For five whole minutes I've been sucking him off but I'm starting to lose steam. I start sucking less enthusiastically, sucking up and down the side of his shaft, sucking only on the head. Not too long because he grabs the top of my hood and shoves my face back down his shaft. This turns me again at once. After a while he pulls my head away. He looks down at me. You little slut! Then he spits on me. Wow! I'm so happy that things are starting to get hot again so I do something I don't usually do because I think it's dirty but now I want to show who's who tonight. I drop down and start licking his boots. At the same time, I spread my knees and arch my back completely to offer up my ass. I know it's hot to look at: hairy except the crack which is shaved clean, my balls and the tip of the day-glo pink dildo poking out from the center of my ass, held in place by the thin strap of my leather jockstrap. Further up, he can see my hands cuffed to the leash that's hanging down my back, even further up the leather dog collar around my neck, the leather hood laced up tightly in the back. I didn't put on my chaps though so I would seem more vulnerable, but I have my Rangers and thick brown polyester socks looking a little trashy rolled down over the boots.
He smacks my ass. When this gets to be a little too much I come back up and I start sucking on his balls and cock. He stops me, pushes me back down to the floor, he's a bit rough but who cares, this is no time to complain, he grabs me by the neck and pulls me toward the bedroom. I make my way as I can, half on my knees, half crawling. He takes the opportunity to smack my ass really hard. Once we get into the bedroom, he grabs me by the shoulders and throws me on the bed, I get into position with my chest at the bottom of the bed, still kneeling with my ass in the air, no, that isn't what he wants, he makes me climb up the bed, I try a new position, my Rangers spread wide in the air, I lower my ass so that it isn't too high for his dick, he goes for a condom, puts it on and smacks my ass two, three times, he moves my thong off my crack, the dildo starts to come out on its own, he pushes it all the way back in, once, twice, then he pulls it out, he throws it on the bed, he rams me with his big dick and he fucks me like a queen.
We never do it again. I think it would be pointless to make him repeat exactly the same thing so I wait for him to suggest it. He doesn't.
11 Back from Vacation
I grab the mail. Quentin wrote me. I read Part one of our story is over. Part two has not yet begun. I regret that I made you suffer. I long to hear your voice, to talk to you calmly, in a garden. I show the letter to Stéphane. Stéphane says It could be from Jean-Marc. I think Not a chance.
I'm furious. I unpack our bags, I load the washing machine, I throw out the rotten food in the fridge; I'm not hungry. I have a hard time falling asleep despite the two beers I got at the QG8 and the joint I smoked. The neighbor's guests leave around three a.m. Car doors slam, diesel starts up. The front door shakes, screeches, and creaks. I rush to the window, I feel like mowing them down with a machine gun like in Taxi Driver. I go over what I am going to say in my phone call to the building manager tomorrow. First version, second version, third version.
I don't go to work the next day. Stéphane finally comes home from work. I order him down on all fours to suck me while I finish rolling a joint. I spread my legs real wide so I can look at my dick. I am naked wearing nothing but my sneakers and tube socks hiked all the way up. I tell him to go shove a butt plug up his ass and to put on some nipple clamps. I handcuff him. They're leather and there is one for each wrist. They are more bracelets than handcuffs really, they don't hurt, you can wear them for hours. Then I put a black leather dog collar on him. I lock each handcuff to the rings that are on each side of the collar for that purpose. I connect each handcuff to the thighs with some rope, then attach them to the nipple clamps. Now, his smallest movement will strangle and pinch him a little, just enough for it to seem like two hands squeezing, not enough to hurt. Pain is not the aim of the game.
I fuck him from behind, gently whipping him. I say, Open your ass up wide now. He opens his ass wide. Then I say, Now close it. He closes it. It's real nice. From the back, his hands are cuffed behind his neck and his hard-on has been raging for a good fifteen minutes without him touching himself at all. I undo one of his cuffs so he can pull on my balls. He's not allowed to jack off, of course. I tie him back up.
I push him onto the bed to fuck him on his back. And then I start to get really bored. So I put a pillow over his head. I push down on it. This turns me on. Him too by the way. He perks his ass up. I push down harder. An orgasm starts rising. I push down harder and harder and then I have to stop because it's getting too risky. I feel the orgasm going away and I know that there's nothing I can do to get it back so I change positions and I fuck him hard to help him come and he comes and I pull out and jerk off and after I lie down next to him without touching him. I close my eyes. After a while, he asks me what's wrong. I tell him I want to kill everyone in the world, smash all my toys, stay all alone in the blood and scream until I die. He says that would make a nice scene in a movie.
12 Consultation
I explain to my female doctor that my T4s have gone back up. They were down the last time I saw her, but I was over-tired, I'd just moved, and I'd left the man I'd been with for the last five years, he was threatening to throw acid on my face. I tell her The problem is that I am bored with the new one, he doesn't fascinate me, the other one was crazy and I loved him, It's always the less crazy of the two who's crazy about the crazier one, and the crazier one is only crazy about himself it seems. She tells me that we can't escape it, that's just how it is, either you're sensible and settle down with a normal person and get bored, or, you stay with the crazy one who wants to throw acid on your face and have fun. That's just how it is. I tell her that I was depressed about it for four years, but now that I've matured, maybe things could work out with Quentin. I read in a magazine this weekend that what works with pathological seducers is someone who is extremely reassuring and knows how to play their game, with a touch of perversity, if possible. She asks me Where is he now, did he leave town? I tell her He lives three blocks away.
She gives me the usual, concerned check-up. My doctor has round blue eyes, a round, outlined mouth and a round head with brown hair. She's young but knows her stuff. She asks what's new and about my job. I talk to her about my book. She asks What is it about? I laugh and tell her the subject of my book is the same as Modern Mesclun's,9 in the comic Agrippine. Have you read Agrippine? They are in a café and he's talking to her about his projects, among which is his erotic autobiography set to Gregorian rap music. I tell her that my book is also an erotic autobiography set to Gregorian rap music since when I write, I listen to Depeche Mode.
I tell her that Quentin wrote to me. I tell her that I replied to his letter on the back of the final cut-off notice for electricity I got because his electricity is still in my name. I wrote I don't know how to answer just now. Guillaume. My doctor shrewdly observes that this doesn't mean no.
13 Compulsion
I go to Marks & Spencer by the Opéra. I first explore the food section entirely, then I go upstairs to menswear where I browse through the underwear and after, the sale section. I curb my impulse to buy stuff that isn't useful or something I couldn't carry. I do however buy two pairs of tight-fitting blue long johns for winter and then four pairs of semi-black socks, ten francs a pair, mostly cotton—two with designs and two without, and then I find a great dark grey wool winter sports jacket for Stéphane marked way down. I go back downstairs to the food section and I buy some coleslaw and some inexpensive white Australian wine that looks simple and good, some fresh spinach in a microwavable bag, some fresh mini cocktail sausages ready to be fried up (two packs of six different kinds), and a party tray with carrot and nut salad, bean salad, and more coleslaw, and then some aged Cheddar cheese and some whole-wheat muffins, some stir-fry vegetables (soybean, carrots, and mushrooms), some smoked Canadian bacon and some baked beans in tomato sauce. I get the real kind, not the spicy Boston baked beans but the basic Engl
ish ones you eat in the morning with eggs and toast.
Marks & Spencer is fascinating. There's nothing left for you to do. Everything's been prepared, the egg and watercress sandwiches, the chicken tikka meatballs, the Irish salmon brochettes, the shrimp cocktail, the coleslaw, the vegetables washed, cut, and ready to sauté, the pork paté, the cheese cubes. The store's only shortcoming is the desserts. Even the cakes look average. I guess it's a generational thing. This store's customers are surely more into bean sprouts and cherry tomato salad than mince pie and pudding. I go home like an idiot with all my shopping bags on the métro. Pretty soon there will be a Marks & Spencer at Hôtel de Ville. That will be nice.
Once I get home I put away the fresh food in the fridge and then I put on a pair of the long johns and I smoke a joint and I jerk off and then I fall asleep. I wake up when I hear Stéphane turn his key in the door. I tell him to go to the front room to try on his new jacket before he gets his clothes off. The jacket looks good on him, I knew it would, it's the same cut as the blue one and the green one that both look so good on him. He won't be able to say that I don't take care of him.
14 Living in the Ghetto
On Sunday night at La Loco10 I ran into Tom. He told me his ex died. It's only on the way home that I thought about inviting him to dinner that next evening with two of Stéphane's friends. I left a message on his machine when I got back from shopping. He called back to say he could come. At dinner Stéphane found out a guy he knew from asmf11 is dead. It freaked him out but he didn't talk to me about it until the next day.
The guests went home. I was horny, we drank five bottles for the five of us. I said to Stéphane I want to fuck you in a sling at the sex club. He washed his ass before we left. I took some condoms and Xylocaine. I was already depressed. We got there. I fucked him in a sling in one of the private rooms, the chains had two extra links that went clink clink clink, and the sling was a bit too high, I had to get on my tiptoes to get in deep. My dick got soft, then hard, then soft, then hard. It went on like this for a good half an hour. I said All right, let's finish up at home, it's more comfortable. I didn't say anything on the drive home. We went back upstairs. I rolled a joint in silence. We started again. I was going limp. I wound up saying a bunch of terrible things to him. You're not sexy, there are no surprises with you, you don't know how to play with my nipples, I'm bored in your ass, sorry but I am depressed right now, I'd rather you fuck me or else I'll fuck you without a condom. He said Fuck me without a condom. Instantly my dick got hard. I thought Well I don't have any precum oozing out and surely I can avoid squirting in his ass. I dive back in. Five minutes later of course I was ready to come whereas with a condom on I usually never do it keeps me at a distance. I said I'm ready to come. He said Go ahead. I said I think we'd better wait for the results of your test. He'd never been tested. He had persuaded himself that he already had HIV anyway. I pushed him to go get tested. I say We'll do this later. I pull out and blow my load all over his little bitch ass.
The next week, his test results come back negative. I tell myself I did the right thing not coming in his ass. And then I feel alone. Disappointed. And then alone.
15 People Are Still Having Sex
I live in a wonderful world where everyone has slept with everyone. A map to this world can be found in the community magazines I read assiduously. Bars. Clubs. Restaurants. Saunas. Minitels.12 Party spots. Cruising spots. And all the addresses, telephone numbers, and names that go with them. In this world, every man has fucked at least five hundred other men, though mostly the same guys. The guys who go out. But these networks don't cross over exactly. There are guys more into bars. More into clubs. More into clubs with bars. More into saunas. More into parties. More into cruising on the Minitel. More into dark hair. More into blonds. More into muscles. More into rough sex. More into vanilla sex. Take your pick. You've got a lot to pick from and nobody's looking to start a family. We're single or a couple, not more, in this world except when for a more or less short period, there's a sex slave in the house. I find all that invention great. I have a friend who put his two hands around his boyfriend's hands inside the ass of some guy who's well known in the community, who also has both his nipples and his cock pierced; he's got some impressive equipment that he shares to everyone's enjoyment.
Like me with what I've got at home, in my little bedroom closet, on five shelves. On the top there's the bulky stuff: two pairs of chaps, one in leather, one in latex, a shower douche and its hose, plus an enormous cone-shaped dildo for sitting on. Under that shelf there are dildos and butt plugs arranged by size on two shelves: two fat butt plugs and four small ones, four doubleheaded dildos, eight ordinary ones. Under that shelf, the lighter items hanging on nails: five different pairs of nipple clamps, some clothespins, a parachute ball stretcher, a dog collar, two hoods, one in leather, one in latex, six cock rings, steel or leather, regular or with built-in ball stretcher, two dick sheaths, a regular one in adjustable leather and one with spiked tips pointing in, that one's a little medieval, a riding crop, a martinet, a black and a red bandana for gagging or tying up, a funnel tube gag that directs piss right into the throat, a ball gag, the ball is inflatable, nipple clamps mounted on an extendable leather Y that can be linked to a cock ring so that the crotch can pull the nipples, a metal ball-stretcher, not too heavy, about half a pound and one inch wide (you place it between the balls and the cock or like a normal cock ring), two pairs of leather handcuffs, a leather collar with handcuffs that may be worn around the back or the front, depending on which side it's placed. Finally, at the very bottom, there's more bulky items: an adjustable iron bar with leather-tipped handcuffs, a leather harness, two pairs of Rangers, my German boots.
I've been buying these things for years. A lot of them. I've chucked out plenty of stuff I'd bought without a clue, dildos that were too hard or too crooked, cock rings that were too tight, clamps that were too strong. I've only kept this stuff. The bare essentials. I have, within arm's reach, everything I need. Alcohol. Hash. Acid. E. Coke. Weed. Poppers. Sex Magazines. Porn tapes. A Polaroid camera.
Certain things are more useful than others. I love them all. They are like parts of me. I decide where they stay, maintaining my hold over them. But it's also their duty to serve the body. Hood collar gag nipple clamps handcuffs dildos cock ring cock choker parachute ball stretcher handcuffs. Head mouth neck tits wrists arms ass groin cock balls ankles legs. All is mobilized. Ready to maximize the effects of the dick in the mouth or in the ass, the strokes of the crop on the ass the legs the back the shoulder the arms the hands the feet the balls the cock. It never hurts when it's done right. I'm no sadist. Only a bit of a megalomaniac. It leaves no marks. At any rate, whatever I do, whatever I use, was previously tried out on me. That way, everything goes as planned. Even the big dildos come out without a drop of blood, even the ones that are fatter than a fist and can make it past the second sphincter. I've become very conscious of my body, of its exterior, of its interior, because of this, I think. I train. My nipples, my ass, my ejaculations, my performances.
I wonder if it's sinister or if it's good. I think about what Jeanne Moreau says to her niece in an American movie where she's old and extravagant. No, she tells her. I don't think you're stupid. I think you've lost hope. You should do nothing. Absolutely nothing. Until hope returns. Like she's sure it always returns. Maybe she's right. I tried last night. Instead of cruising on the Minitel or going out for a drink at a bar I typically go to, I waited. After a few minutes, hope really did return. It returned in my left leg, I felt it. A muscular appeasement. All the fags I know work out. If not, they swim. Almost all of them are HIV-positive. It's crazy how they are still alive. They still go out. They still fuck. Plenty of them get stuff like meningitis, diarrhea, a case of shingles or KS lesions or pneumocystis. But then they're fine. Just a little skinnier, some of them. The ones that get a CMV or some other crazy stuff haven't been seen around for a while. They aren't talked about. That said, none of my close frien
ds have died. I only know of four guys that I've fucked who are dead. I suspect others. Not a lot. People don't die a lot apparently. They say that AIDS is evolving towards a thing like diabetes. As long as the healthcare system can support it, we will be treated for whatever comes up. There's not much to worry about.
It's been a few years now since I entered this world. I spend most of my time here. I myself would prefer to go to London on vacation rather than discover Budapest. Budapest, that's for later. We feel good in the ghetto. There are a lot of people. More people all the time. Fags who start fucking all the time no longer go into the normal world as often as before. Apart from their job and seeing their family, everything can be done without leaving the ghetto. Sports, shopping, movies, eating out, vacations. There aren't ghettos everywhere. There's the center of Paris. There's London, Amsterdam, Berlin, New York, San Francisco, Los Angeles, Sydney. In the summer there's Ibiza, Sitges, Fire Island, Mykonos, Majorca. Sex is the main focus. Everything revolves around it: the clothes, the short hair, the nice body, the sex toys, the drugs you take, the alcohol you drink, the stuff you read, the stuff you eat, you can't be too stuffed when you go out or else you won't be able to fuck. You'll rarely go home alone as long as you're persistent, and not too depressed. If you don't tell yourself that you've already had all the guys worth having in there. Or all the ones you know you can get. But often you can get the ones you thought you couldn't. That's progress.
Last night Stéphane was recovering from the weekend, I couldn't sleep as usual especially when I'm not over-exhausted. I wondered if I would live alone or move back in with him in three months. I gave my notice, I couldn't stand the apartment anymore. There's this plan of mine to have an apartment with a balcony that I could never afford on my own. I began sorting out my sex magazines, tearing out the pages that I thought were a turn-on. I made a tableau on the living-room floor with them. Twenty square feet of pictures of dicks, a few asses too, but mainly cocks, hard ones for the most part, very pretty ones. It wasn't bad. When I got through, I sat down on the sofa and I jerked off looking at them while drinking a Heineken and sniffing poppers. Afterwards, around three in the morning, I got into bed. I live in a world where plenty of things I thought impossible are possible.
The Works of Guillaume Dustan, Volume 1 Page 7