Cherbourg Boy

by Henri Couesnon

  Cherbourg Boy

  A Hustler’s Story

  by

  Henri Couesnon

  Copyright © 2017 Henri Couesnon

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales, or to persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. Except for the use of brief excerpts in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part, in any form by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.

  The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.

  Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted material. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  Published by: Henri Couesnon

  Cover design by: Muzio Scaevola

  Table of Contents

  Author’s Introduction

  Chapter One: Voleur and Violeur

  Chapter Two: Forced Entry

  Chapter Three: Strip Club

  Chapter Four: By the Hour

  Chapter Five: Paying the Pimp

  Chapter Six: Sailor’s Delight

  Chapter Seven: Open for Business All Night

  Chapter Eight: Reunited

  Also by Henri Couesnon

  Author’s Introduction

  In the year 2000, the city of Cherbourg became Cherbourg-Octeville. In 2006, it was renamed again, as Cherbourg-en-Cotentin. These hyphenated names don’t exactly roll off the tongue, and surely many residents of the maritime city can be forgiven when they persist in calling their home just plain Cherbourg

  I’ve dutifully typed in “Cherbourg-en-Cotentin” the first time the city’s name is mentioned in Chapter One of this book, but elsewhere I’ve reverted to the simpler old name. After all, Cherbourg-en-Cotentin Boy, however accurate, would make for a rather unwieldy title.

  Whatever one chooses to call it, Cherbourg is a seaport with a long and fascinating history. There’s a lot to see and do there. But it’s not among the first two or three destinations which a traveler is likely to think of, when planning a visit to France. That’s a shame, and so—by way of an unsolicited testimonial!—I’ll made a sincere plug here, encouraging tourists who are planning a lengthy stay in France to think about spending a day or two in Cherbourg. As a further enticement, one can sample some fine Normandy cuisine there.

  In recent years, the city has made an effort to clean up its once-notorious waterfront, both literally and from a moral standpoint. But it’s still possible for an adventurous visitor to get into trouble there, if you catch my drift. (If you don’t know what I’m talking about, then some of the incidents described in this book should enlighten you.)

  The protagonist of this book, whom I’ve rechristened “Luc,” is based on a good friend of mine, who grew up in Cherbourg. Like me, he was kind of wild in his youth. The only difference between us was that I was born and grew up in the equally rough seaport of Marseille. Also like me, Luc became more responsible and respectable later on. (Well—sort of!)

  My home town of Marseille is, like Cherbourg, a busy port of call, and its inhabitants and visitors are subject to the same sorts of temptations.

  Luc’s tales of his wayward youth provided the raw material for this book. When I showed Luc the completed manuscript, his reaction was, “Henri, this may be your raunchiest book yet!”

  “Ah—is that a good thing, or a bad?” I asked my buddy, uneasily.

  “Good, of course. What else?”

  “Well, even though I’ve changed the names, this is your story,” I reminded him. “Some of your friends back home in Cherbourg might recognize you.”

  “I hope they do.” Luc gave me a sly, knowing look. “I’ve never pretended to be a saint. And neither, mon ami, have you!”

  Chapter One: Voleur and Violeur

  One of the prison’s guards escorted Luc to the intake desk, where another guard was on duty, seated behind a grille. Luc had already, under the first guard’s stern gaze, stripped naked and then exchanged his inmate’s jumpsuit for the clothes he’d worn when he’d first entered the prison, two months previously. His own clothes felt oddly unfamiliar against his skin, at first. The two prison employees now exchanged their paperwork and fussed over it for what seemed to Luc an eternity, while he waited, impatiently.

  Finally, though, they were satisfied. The guard manning the desk pushed a sealed manila envelope through the narrow gap between the bottom of the grille and the countertop.

  “Here’s your belongings,” the guard told Luc, gruffly. Luc tore open the envelope and pocketed the few items it contained—a wallet, keys, a wristwatch, his cell phone, a pocket handkerchief, and some coins. “Sign here, acknowledging you’ve received them,” the guard said, producing a form. “All right,” the guard said, when this business was concluded. “There’s the door. Out you go, and let’s hope we don’t see you in here again.”

  Luc headed toward the door. “Thanks for your fucking hospitality, you assholes,” he muttered, sarcastically, under his breath.

  But the guards had heard him. “That kind of attitude, and that smart mouth of yours,” the one who’d escorted Luc said, “is what’s gotten you into so much trouble while you were in here. Now, move your ass, punk. I’m sick of the sight of you. We all are. Get lost!” He paused, before delivering a final shot. “Loser!” he jeered.

  Luc went through the door. He found himself outdoors, on the street, outside of Cherbourg-en-Cotentin’s prison.

  He was free, after having served a sixty-day stretch for theft inside the facility. Two whole months of his life gone! Now he was free again. But he was also alone, forced to fall back upon his own resources, and he was decidedly impecunious. Furthermore, his immediate options were severely limited.

  While he was incarcerated, he’d lost his crummy job, because of course his employer had to hire someone else to replace him. He’d lost his equally crummy room in a boarding house, too. Luc had asked his long-suffering parents, who lived in one of Cherbourg’s suburbs, to pay his rent while he was incarcerated, so the landlord would hold the room for him. To Luc’s astonishment and disappointment, they’d refused. They had agreed to store his few belongings in their house. But then, when Luc was due to be released, they’d refused to let him come home and stay there—not even for a few days. They would continue to store Luc’s belongings, they told him, until he found himself a job and a new place to live, but they weren’t going to allow their wayward son to sleep under their roof—not even for one night. Luc was likely to be a bad influence on his younger brother, who still lived at home, his parents said.

  So there Luc was, out on the street, with virtually nothing except the clothes on his back. His outfit consisted of jeans, undershorts, socks, training shoes, a belt, a tank top style undershirt, and a long-sleeved beige linen shirt.

  He now discovered that his damn phone didn’t even work, because the bill hadn’t been paid during his incarceration. He was well and truly screwed!

  Luc began to walk, without any specific goal yet in mind, although instinctively he headed north, toward the city’s harbor and the sea—the English Channel, to be precise. It was a hot summer day, and he soon took off his shirt and tied its sleeves in front of him, securing the garment around his waist.

  He was a handsome young man, who as he trudged along became the object of some
admiring glances from the pedestrians he passed—none of whom, of course, was aware of his criminal past or his pessimistic present state of mind. Two months of pumping iron in the prison’s gym had done wonders for his physique. He’d bulked up, impressively, but he was also ripped, with little excess body fat. Luc had sandy blond hair with a hint of a curl to it, green eyes, and, because he tended to be negligent about shaving, a habitual facial dusting of beard stubble.

  During his stay in the slammer, Luc, like the other prisoners, had been allowed to shave only under a guard’s supervision. The disposable plastic razors were confiscated immediately after use. It was only one of the many daily humiliations Luc had endured.

  His ordeal had begun on the very first day of his incarceration.

  His cellmate was a huge brute of a man, a bodybuilder with bulging, pumped up muscles. His name was Roland, but no one ever called him that. The other inmates, and even the guards, invariably addressed him, or referred to him, by his rather ominous-sounding nickname, which was Perceur [i.e., Piercer]. Heavily tattooed, Perceur had coarse facial features, including an imperfectly healed broken nose, which might be considered sexy by the kind of guys who liked their men to be rough-edged.

  “Fresh fish for you, Perceur,” the guard had announced that first day, when he opened the cell door and pushed Luc through it.

  Perceur gave Luc a searching, penetrating look. “Um, pretty,” he growled. “Sweet!”

  “We thought you two would be perfect cellmates,” the guard said, as he slid the door closed and locked it. “Well suited to each other. The thief and the rapist.” [Author’s note: in French, this is a play on words, on voleur and violeur.] “Get acquainted, you two—and enjoy yourselves,” the guard added, mockingly, as he strode away. “But when you do, keep the noise down.”

  Luc stood there in the cell and looked at Perceur, warily.

  “That lousy screw was kidding, wasn’t he? You aren’t really a rapist, are you?” he asked.

  “Not when I’m on the outside,” Perceur replied, casually. “And I’ve never fucked a woman in my life. Never had any desire to. But I’ve always had plenty of men chasing after me. I may be big and ugly, but some guys like that. In here, though, it’s different. I’m the top dog on this cell block. The other cons do what I say. And I guess I do have a certain reputation, for breaking in the young punks like you.”

  “Well, I don’t need any breaking in,” Luc blustered. “So don’t you start getting any funny ideas. I just want to do my time, and then get the hell out of here—in one piece. You keep your distance from me, dude, and we’ll get along just fine.”

  Perceur grunted. “Feisty, are you? I like that. But we’ll see how feisty you still are tonight, after lights out.” Nonchalantly, Perceur placed the palm of his big hand onto the crotch of his prisoner’s jumpsuit. He began to rub and squeeze his genitals through the coarse cotton fabric. “My last cellmate, the guy who just got released yesterday, was a damn homely motherfucker,” he said, with a leer. “Ugly as sin! I wanted to put a bag over his head, every time I fucked him. He did have a nice meaty man’s ass, though, and that’s what counts in here. You’re a big improvement. You’re so damn pretty, I could just eat you up! I bet that sweet hole of yours will help to pass the time.”

  “You can go to hell, you fucking pervert!” Luc exclaimed. “You aren’t going to touch me.”

  “You think not? Don’t make me laugh, boy. Calm down, sweet cheeks. We’ll get along just fine, once you realize who’s in charge here. A hint, boy—it sure as hell isn’t you!” Perceur guffawed with laughter. “Damn, am I going to enjoy breaking you in, tonight! I’m going to bust your ass, and break it in, but good. You’re going to be my submissive little bitch, and you’re going to learn to love it. Get ready to give it up to a real man, pussy boy.”

  After lunch in the mess hall, the convicts had a recreational period. Perceur went off to the gym to work out with his buddies—most of whom, Luc saw with growing alarm, were every bit as hulking and menacing as Perceur himself. Glaring at Luc, these bruisers didn’t hesitate to make sexually suggestive remarks.

  “You nailed him yet, Perceur?” one muscle man asked, as he ogled Luc.

  “No, I’m saving that for tonight,” Perceur said. “It’s going to like having a second dessert.”

  “You must be slipping, motherfucker. If he was my cellmate, I’d have shoved him up against the wall and slammed my dick up his ass, by now!”

  “Yeah, look at that boy’s round little, cheeky ass,” another pumped-up behemoth growled. “And that pretty cocksucking mouth! Can I have him when you’re done with him, Perceur?”

  “The punk’s going to be my bitch, for as long as I want him,” Perceur decreed. “So back off, you bastards. He’s my property.”

  “Sure, Perceur, no problem,” yet another convict bodybuilder said, hastily. “Don’t get all bent out of shape, big guy. We were just kidding. None of us is going to horn in on your territory. Come on, men, let’s go pump some iron.”

  Luc lost no time before he sought out the nearest guard.

  “I have to see the warden,” Luc said. “Right now!”

  “What for?” the guard asked.

  “I have a problem. Well, it’s a complaint, really.”

  “A complaint! What the hell do you think this is, a five-star hotel, where the manager is going to kiss a guest’s ass? The warden can’t be bothered with a punk like you. And making trouble on your very first day in here—not a smart way to start off.”

  “Listen, you have to put me in another cell, with some other guy,” Luc begged. “That dude Perceur—he’s an animal.”

  “Can’t disagree with you there. But right now he’s a tame animal, in a cage,” the guard said, cynically. “Like the rest of you scum.”

  “He’s already threatened to rape me. In so many words. What’re you going to do about it?”

  If Luc hoped for sympathy, he was bitterly disappointed. The guard responded with a shocking nonchalance.

  “What am I going to do about it? Nothing, punk. You’re going to get raped by the big guy? So what? You’ll probably enjoy it. I’ve seen the fucker in the showers. He’s hung like a horse. There are cons in here who’d kill for a chance to be his boyfriend.”

  “You aren’t going to help me?” Luc asked, incredulously.

  “Hell, no. What do you think goes on in here? Guess you’ll soon find out. You young, dumb first-time punks—you’re up for grabs. The dirty older cons are all over you. Your holes are nothing but cum dumps for them.”

  “Shit, I don’t believe this—!”

  “Listen, kid,” the guard told Luc, impatiently. “We’re actually doing you a favor, having you bunk with Perceur. The other cons are scared shitless of him. And he’s the jealous type. If he likes you, if you put out for him and keep him happy, then he’ll protect you from those other horny bastards. You choice is, you can have one cock up your ass, or everybody’s cock. So wise up, and do it fast, if you want to survive in here. Now, get the hell away from me. I can’t be bothered.”

  Throughout the rest of the afternoon, and the evening, Luc grew increasingly panic-stricken.

  Finally, what Luc had been dreading came about. He was locked up for the night with Perceur.

  “You play chess?” Perceur asked.

  “Yes,” Luc said.

  “Good.” Perceur had a little chess set, the portable kind in which the pieces were magnetized and thus held on the squares on the board.

  Luc won.

  “Well played,” Perceur grunted.

  “You’re a good loser,” Luc said.

  “When it comes to games, yeah. When it comes to sex, maybe not so much. Then, I like to win. Even if I have to cheat.”

  “You act tough, dude,” Luc suggested, grasping at straws. “But really—!”

  “Really, what?”

  “I’m sure you’re a nice, decent guy,” Luc said, desperately. “You just put on that rough act, to survive in here. Don�
�t you?”

  “Oh, it’s no act. I am rough and tough, baby,” Perceur assured him. “As you’ll soon find out.”

  Inside the small cell were two bunks, a sink, a toilet, and shelves to hold the occupants’ few possessions. There was so little open floor space that the occupants had to be careful when moving about, to avoid collisions—a problem exacerbated by Perceur’s size. There was nothing modest or shy about Perceur. After the chess game, he stripped naked and lounged on his bunk. Luc felt even more intimated after his first glimpse of the big man’s nude body. In addition to his muscles, he was hairy and tattooed all over. And, just as the guard had so flippantly informed Luc, Perceur was exceptionally well-endowed.

  Luc now guessed the origin of the guy’s nickname. Perceur had multiple body piercings. Earlobes, nipples, navel—all had heavy gauge surgical steel rings inserted in them. His uncut penis had a Prince Albert piercing in its head, with another thick ring threaded through the hole. And finally, when Perceur spread his legs and reached down to scratch his groin, the gesture exposed his perineum muscle, which was also pierced and ringed—the kind of piercing which, Luc knew, was called a guiche.

  Luc felt a need to make some conversation.

  “Ah—all those piercings—?” he began to ask.

  “Yeah? Like them?”

  “They’re kind of extreme. The ones below the waist, I mean. But—I thought we weren’t allowed to wear jewelry in here.”

  “Most guys aren’t. They took mine away, too, the first time I did a stretch in here,” Perceur explained. “They said the hardware could be removed and used as a weapon, which is a lot of bullshit. I had my lawyer sue their asses off. Said it violated my right to personal expression. Won the case. Too bad my lawyer isn’t that good at helping me beat a rap! Anyway, when I got sent up this time, they didn’t even bother to ask me to take my rings out.” Perceur looked at his new cellmate. “It’s hot and stuffy in here—as usual. Don’t you want to strip down and try to cool off?”