unbelievable; they always have the urgent need to talk in every situation, even the most intimate ones. But I made no mistake about the quality of the merchandise: she does look like Juno. Where should I begin? I don’t know or rather, I don’t know anymore. The solution is that I should have a pre-ordained plan to follow to the letter each time, a little piece of paper I’d keep in my pocket where I’d write exactly what I’m supposed to do with a woman in this kind of situation, when I fuck her, no sorry, I meant when I make love to her…
But why is it called making love? What relationship does it have to love? Is it to justify the animalistic coupling that people of a certain status have decided that it was best to call that act making love? Make…love: manufacture love? Make as in build? Love…love? I don’t get it!
Basically the goal is to satisfy them by screwing them well. … Well? ... Screwing well? What does that mean? It must mean that we have to be sure they will have an orgasm; women say you shouldn’t be selfish, that they need more time than we do, so…
Actually I’m bored to death while she’s caressing and kissing me and so I think of other things.
Well let’s see, first I’ll caress her for a very, very long time! Yes like that… She’s moaning very softly, already? She must be pretending…but I want her to be the one to beg me to take her completely… I want her to die with desire, I want her to want it more and again, so that she needs me desperately… She tries to take off her panties, but I want her to keep them on longer… She’s almost naked in front of me, she grabs my hand to force me to caress he between her legs…and I am still fully clothed, wearing my boots on the bed… I’m going to get mud everywhere; in any case a little more mud won’t bother anyone.
She is kissing my face, her tongue is all wet and she licks my eyes that I close… Her tongue is in my neck, a little pussy cat’s tongue, pointed and sticky that leaves traces of her saliva in its wake on me. I keep my eyes closed and I walk in mud, I’m in mud up to my knees and I continue to walk, the mud gets higher and higher still and I’m still walking, I will get there. I’m a prisoner up to my girth and can’t go backwards or forwards but I’ll get there, the mud is up to my shoulders, I’m going to drown in the mud, in that saliva, that swamp, that quicksand, that they call making love and I’m beginning to choke. I’m overtaken by panic and yet nothing has really begun, so! Let’s be calm and collected, I will get there.... I concentrate and make myself think of the blue sea in Carthage when I would swim like a little fish, when I was happy and laughed out loud and slowly the mud melts away, I am succeeding, I control myself, I’m the master of myself and of the game. I’m not in a swamp, I’m making love.
She desperately wants to lower her tiny panties like a little girl who feels like peeing… But not yet.
“I beg you, Julien…let me take it off…”
“No, not right away.”
I want to be sure she wants it so bad that it becomes painful… That she wants it so bad that it hurts her down there…that she ends up caressing herself…a bit…not too much, not all the way.
“He’ll never make it.”
“Yes he will, you’ll see.”
“Hello, Carmelo, my darling!”
“A mommy isn’t someone who gets fucked anymore.”
“My father, he has no balls.”
“I’m dying of shame, rage and utter disgust!” “He’ll never make it.”
I’m going to slip my hand under her bra to find her nipple and play with it.
“Yes, Julien, yes… It’s so good.”
I’m going to squeeze it gently turn around it and then squeeze it a little harder, then harder and harder.
“Yes, Julien, yes… It’s so good.”
I continue to play with her nipples mechanically and the words and images crowd each other and invade my mind.
“You know, you’re very smart.”
“Yes, I know.”
“Steak for two.”
“Open your mouth, chew, swallow.”
“Lend me your silk shirt.”
“It’s too big for you.”
“I should be able to get up and hit him across the face with my cane.”
“Again Julien, again, my darling.”
She’s unhooking her bra and her cheeks are very red and I look at her… The bell tower at the church of St. Sulpice just rang and it’s five o’clock and there are certainly a bunch of poor slobs inside kneeling in front of God; they must be praying while others are dying somewhere… Time went by very quickly today, very quickly; in the final analysis that’s what I should do every day, pick up a girl, go to her place and make love to her, it helps make the hours tick by.
Nicole has beautiful breasts. I caress them and think they’re almost as beautiful as those I would see when she would undress in the bathroom, as I was hiding under the bed…in her room in the beach house...
Every summer we spend three months in the house in Carthage, the great yearly expedition There are only fourteen kilometers from Tunis to Carthage…and that short distance requires weeks of preparation; all the furniture in Tunis is covered with white sheets; we have to be sure not to forget anything and off we go in Daddy’s Citroën. Pina and the other servants will take the train.
I love that house, especially the floors where I will necessarily spend most of my time… The floor is made up of little multicolored tiles in a mosaic that in certain spots tell the story of highlights of the Punic wars. I memorized those mosaics one by one, color upon color. I can imagine Hannibal crossing the Alps with his elephants and his armies on their way to conquer Rome. From my window I can see the sea that is so blue that it hurts my eyes, with the small Carthaginian ships in the distance and the slaves that are rowing and rowing.
…I have been waiting hiding for an eternity under the bed, one of my favorite spots, where I count and recount the mosaics, and finally the door opens…she just got out of the shower and takes her clothes off in front of the mirror, she’s only wearing tiny pink panties and a white see-through bra, I can’t see her face; I’ve never seen breasts before, they are big and heavy like two pink watermelons, and she caresses them with some cream.
I feel like
touching my dick and I unbutton my fly. She brushes her hair in front of the mirror and I touch myself and I look at the big titties and I feel like touching them and I’m dying to see her take off her panties and I’m sweating and touching myself. I’m afraid she’ll catch me and punish me and…it’s good, I know it’s bad but it’s good…so good… A strange sticky and warm liquid fills my hand and my head is spinning and she takes her panties off and I’m hot, I shake and shiver all over, I love myself. I wrap myself in my own arms, I love her, I want it and I feel good, so good.
I can see St. Sulpice church from the window looking at me with a mocking smile. I have one hand caressing her thighs and her tummy and with the other hand with my fingernails I caress the tips of her nipples, I’m so well trained… I feel her hand coming up against my crotch but I turn around skillfully to avoid it.
Daddy must not find out. And suppose this were actually my father or my brother disguised as a girl? You can never tell. I was always told that you have to be very wary, but if I’m always suspicious of everything. I’ll wind up becoming impotent.
“Why, Julien, why?”
“Wait a little longer and it’ll get even better.”
“But I can’t stand it anymore.”
“Yes, yes you can.”
She begins twisting herself like a worm, she moves her mouth toward me but I give her a finger that she sucks on hungrily, and she sucks it and nibbles it a little and she licks it… Ah! At last she’s beginning to touch herself, it never fails, it always ends up the same way.
I’d like to know if the Odeon is still full of people, those clowns who are trying to pass for what they are not.
She is taking care of my finger very well; it looks like this could become interesting… What if I just left right now, without saying a word, just “Ciao!” “See you soon!” I wonder what her reaction would be? Rage, sadness, fury or despair, distress or relief? Who can tell? In any case it would be entertaining, but the weather is turning bad, I see clouds and I hear rain drumming against the window so I guess I’ll stay where I am and just make love, it helps time flow by … I’m bored….but at least I’m not outside in the rain.
“Please, Julien, kiss me, give me your mouth...”
Kiss her, taste the traces leftover by another man on her lips? And in her mouth the bitterness of her entire being? I should have her foul liquids in my mouth, inside me? To think we are “making love” just because two unspeakable orifices such as the mouth exchange their secretions? What the hell does she expect then? Must I tell her that I love her while our tongues are brushing up against one another? I should whisper eternal vows in her ear and murmur sweet things to her? Swear that it’s forever and that we shall not leave each other ever? No, no!
I couldn’t, there’s something revolting in all that. I hear a grating, rasping sound. When she moans she sounds like a goat grazing in the grass
My hand never did leave her thighs and her hips... My other hand is back on her breasts that are now getting harder and resemble Mount Everest… Her breasts were just like Mount Everest…that at least was what a guy I met in a café told me the other day as he bragged about his good fortune with a visiting tourist. The image stayed in my mind… I find the comparison with Mount Everest amusing.
She’s caressing herself a bit too much; will she reach the climax, the final moment without me? I will not allow her to think this can happen. Well then, let’s do it, I’ll take off her panties very softly by slipping them off.
Now I’m going to ride her and go…go…
In those American war movies there are always airplanes and guys saying “Go…go…” and then they jump with their parachutes. Now in modern wars they don’t even jump anymore; they just push a button and you see explosions and people dying, women, children, old people and all that… To tell you the truth I couldn’t care less. I’m not the type who would walk the streets with a beautiful sign to protest against wars, peace, agreements, disagreements… Masses of people love to protest and go into the streets, march in tight disciplined lines organized by those who set up the rally and scream out slogans, often laughing and having a good time; it’s pathetic… I often hear the same words in the cafés or at parties:
“To tell you the truth, I’m the kind of person who hides, but in comfort, hiding in good conscience. I don’t feel that any of this concerns me. I’m neither to the right nor the left nor the center. I am myself. I have enough of my own problems, my memories, so that now I am co-opted by society, but I still have an opinion, you know; all those far off wars don’t really concern us; they are far away, even though here we still have specific problems with foreigners, illegals, Moslems, all kinds of extremists, the Asians, the Blacks, the Jews, the Arabs—in brief, with just about everyone. And if you also add to all this the tourists who break our balls, especially the Germans, the taxes, the traffic jams, the weeks of paid vacations that the government doesn’t want to give us, the minimum wage, the superhighways in need of repair, legalized abortion, back breaking workloads, family, children, Christmas holidays and the gift giving, the garbage strikes, and Sunday soccer on television. Well? We have enough problems; so then the problems of foreign countries with their war, their revolution, their desire to be full-fledged nations, all that bullshit are not our problems at all. We should just let them gobble each other up and then we’ll see! It’s like those little African kings…we really don’t give a shit about their country’s health problems, their economic crises, their famines, their under development; they’ve got to fend for themselves, find their own solutions. We did it didn’t we? We had our revolution and we sent the king and all the others to the guillotine…OK?”
There! I have just managed to listen to an average Frenchman, the guy in the bistro comparing tits to Mount Everest and making a speech to impress his silent and admiring buddies who are dazzled by all his knowledge as they drink up their fifth glass of anisette….
I am tempted to become an average Frenchman, a Sunday morning asshole with an opinion about everything and who is convinced he has every right to reconstruct the world in his own way and after his moment of glory at the café will return home and be as silent as a corpse without exchanging a word or even a glance with his wife and children who also have had nothing to say to the asshole for years on end.
Ohhhhhhhhhh! Julien !
But I’m digressing…
Her moaning brings me back to the present situation, which is to make love to… I forgot her name actually… I do have some effect on her after all, such a moan for a pair of panties slipped off is a bit exaggerated; let’s have some modesty!
Some control, some mystery, some class, some style.
“Lift your legs so I can take off your panties.”
Panties are so clumsy; they always roll around the ankles; but now it’s done. Well now, let’s go ahead without any further hesitation. My soft and yet virile hand will replace hers.
“Ohhhhhhhh! Julien!”
She’s repeating herself, with two Ohhhs in two minutes.
“Julien, take off your clothes, I want to feel you, to touch you, to caress you also, I want you, I want your strength, I want your manhood.”
These are the lyrical fifteen minutes she can’t just say she wants to be fucked, no! She wants my strength! My strength? If she only knew, poor thing! She’s twisting more and more… You’ll see she’s going to climax with my hand…no it would be much too easy… Enough! Enough!
“More! More!”
“You don’t want me to get undressed? No?”
“Yes! Yes!”
She’s got this bad habit of repeating everything twice; that’s really unnerving. OK, off the bed. I take off my shirt I let her gaze at my powerful hairy chest, just a short second, one shouldn’t spoil pleasure by giving too much too soon. I take off my cowboy boots, my socks, the socks are a most ridiculous moment and I don’t handle too badly, my pants, my underwear… And I then appear in my splendid nudity… I am gigantic, straight, hard, a
ll…and all…
After twenty years of exercises, it would be rather sad if I were not in good shape, or that I did not impress the young women lacking some affection.
One, two, three, four!
“Half a centimeter in four months, that’s very good my boy!”
Twenty years to get out of this.
Mr. Muscle-Pau.
My duck walk.
“Everyone can be loved, even you shall be,” as Fabien would say.
I feel like having her admire me for hours while not allowing her to touch me. Yes, yes it’s me! This good looking well-built guy, yes, yes it’s me, the former ugly little cripple who tripped every two feet.
I got all of you, haven’t I?
“He’ll never make it.”
I made it…my body made it.
My first great victory came with an event that can seem pathetic to everyone except me.
I’m playing Horace in Moliere’s The School of Wives. I am in Pau, a deathly boring town in Southern France… There’s absolutely nothing to do… My old buddy Gaston is playing the role of Arnolphe; according to what he says he’s a modern sculptor and he scours every garbage can, every abandoned building site to find old bones, old metal, old cans, old this or that. He assembles these discarded pieces by gluing them or fastening them with string, belts, ribbon, or wire and he calls the results a form of sculpture: at least it gives him something to do between rehearsals and the evening performances. One day he sees an ad for the bodybuilding competition for Mr. Muscle City of Pau. Gaston is already over fifty and is way beyond the age where you participate in that kind of contest… But he still has the heart of a child and loves practical jokes. He tells me we should enter the contest and have a few laughs as we adopt muscleman poses on a stage.
I’m going to walk half naked on a stage set up for the occasion. I’m going to exhibit myself to crowd of assholes who will laugh like my neighbors in Tunis when they saw me. I’m going to be humiliated once again. To be humiliated was part of the past, I deserve better than that: I’m an actor.
