The Works of Guillaume Dustan, Volume 1

by Guillaume Dustan

  This second novel, in comparison to the other two in this volume, is hardly sexual. After the orgy of In My Room (which the other orgy in Stronger Than Me will answer to), I'm Going Out Tonight occupies the middle ground, a form of detumescence if you will. It is therefore not happenstance that it is also the best written, the least harsh, and the most accessible text of the first trilogy in that it offers the reader a possibility of contact. Whereas In My Room aimed at metaphorically attacking the reader (which is explained, in part, by the fact that it was the first work published), and Stronger Than Me would paint a picture of the sadomasochist scene, I'm Going Out Tonight proved to be Dustan's first attempt at constructing a communal space: the night-club-novel. The former, according to Dustan, should be considered not only as the basis for future society but also as a metaphor for literature on the condition that we understand that the night club is a club that is open to everyone and not an exclusionary place ruled by trendiness. From this point of view, the excursions that Dustan allowed himself outside La Loco were a call to go beyond a restricted idea of what the text represented and to reject a literature of milieu, which functioned as a deterrent, the milieu being both the homosexual milieu but also the mainstream standard literature that informs dominant taste. Typically, participation is an antagonistic action to representing; the writer-dancer that Dustan was fervently desired to combine them both. I'm Going Out Tonight is an invitation to all of us to answer that call.

  in memoriam Alain Ferrer

  Lapin, I love you

  When Love's last word is said,

  And its dreams suddenly broken,

  Why weep for days now fled,

  Or dreams that charm them dead?

  The magic kiss is spent,

  The romance sadly broken,

  And the bruised heart now spoken

  Was the last word love said.

  Madly you claim! Oh have pity

  Love will be yours for all time

  You charming yes, but she so pretty

  And spring sings its song sublime

  Day follows day,

  Love disappears

  Like flowers too

  In vain you seek,

  Your heart throbbing

  and your eyes fill with tears

  When Love's last word is said,

  And its dreams suddenly broken,

  Why weep for days now fled,

  Or the dreams that charm them dead?

  The magic kiss is spent,

  The romance sadly broken,

  And the bruised heart now spoken

  Was the last word love said.

  (Octave Crémieux, Love's Last Word: Quand l’amour meurt)

  There's a certain pleasure in not following the rules. Like going to Gay Tea Dance1 in a pair of 501s two sizes too big, low top shoes, and a preppy checkered shirt. It wasn't planned. I got dressed this morning for my date with Diane and since it was an important thing for me, I didn't think about what I was doing after, and which could only be, obviously, what I am doing now: heading down rue Lepic, towards Place Blanche to go to GTD which is at La Loco ever since the Palace closed.

  But I take a look at myself in the café window halfway down the hill and I decide that this will do. I have a secret weapon under my shirt: an old indigo Marine Nationale t-shirt from Alain Ferrer's brother, snug, elastic, good cut, with these really short sleeves that highlight my biceps, sexy because of the logo and the holes I burnt into it with my joints. It was Alain's lucky t-shirt. I had traded him my own lucky t-shirt, a black t-shirt from the U.S., tight, good cut, a souvenir from a parachuting competition, with the location, the year, and a graphic showing three guys in formation, in free fall, holding hands, that looked like the warning sign for radioactivity, which was a bit frightening but also ultra-cool. We made the trade on rue de Bellefond. I hesitated for a long time before. In my mind, it meant that we were becoming brothers. It was Quentin who told me last week that Alain died. It had already been a couple of months. I hadn't known. I wasn't in France.

  The last time I saw him, it was at Le Bar in ’94. He was with his man, me with mine. I had told him that I would call them so we could come over for dinner at their place, but I didn't call, it should have been the other way around, we were the older ones and we had more money. I had not seen him ever since he had gotten shacked up. We actually got to know each other during the three years when he was Quentin's regular, then occasional, lover. Mine too, as a result. We went on vacation to his place, in Spain, summer of 1990. I remember how he would dance, like a maniac, in the gay club in Valence, to this house hit we liked best, Es Imposible, No Puede Ser.

  Alain was special. Everyone would stare at him when he walked in. Even though he was really small. Very skinny, but very goodlooking. Always dressed like Zorro, his jacket like a cape, his jeans like black tights, and his big shoes. Each of his poses was a perfect picture. I think he did it deliberately. He had to have studied himself for a long time, the way these young proles can, whose studies aren't demanding and who only have their bodies to capitalize on. He was a great fuck. Relentless. Endless. Bottomless. Wrapped up in himself. I didn't know that he was positive. Maybe he didn't know. He was just the type who wouldn't know.

  I remember very precisely the shape of his body. I remember his smell, which I criticized. I still can't believe he is dead. At the same time, it doesn't really completely surprise me. It's been a while now since I thought about what he was doing with his life, without work, shacked up with this guy who represented security, OK, really well-built, handsome face, hung, super in love, but not nearly fun enough for him. I think he must have felt his youth fading away, little by little, and with it, the absolute power he had over other people. He didn't know what to replace it with.

  I really need to shit. There wasn't any toilet paper earlier in Diane's guest bathroom, and that's not something one talks about, so it had already been a while, but I don't want to break the rhythm, and plus, I'm sure that at the beginning of the night the toilets at La Loco will be clean and well-stocked, so I don't stop at the café rue Lepic, or at Quick2 on the boulevard, and I drift towards the entrance through the crowd of people hanging around in front of the Moulin Rouge.

  It's been forever since I've come here. The bouncers are wearing new uniforms, silver bomber jackets and black 501 jeans. I head towards the music getting louder and louder but the doorman, a sexy dark-haired thirty-five year old, badly shaven, blocks the entrance, and I tell myself, —Shit, what's going on, but the guy kisses me on the cheeks saying something that I didn't get until after that was —Happy Easter, pretty boy! Cool. I fork over ten bucks and head towards the coat check.

  I leave my coat. I grab my cigarettes and my credit card. I leave my lighter. This morning I forgot to grab one. I was trashed, I went to bed at six a.m. with Dimitri after getting home from Station. That's when I dumped him. We slept together anyway. Talked. Cried. Him, mostly. We'd only known each other a week so it wasn't that big of a deal. I hadn't wanted to buy one before at Saint-Jean3 on the way to Diane's because I wanted to stay within my daily budget. And finally I bought one, at the same time as an extra pack of cigarettes, when we were out for a walk, she and I, on rue Lepic.

  But I don't take it with me because I know that I can't act casual asking for a light when I have one on me and that it's a good icebreaker. So it's better to not have one. And plus, that gives me one more thing to do, it's easy to get bored shitless at clubs.

  I head back down the stairs at a sustained pace. I strut across the hundred or so feet of the already open bar. The bartender is super cute, small, and hyper-muscular. There's almost no one there. The first time I came here, it was ten years ago. I was twenty. Franck brought me. I was in shock. I had never seen something like that. All these people, hundreds and hundreds of guys dancing, in the back there were dozens, beefy, shirtless or wearing white tank tops, like wallpaper. I thought —This is Dante's Inferno, and I rushed in.

  It's so early that the staircase
that leads to the big dance floor is still closed. I look to my left towards the bathroom. Both stalls are occupied, so I wait concentrating on my sphincter muscles which can barely hold on, and then something settles inside, and I feel OK. One of the doors opens. I go in. I close it behind me. I check the dispenser. Empty. I leave. I wait for the other one. The door ends up opening. I head in and notice right away that there isn't any toilet paper either which is really unbelievable at seven thirty p.m. So I go to the women's bathrooms at the end of the hall, there's no girls here tonight anyway.

  This is what I should have done from the start because there are four toilets instead of two, but I didn't know, I've never had to go in there until now. The second stall is open and has toilet paper. I wipe down the seat and sit. Mmmmh. Relief.

  I pull my pants up. I double-loop the belt to my jeans, so that it makes it shorter, never mind the bottom, people can see my socks but they're dark, so it's fine. Once I exit, I look at myself. Readjust my shirt. Smooth down the back, the sides. And then I want to wash my hands, but there's no soap in the dispensers, neither here nor in the men's bathroom, bravo La Loco. So I rinse them and head back to the bar.

  There are already a few more people. I look around telling myself that it's cool to be here again, amongst my brothers from the neighborhood. Only fags. Only guys I can look at without any risk of getting the shit beaten out of me. Even if it's just in their eyes. Only guys who would theoretically want for me to want them. A place where I don't feel I must have my guard up the whole time. A place where I'm no longer an animal waiting to be attacked. Paradise.

  I ask for a light. I smoke a cigarette. I people-watch. I'm not really in a rush to start drinking anyway, I decided that I wouldn't spend more of what I had left on me, plus the cash that I'm going to have to take out anyway later because I only have enough for one drink and I know that won't be enough to get me through the night. But I want to see what it's like when I'm not drunk. Alain never drank alcohol. He would always give us his drink ticket so that we could drink in his place.

  I ask for a light. I smoke another cigarette. Then I end up getting bored, so I give myself the green light to have my first drink. I head back upstairs towards the entrance so that I can be served by the bodybuilder. It's marked Corona on the crates next to the Heineken, so I think I could do a tequila-Corona, Christopher taught me about this in the States, a shot of tequila, over there it was Cuervo Gold, to get you going, and then beer, smooth and lemony, to bring you down softly, reviving yourself every time you take a sip. It's the same principle as coke and weed. A must.

  But that would be too expensive, so I think I'll just have a beer, a Corona, I love that, but beer makes me feel bloated, I always get a gut, a belly perpendicular to my pecs and not behind them, so I get a vodka. Some strong liquor should get me feeling good. The bodybuilder bartender comes closer, white and tanned. He's so well-built that he could be without question on the cover of Honcho or Mandate. Then I feel bad, too lean. I say, —Vodka on the rocks please, thinking, —I should have gotten the beer. The drink is a light pour, but there's plenty of ice, at least it will be cold. I take a sip. I feel better.

  I leave my drink in hand and head towards the back. People are looking at me. No one's obviously drooling. But I know that I'm a lot more interesting once I've warmed up a bit. So I have to be patient. And also I spent the whole week screwing around with Dimitri (much younger than me, no belly). So it's my turn not to be desperate. Good thing, considering I have no success with the guys I'm attracted to. It should be said that I only look at the hottest and most fashionable guys. Two bodybuilders, thirty-five to forty years old, American type. An Arab, twenty to twenty-five years old, in leather 501s. I still have quite a few gym sessions ahead of me before I reach that level.

  Actually, I'm getting bored. I usually don't get here so early. I get here around ten ten-thirty p.m., I stay on the top floor a bit, it depends on the music, and then I join the nightlife aficionados on the bottom floor, here or at Le Palace4 it works the same way, there's the big dance floor on the top at the start of the night, but it's downstairs where things get serious, where everyone ends up, where we cruise. I almost always leave with someone every time I've come alone. Mostly memorable guys. I can still picture the Doc's pecs, abs and thighs, in a black t-shirt and leather 501s in Le Palace's basement. It was there too that I hooked up with the soccer player's son. The most beautiful man I ever had my hands on. I thought it was genetic but I ran into him at the gym and he works out too.

  The basement doesn't open until around nine p.m. I head down to dance on the main floor. There are really too many people with massive bodies. I feel small, not muscular enough. I walk around the dance floor to find the spot where the sound is best, and it's at the end of the walkway, almost under the speakers, but it's a bad spot, too far from everything. The dance floor won't work, there isn't room to move. So I go back to the same spot as where I started, in the enclosure at the beginning of the covered walkway. I always end up here because it's where you get the most action. And also because, nobody knows why, this side parties harder than the other.

  Eye contact with a quite good-looking guy, but not sexy enough. The music is better. A guy gets off the low table next to me. I hop on and dance, not bad. I start to sweat. I take off my shirt, then my t-shirt, I throw them down on a sofa. I'm dancing hard but not letting go completely. My thighs hurt, I can't do anything repetitive with my arms for more than two minutes, I'm out of breath, I can't go like I used to, it bums me out. I'm out of practice. Before, I would dance every week for hours, and club dancing is truly a complete sport, and then I practically stopped, and now look what's happened.

  A beefy guy comes over to dance right under me. I stumble. I catch myself on the railing so I don't fall. The guy bails. Then I start concentrating on the music which had gotten even better, and I dance, almost all-out, but still a little unenthusiastic throughout. A slightly more average guy comes over to dance at my feet, facing me. He matches his arms gestures with mine. He smiles but I don't feel like returning it.

  The music gets boring. I jump off the table, heavily, I'm scared of hurting myself, I don't trust my body. I put my shirt back on so I don't catch a cold leaving it entirely unbuttoned down the front. I roll up the sleeves which are now folded up just above the start of my biceps. I have a new technique for my t-shirt: instead of letting it hang stupidly from behind, I shove the first four inches in, enough to be sure not to lose it, not completely in the middle, a little to the left to signal that I am neither 100% top—that would be completely to the left—nor 100% bottom—that would be completely to the right—but both. So I put it in the middle, but a little to the left, because if I placed it right in the middle, or in the middle towards the right, that would mean that I am versatile but more of a bottom, so in reality a total bottom, but since I am not muscular enough I pretend to be a top thinking that I'll have more luck.

  I ask for a light. I smoke a cigarette. I finished my vodka. I'm starving. It's time to go eat. I was actually already hungry when I passed by Quick but I didn't want to eat, I told myself that I would leave, it would give me one more thing to do. I head towards the exit. I stop to look at two young super cute guys dancing in front of the pinball machine. There's one who did a complete turn, bending backwards. He's bare-chested, the top of his overalls hanging by his thighs, perfectly etched abs, not an ounce of fat, my God, if only I was still like that.

  And then I saw the sign—No reentry and I think, —Shit. So I head towards the bouncer from earlier and I lean in and I ask, —If we leave we can't come back, is that right? But he winks his eye, and nods, —Go on, with his head, and at the same time he opens the security gate to let me through, and I leave saying, —Thanks. All of this couldn't have lasted more than five seconds. That's what I love about nightlife: communication reduced to the essential.

  There isn't an ATM at Place Blanche and I'm really concerned given that I'm in a t-shirt and shirt and it's not more tha
n fifty degrees out. But I tell myself everything is fine, that the cool air is lovely, that I am strong and that I'm not going to catch a cold, and I take rue Lepic to go to the Société Générale up the hill to the left. Halfway, there's a BNP that I forgot about. I stop. A young German tourist couple in front of me make three or four withdrawals in a row, it takes so long that the people behind me deliberate and decide go to the ATM I wanted to go to, three hundred feet away, but I'm here, I stay, and finally I withdraw two hundred francs and head back down the street, speeding because it's freezing.

  I head into Quick. There isn't a big line. The girl at the counter asks what I want and I don't know, so I say, —Whatever is the biggest, what is it? And she says, —The Quick’n Toast, and I say, —OK and she says, —The meal or the sandwich? And I say, —The sandwich, and she says, —Twenty francs and seventy cents, Could you wait a moment please? I'm waiting behind the other fag who must also be from La Loco and who is not bad-looking but he doesn't appeal to me because of his small mouth.