PART II
1 The Handsome Serge
We met him at the Queen pretty late, at an hour when there's practically no one left but the hardcore ones. Slightly bald. 6’1”, a hundred and seventy-five pounds. His body, a knockout. White, evenly-spaced teeth in a perpetual smile. Sufficiently young. Nice face. Visibly smashed on some high quality stuff. First we caught each other's eyes. Then I was dancing, holding on to Stéphane trying to turn him on. He came closer. We were putting on a show on the dance floor, making it seem like we were fucking each other. That made him swell up. I could feel that there was some volume. I peeled Stéphane off. We said one or two things to each other through the blare of the music. I sent Stéphane to go get us some drinks. To the other guy I said Man I really want to blow you. He said No problem. He led me off to the bathroom. I said to myself Cool, he knows what he wants. I followed him without resisting. The bathroom was packed, a giant line just to get in. I said OK, now what? He dragged me over to a blind spot by the entrance. He turned his back to the dance floor. I got down on my knees. He whipped out his super beautiful cock. I took it in my mouth and sucked on it while jerking off for about five minutes. It was hot. Then I said Look my boyfriend is waiting for us, we have to get back, OK? He said OK. Stéphane was waiting at the bar with the drinks, super chill as always.
We all agree pretty quickly about what to do next. First, we stop by his place to do this new American drug I haven't heard of that's supposed to be great for fucking, and after we go home because we have toys at our place and he doesn't at his. By now, I am fairly convinced that this is going to be a hassle because of this last detail but he is so gorgeous that I can't imagine for a single second turning down the possibility of having him.
His apartment is great. Loft style. TV and speakers in the bathroom. Classy furniture. An envelope addressed to him from a TV network lies on the American kitchen counter. He puts some trance music on, loud. The sound system is the best. We snort some drugs. Within ten minutes we are completely fucked up. We should film this. We take off our clothes. He is sublime. Great dick, very thick and long, big balls with lots of skin. I suck him. I lick his balls. He smacks my back, my ass. He plays macho man. I like it. He's like You're a real slut, you, a real one. You're making me hard. I check. He's exaggerating. I'm sure he's not going to fuck me but oh well. In the bathroom there was an old, unopened box of Prophyltex condoms and Prophyltex are much too small for a cock like his, if he was using condoms on someone with any frequency he'd have Manix large. What's equally weird is the pair of classy women's heels on his bedroom floor by the mirror. But it's the only trace of woman in the whole space. Maybe he's bi, the pretentious prick. He looks me in the eye. I do the same. We smile. He tells me Don't give me that look or I'll marry you. I say It's not my fault, that's just how it is. He's like Wow wow wow! clapping his hands while I paddle the cutie-pie's ass with my hands to make the ambiance a bit sexier. Turns out this cutie-pie is too stoned and passes out on the parquet with his leather pants down to his ankles. I like this Serge, that's for sure, it's like being in love. The problem is that of course he's not fucking me. Just a couple pumps of his cock, no condom, just like that, in his kitchen, the windows open, after he snapped the antenna of his cordless phone trying to insert it up my ass. Clearly this guy isn't used to fucking. It's true you can't do everything in life. He tells me several times how sorry he is that he's too high. I tell him It's no big deal.
He falls asleep on the sofa while I am sucking his dick. The stereo is playing opera music now, this must be what he usually listens to. I am alone. I go into his bedroom, scope out a few books: workout plan for the perfect body and how to train it under the table by the bed, VHS tapes under the TV in front of the bed, no porn or else they're well hidden, a dresser full of briefs, boxers, socks, scarves. Everything is perfect. The briefs are perfect. The boxers are perfect. The socks are perfect. I try on a pair of blue briefs, not bad, then a jockstrap, I had almost the same one, not good, then an old pair of Nikos underwear with a super hot cut that look great on me. I put it in my jacket, then I search for a container to put the drugs in. I find an empty film container on his desk. I collect my little gift. I eat a slice of whole grain bread. There's nothing else in the fridge. The opera's still playing. I wake Stéphane up. You all right? He's OK. I leave a note for the beautiful Serge, with our telephone number. Beautiful out. I put on my sunglasses. The streets are already coming back to life. We go home. Stéphane drives. We park. Pain au chocolat. Croissants. The baker's son is still our fan. It's good to be home. So we smoke a joint. And I fuck Stéphane.
He calls around seven, eight in the evening. Hi, it's Sergio. That's what I called him in my note. He's going to dinner, but we can meet up later. He's weird. He says I'll call again at midnight. All right, that's normal, with three it's always a little more complicated. But for once, there's someone who interests me. Who impresses me. The bastard. I'm sure he's not even going to call back.
He calls again, but at one thirty. It's not looking good. He apologizes. I cut him off. He still isn't done with dinner, can we meet at Folie's at three, no better make it three thirty? I say OK. I hang up. I tell Stéphane Look for real, I want this fuck so bad just this one time. I've got to go. Stéphane says that it's not a problem.
2 Meeting Up
I'm at Folies Pigalle.13 There's a very beautiful girl in a hot pink, super tight tee shirt with Babie written in silver. She's a great dancer. She's just as flashy as a fag or a Black. It's three a.m. I took a quarter hit of acid, three lines of coke, smoked two joints and drank a beer at home before going out. High, but not too high. I chat with the cab driver. At the door of Folies, there's a guy Quentin and I had a threesome with ages ago. He says Hi, are you with somebody? I get super paranoid. I don't understand what he means. I tell him No I'm by myself, can you let me in? He looks at me a little surprised, but he's got to see I'm stoned. Once I'm in, I tell myself Obviously he's not going to turn away somebody he knows. And I think Wow, it's cool, I know the bouncer at Folies. This sort of stuff impresses me. I know it's dumb. Then there's a Chinese guy at the entrance, one of the promoters, really really tall and thin who makes provocative t-shirts as a side gig. I ran into him at a fashion show my friend Georges took me to. He has to bend over, almost in half, just to give me a weak kiss. Hi! I buy myself a beer. I smoke. I dance.
I don't know a soul here tonight. No friend, no past hook-up, nobody I've ever exchanged more than two words with before. This stresses me out a little. Plus, the acid is strong. It gives me these pains in my back and it pulls on my cheeks and I'm speeding and from time to time I'm a little short of breath and get hot flashes. I calm myself down by telling myself it's always like this on acid. It has its positives though, the light and the colors are ten times more real than in real life. Since I'm having a good trip, I can't think about anything unpleasant for more than two seconds. My only real preoccupation is what I'm feeling and the absolute necessity to move so I can unload the truly excessive energy that it gives me.
Only three a.m. I decided to arrive at two thirty to make sure I wouldn't miss him. I get off on acting like a teenage girl. The music is good, the sound is better than before, so I dance. When I take acid, dancing relaxes my back. First I warm up, then when I'm really hot, I get up on the stage, I take off my t-shirt, I dance bare-chested, in jeans, my suspenders trailing down my thighs on top of my Rangers. It's best to have on big shoes when you have a tendency to stumble around.
And then the music gets worse, too hardcore. I get down. I am dripping with sweat. I go to the bathroom to freshen up. Long pink corridor. There are some Beur girls turning some Beur guys on. One of the chicks claims she can piss like a guy, in the urinal. I wasn't able to pee, so I took a step back so she could show us. She comes up, unzips, but then she chickens out. They shoot the shit a bit aggressively, but that's how Beurs cruise. I go empty my bladder in a closed stall that just opened up. I tell myself they shouldn't have let them in; the Beurs ki
nda mess with the vibe.
I think the evening is a huge success. There are only beautiful people who dance so well and everybody looks spellbound, totally trashed or else completely new to the club scene, maybe even both. No one to hit on. Too trendy. Whatever, the acid makes it OK. I'm not that crazy about acid, I think it's too strong, but still, you have to admit, it perks you up. As soon as the music isn't such hardcore trance, I go back and dance all out. The DJ is really great, he mixes deep disco, shake-that-ass, extreme trance to the point where it is almost too much, we start to lose interest, and boom it's on again. The guys scream out in pain when the DJ cuts the beats in the middle of a mix. I take a break. Stairway. Gallery. Bar. I'm covered in sweat, a little rough for this place, they don't serve me right away, but it's OK, the gin-get is substantial.
Ten to four and he never came. I leave alone. I walk around the Place Pigalle. I'm raging. When I get to the Transfert the doorman smiles at me. Stéphane is there, with his big gentle eyes and slutty low-cut tank top that shows off his nipples. We make out and then I say You doing OK sweetie? He says No, I was getting a little bored. This place is mayhem. The Transfert's anniversary celebration. Nothing is worse than a party at an S & M bar. Cake is being passed around on paper plates. Nobody wants any, but to be polite the guys closest to the bar force themselves. The bartender throws a tantrum No cake boys? Well let me remind you there are plenty of people out there who would want some.
I head around the back to the backroom and suck on this random skinhead's dick who was hanging out naked by the big trough everyone uses for pissing, but what he really wants is for me to piss on him but I don't want to piss. I split. I snag a couple kisses, a couple guys play with my nipples. I do the same to them. The guy in front of me sticks two fingers in my ass. I pull up my pants. I turn around. I know the guy in front of me but I haven't ever been with him yet. He goes out a lot but I don't think he fucks a lot of people. He looks at my cock, I stroke it a little in front of him for fun. After that I chitchat with this tiny skinhead who looks like a mouse. He's super sweet. I tell him You make me want to do bad things. He's like I do?, full of hope. But I am not really convinced, he doesn't seem slutty enough. He feels the same, and we leave it at that. I head back to Stéphane at the bar. We get champagne squirted all over our face. This is beginning to bother me. We decide to leave.
I'm wiped out in the car. Stéphane tells me five or six times that he wants sex. I don't answer. At home when we get undressed, the carpet around the bed gets covered with confetti. I say to Stéphane If you want to get fucked, I can do it. He doesn't seem to believe me. I ask him Is your ass clean? He says Yes. I take out an Olla condom, we don't have any Manix large, but I like the Olla. They're the ones we used in the Quentin days. They're kind of thick, but very bendy and soft. In the bathroom, standing up in front of the toilet, I make him put his head in it and I fuck him from behind. Then I bring him back to the bedroom and I fuck him on the bed from the front, then from behind. It lasts a long time, and it's really pretty good, I pull in and I pull out and his ass goes, flotch, flotch, flotch, really loud, he groans and moans underneath me. I begin to lose my hard-on because he's too loose. I keep going for a moment. Then we have to stop because I've gone too soft. We go and wash our hands. I tell him he can fuck me. He says he wants to piss on me. I jump into the tub and he pisses on me and I don't wash it off, we head back to the room, anyway, the sheet are already pretty soiled. The fucking is great. Deep. Long. I let myself get fucked like never before. I find he's getting better and better. But then it becomes pretty obvious that we're too stoned to come like that. I look around for my watch. It's ten, we've been fucking for four hours. We finish off the lazy way, he licks my balls, I come and then I offer to work over his ass with my left hand because my right hand has got cum all over it. He explodes. We cuddle. I roll one last joint. He falls asleep. I smoke half and then realize I'm fading so I put the joint down and fall asleep.
I wake up pissed because Serge didn't show up last night. We watch TV. I try to resist but I end up giving in and calling Serge around seven p.m. Answering machine. I start to leave a message in case he's screening. He picks up.
—Hello?
—Hi, it's Guillaume.
—Hi, you doing OK?
—No.
—Ahh…I have people over right now. My mom.
—That's nice.
—How was last night?
I'm thinking.
—It was disappointing. I mean I didn't know you weren't going to come.
—Me neither. I didn't know I wasn't going to come.
Silence.
—Well, I go on, you're with people and I really don't have anything else to tell you. It's up to you.
—I'll call you back.
—OK.
I hang up. This guy makes me sick. I tell Stéphane Do you realize he stood me up and I'm the one who calls? But that's also what's great about it. Being impressed. Showing it. Like a slut. But not too much. I was happy with It was disappointing. I was hoping he understood that I meant both that he was a disappointment and that I was disappointed. I wanted to upset him a little. But at the same time I still wanted him to fuck me. His super soft skin. His perfect muscles, not too big, not too small. Beautiful.
3 Excess
This weekend the cousin of my friend M. died. She had third-degree burns from an accident last year. Jojo, the guy who helped my mother out with the gardening, shot himself in the head. Terrier is recuperating in the country after a suicide attempt. Everything is going well.
Thursday night I went out on my own again. Stéphane was sleeping, exhausted from a combination of work and the partying I force on him. Me, I was wide awake and in great shape, of course, since I got up around one in the afternoon. I didn't take anything before I went out. I went to the QG. Nobody was there. Then to a groove party nearby, it was pretty empty. After that, it was time to go to the Queen. Men's night tonight. Let's say it was only a few more men than usual. I know the faces. I dance. I schmooze. An old guy, a tall Black American, around forty-five, tells me he has coke he brought back from the States. I tell myself this might just be the good stuff. I ask if I can taste it. He says for that we have to go to his place. I end up in a taxi headed towards Avenue de la Grande-Armée.
Four Black guys, younger and cuter, are playing cards in the living room. He directs me straight into his room so that I don't hit on any of them, the old pro. OK. We do way too much coke on a corner of his business card. Normally coke makes you speedy, but when you do a lot more, more than half a gram, say, all at once, it pulls you down instead, kind of like heroin but not as solemn. I don't care. I came here for this, and plus the old guy is getting more and more wasted and that's fine with me because I don't really want to have sex with him. I roll a joint from the lump of hash I brought with me just in case. We smoke it. We drink a beer. We do some more coke. I want some head and I want some tail, he says. I suck his big black semi-hard dick for a long time. He's super wasted, and so am I. In the end, it's cool to fuck like this, super fucked up. He sucks my dick too for a while. I let myself go. I suck his some more. I ask for some coke again. We do more coke. He rims my ass. And then he says he wants to fuck me. Without a condom of course, given the atmosphere and the droop in his cock. I tell myself that even without a condom it isn't very risky and he'll never be able to come anyway. Are you HIV-positive? I ask him, my legs in the air. Yeah, Baloo the bear answers. He has a hard time getting his dick in, but eventually he does. He fucks me for a little. He must have been a really good fuck back then. We stop because he's getting too limp. I ask him for a beer. While he's gone, I steal a black dirty jockstrap by Gazelle, New York, that was laying on the floor.
I came home at six a.m., after I'd stopped by the Transfert where there was no one left. I started in the bathroom with the dildo sitting on the maxi butt plug I have that's twelve inches tall and twelve around the base. I knew very well I wouldn't be able to take the whole thing in, actually I only k
now one guy who can, it was just that I was lazy and it's the only big toy in my collection that stands up by itself. It wasn't really working, because after a while it starts to hurt the coccyx, but I was still making a lot of noise with my ass. I heard Stéphane moving around in the next room. I said Are you sleeping? He answered No. I kept jerking off. He came into the bathroom. He looked devastated when he saw what I was doing. I said Are you OK? He nodded Yes. I said Would you mind fucking me with a dildo? I'm not getting anywhere by myself. He said No. I said All right then let's go. I grabbed a towel, selected the toys. I didn't roll a joint, I didn't want to overindulge. I decided to start with a big one. Fucked up as I was, I knew it would go in with a good hit of poppers, so I picked out the replica of Kris Lord's dick (10 × 7 inches) and then the enormous double-header from San Francisco, thicker than an arm. It was great. First, he fucked me really good with the Lord. Then I asked for a change. Not only did the monster go all the way in with no trouble but I was able to get fucked with it for a good ten minutes. I said I was going to come. He pulled it out. I came all over myself, convulsing and twitching. Since it was seven, Stéphane went to work. I slept.
The Works of Guillaume Dustan, Volume 1 Page 8