I eat there, not taking my time, at a bad table, behind the people in line, but near the napkin dispenser, and I grab two napkins while eating, arms glued to my sides, I'm not cool tonight, probably because I feel alone, but I don't tell myself that, I'm not detached enough from my emotions to think about it, I just tell myself that I'm bummed that I'm not dressed properly to show off too.
I empty my tray and I leave and I head towards La Loco and the bouncer blocks my way. —Good evening handsome!, he says, kissing me on both cheeks. —Hey, it's me, who asked you if I could leave, don't you remember?, I say. —Of course I do, I'm just taking advantage, he says while letting me in.
I head through the door while looking at him more attentively. He's actually pretty doable: full mouth, pretty earlobes, decent amount of hair in the v-neck of his black shirt. So I slip two fingers from my left hand inside, between two buttons, and there's still plenty of hair, and I tell myself that this would be a pretty exciting confrontation, his and mine. He would most likely fuck me. I wouldn't want to fuck him because he's much heavier than me, and older, and probably not a bottom that often, and I only like tight asses, but that could be fun, so I look him right in the eyes to make a point and then I go in.
There are already two guys at the register. I hesitate. Do I wait in line to explain that I'm coming back in? No, that's stupid. I head directly inside the club, and then I turn around and I see the bouncer giving the OK sign to the cashier.
Now, it's crowded. I go up to the bar. So, this time, beer or vodka? —You already had some vodka earlier when you wanted a beer, I tell myself, plus a beer takes longer to drink, and then you didn't get one at Quick where it's three times less expensive precisely because you were going to get one here, so now, you get one without bitching about less than eleven ounces of fat gain. So I ask the bartender, —A Corona please, but he makes a face, and he says, —A whisky-coke? And I say, —No, a Corona! We had trouble hearing each other because of the music. He brings back a Corona with a wedge of lemon, not lime, but I don't feel like complaining. I hand over fifty francs. I wait a little. He doesn't come back. Apparently beer costs the same as liquor. Fine. I still have a hundred and twenty, which means that potentially I'll be able to buy some ecstasy later.
I take a couple steps and run into Jean-Luc. We kiss. —Hey!, —How are you? —So-so, he says. That's the first time I've heard him say that. Usually he always says, —I'm good!, in the same piercing way, so I instantly think that his, —So-so, can only mean, —Bad results. This freaks me out too much, so I don't ask for details. I tell him about how Quentin wants to interview me, but that I think it's a trap. I ask him what he thinks. He says it's not out of the question. —Yeah, I don't think I am going to do it, I tell him, in any case we've already left two messages each, and we still haven't made an appointment, they must have gone to press already. I ask him about another guy we know from an AIDS group who said at dinner four years ago now that he was having unprotected sex with his boyfriend because he was sick of condoms. He's doing well. I tell Jean-Luc I ran into another guy we were really close to, and who isn't aging well. —Unlike you, I add, to show Jean-Luc that I noticed he doesn't have any pimples on his face anymore.
Right then, Jean-Luc and Stéphane walk by, the eternal couple that I had not seen in ages, and we all say, —Hey!, —How are you?, sincerely happy to see that none of us were dead or visibly sick. I wonder if I should ask more questions, but about what? Their jobs? Tacky. The most memorable fucks they've had recently? Nosy. The recipe for staying together? Now that, that would be interesting but I didn't think to ask at that moment. Anyway, the essential had been said. There was a silence. And then they say, —We're gonna go walk around, see you later!, And they leave.
—I haven't seen them in ages, I tell Jean-Luc. He says, —Yeah, I was telling Jean-Luc that it must have been four years since we've seen each other last, right around when I moved from Sébastopol. Silence. I think back to the life we used to lead there, Quentin, Jean-Luc, and me. To all the things that happened. And then I say, —I'm wearing Alain's brother's t-shirt. I didn't know. It's Quentin who told me. Jean-Luc says, —Yeah. And then he doesn't say anything else, and I don't say anything else, and after thirty seconds I think, —One minute of silence, so I keep quiet.
I look around. There's a really cute guy at the bar. He's talking to the bartender smiling from ear to ear. They're laughing. I think, —He's a natural. Jean-Luc saw that I was watching him. He watches too. I turn around and say, —He's cute. Jean-Luc says, —Not bad. But you can't say this guy is only not bad, this guy is really cute, the type that isn't easy to get, even totally out of my league, unless I was more muscular. Nine more pounds of muscle and I could fuck him. Maybe less?
Jean-Luc says, —Should we go downstairs? People are annoying here. I look around. He's right, vibe is pretty snooty. We take off towards the back. The basement still isn't open, even though it's a quarter past nine. So we wait while watching the guys.
—Have you seen all the muscle men here, I say to Jean-Luc. Jean-Luc agrees to this almost palpable fact. —It wasn't like this ten years ago, now Paris is like Los Angeles, I add exaggerating just a little. —But what do these guys do for a living?, I ask, you're not like that unless you go to the gym at least five times a week. So must not do anything else. I'm being critical because I feel unsettled. It's only been seven months since I started back at the gym, after three years of almost nothing. It's not easy. Actually, what is easy to tell, it's what I've lost. The exercises that I did with thirty-three-pounds weights when I stopped, I did with seventeen when I started back again. Now I'm up to twenty-seven and a half. I'm catching up, but I'm not there yet.
Jean-Luc quickly reassures me, —Yeah, but you know, since most of them are bottoms, with the competition they'd better be really well-built. When you're a top, you always score, it's not the same. I remember that argument, so I say, —Yeah, that's true.
I check the placement of the tank tops hanging under the naked torsos that pass by. Most of the time it's on the right. The fact is that these guys generally fuck each other, other muscle men, I mean, so Jean-Luc's point isn't really all that true. In my opinion, they just want to be adored. That's why they work so hard. To be under the gaze, between the hands of someone who at every second thinks to himself, —He's so handsome! That's a rush, it's true. Respect for the muscle men.
All of a sudden people start moving downstairs. —Want to go?, I ask Jean-Luc. —Not now, it's going to be too cold, he answers. He's right, it's always freezing at first. So we wait and keep talking about the gym, and then I've had enough and I say, —I'm still going to check it out, and he says, —OK. I take two steps towards the stairs and say to myself, —Shit, it's going to be really too cold, I'm gonna get sick, and I turn around but Jean-Luc has already left, so I head down thinking that I'll have room to dance.
There's one guy on the dance floor. Practically no one at the bar. And it's really super cold. I head back up.
Upstairs it's good, it's warm, but there are so many people that it would probably take me ten minutes to get to the staircase leading to the big dance floor, so I give up, and I place myself at the same spot as before and pull out a cigarette. A guy with a lit cigarette not too far away. I ask him for a light showing him my cigarette and mouthing, —Got a light?, without making a sound because the music is so loud that I would have to scream for him to hear me.
The other night on MTV David Lynch was saying how he always blasts loud music while he films because the actors don't move in the same way. They move more mysteriously.
I take a drag from my cigarette while drinking my beer. And then in a flash I see Dimitri making out with another guy practically under my nose, like a couple feet away on my left. Fuck he didn't take long to replace me, the asshole. And then the two faces detach and return to vertical and the guy shows me his face, and it isn't Dimitri but another cute twenty-five-year-old guy with straight hair. I look straight ahead. I take a sip of my bee
r.
People begin moving downstairs in a steady flow. It has to be hotter now. I've finished my cigarette. I take my chances.
Downstairs it's still a little cool but it's tolerable. Anwyay, with my t-shirt and shirt, I'll be fine. The dance floor isn't too full yet, it would be great for dancing, but I don't like the pumping New York music, so I stop behind the banister and watch.
And then I realize that I'm a little down and that I should move, and even though the music is only slightly more bearable I head down the three steps and dance. I endure three or four songs without much enthusiasm.
My shoes aren't tight enough. I bought them on sale in London, half a size too big, they were all that was left. They are really pretty, a reddish brown, thick leather, unadorned, with thick soles, but not great for dancing because they're not high enough, so the ankle is loose and it's annoying because it's harder to get the ankle and the leg to move together. For it to work I would pretty much have to wear a second pair of socks. I'm still going to tie my laces again on the platform by the walkway. It's a little better now.
I'm starting to get hot. I feel like shitting again. Anyway the music isn't that great. I head back up.
This time I go directly for the toilets towards the end. My stall is still open. A little dirtier. I finish my beer sitting peacefully. At least if I take some E later, I won't have to rush to the toilets like the other time at Paul's party. I readjust myself. Leave my beer there for decoration. Rinse my hands. Check myself out in the mirror. Not too bad. My shirt hangs straight. I splash my face, I dry my hands on the sides of my jeans and I'm ready to go.
This time downstairs it's super crowded. I head towards the dance floor, but there's so many people that I bail, and stay four rows from the steps.
I check out everyone around me. One of the guys I had an orgy with two weeks ago following Les Bains's5 after-party is six feet away from me, stuck between two beefy guys. He turns around. We are face to face. —Hey! —How are you? We kiss each other on the cheek. I would have preferred on the mouth, we had sex anyway, so that would make sense, but maybe because it was an orgy he doesn't think it counts.
His face is really ravaged, I remember it being like that but not that bad. Full of big wrinkles when he's what? Thirty-five? And plus you can't see his body at all, even though he's ripped, but this navy blue thing he's got on makes him look tiny, it's ridiculous, he looks like a shrimp even though his body is sublime. Not to mention his nipples (huge), nor his dick which is also really great. Heavy, wide, lots of foreskin.
There's a lull but I feel like talking so I say, —So, do you always just jump up in the air?, alluding to the last time I saw him right before I closed the door to the guy's apartment we were both at. I don't know why, he must have been happy since the four of us heartily fucked without condoms, he showed up naked in the hallway, I was saying goodbye to the guy whose house we were at, he said something that I couldn't hear, and he jumped up and down, like he was punctuating something, and I thought, —Here's someone interesting. But since he had done nothing more but smile, a big glamorous smile, when I had suggested, an hour earlier in the kitchen while peeling an apple that maybe we could do it again both of us another time, I knew I wouldn't find out anything else.
—Ugh, I'm smashed, he says, I've been working nonstop for five days. I don't have the slightest idea of the kind of work he does. But I don't ask. You never know what people do. Who cares. —That's rough, I say. —And now are you done? —No, I start again tomorrow, he says.
I didn't ask him if he had seen the others again. Only if he had gone back to Les Bains since. He said Yes. I said, —It's super cool since it's the Guettas. He agreed. There was a pause. And then he said, —See you later! And I said, OK, batting my eyelids, and he took off towards the dance floor. I saw him kiss someone on the cheeks. They started talking. I thought I did well by not asking him to fuck again, he already rebuffed me once, this time it would have been totally miserable. Yet the sex had been really great when we found ourselves alone, standing in the bathtub. I really liked his style. On the other hand, given his face, if I had not already had sex with him it wouldn't have even crossed my mind to hit on him. So, it's all good. And anyway, it's at least one less occasion to fuck without a condom.
I make my way through the crowd towards the dance floor. There's a free spot next to the first step. Downstairs, it's wild with the pumping New York shit they've been playing for ages, the alphas adore it so there's nothing else to do except wait until it passes.
Everyone moves their extraordinary bodies. And just to my right, a body appears that's even more sublime than all the others. The t-shirt slowly rises to the shoulders revealing a torso whose every muscle is not only huge but perfectly defined. The thing starts to move. I head back upstairs, that'll calm me down, there's more people up there.
Nice surprise. I emerge to some rather good techno instead of the awful disco that I was expecting, given that's what they always play on the big stage. I head down towards the dance floor. There's already a lot less people, you can actually walk around. And there, at the bottom of the stairs, in the middle of the platform, in front of the staircase and the dance floor, I see something that makes my cock shudder. The type of thing that doesn't happen very often. Shaved head. Bare-chested. Black leather vest. Black 501s. Black Rangers. He moves a lot, but well.
I get closer for the details. The keychain is on the left. He's thirty. Beautiful face. Goatee. Considerably more muscled than I am. Black leather wristband at the bottom of his left bicep. He glances at me while continuing to dance. So I decide to show him what I got. I'm weak at the knees at first, I don't like it when I know I'm being watched but the music is good and I settle into the rhythm pretty quickly. Fast and strong. If he looks at me again he'll like it.
After a while I start checking him out again, and pretty soon he looks at me, but in a disinterested way. I dance some more, I let myself go a little more and, and then he stops looking at me, so I decide to take a break to preserve my dignity and I leave to walk around the walkway. Nothing interesting. The go-go boys do their job.
I walk across the dance floor. A little guy stares at me intensely. On the other side, a pretty decent-looking guy, but another arrives and French-kisses him. I stop just before the end of the walkway, with a stunning view of the sexy skinhead, still dancing in the same spot, about sixteen feet away from me. I ask for a light.
And then nothing happens. So I change position. I get closer to him, three feet to his right. But that's still not close enough for something to happen. He keeps dancing. I get closer. And closer. And closer. Now I am right next to him. If he was paying any attention he'd realized that I am hitting on him. I turn my head towards him. And still dancing, he turns his head and looks at me with his blue eyes and he says, —You're hot but I'm not alone. So I say, —Ah…
And then I try to find something else to say but I can't think of anything good fast enough and it's too late, so I move towards the back and then I stop, and I think, —Well, I can unwind, at least I'll be able to dance peacefully, and I start dancing to some good techno.
My dancing gets better and better. I get closer to the front steps to get a better view, and since there's more space right at the bottom by the dance floor, I head down the three steps and dance really hard, pogo-style, over a ten-feet-long and five-feet-wide space, boom, boom, boom boom, until I'm out of breath, and then I go a little easier, but then I get bored so I stop.
He's still there dancing.
I head back up the big staircase to bum around the upstairs bar.
Ten feet of crowd and I stumble upon François the math teacher in the center of a group of friends, super exclusive, very beautiful, very well-dressed. They laugh and dance in a circle and François wiggles his little ass in his black leather chaps, a thick leather bracelet around his left arm that's perfectly offset by a black leather vest and a tight black shirt with very short sleeves that must have cost a fortune. He isn't as ripped as th
e average alpha male, but he makes up the difference with his hardcore look.
Jean-Luc had brought him back at daybreak at Sébastopol five years ago. We met when they woke up, so I guess you could say we know each other, but even though we always saw each other, before as well as after, in all sorts of S&M and fashionable spots, we had never really spoken until I met him at Les Bains's afterparty. He bought me two tequilas on the rocks after I told him that I had stopped working to write the second one.6 I thought that was cool, and I finally hit on him. We discussed a sex hookup, he asked questions like, —So what are you into? —Ok, and this?, and I was OK with just about everything, which made us both pretty turned on, but he wanted to do it without taking anything, which turned me off a little. And then he suggested a little foreplay with my tits using his cigarette, a classic, but he brought the butt a little too close. —It feels good when it's warm but not when it burns, I said. On the other hand, the French kisses were pretty hot. But still I found him to be too rough, too domineering. Basically, when he gave me his number telling me to call him in two weeks because he had too much work before, I thought that I probably wasn't going to do it.
Nonetheless he's triumphant tonight, and he's moving really well, a lot more flexible than what I can manage to do. I don't know what's happening, I've lost my enthusiasm, I must have gone out too much these past few weeks.
He does some waves, chest first. If I stay here another second more, I think I'll have to go talk to him, it's been a while since he's seen me, but I don't feel like it, so I head down to the basement, and as I pass by him, I pinch his butt.
I don't look back. I keep going through the crowd. I check out all the guys. With the music it's like a music video. And all of a sudden I freak out, I feel lonely, I almost head home. And then I pull myself together, I tell myself that it's still early, the interesting stuff happens at the end of the night, that I just need to hold on. The problem is that I feel that I am really starting to sulk, and nothing good's going to happen to me with that kind of energy. So I take some deep breaths, a few in a row, to calm down, and I straighten up, I stretch my chest, I roll my shoulders back and down, and I feel better, I feel a quarter of an almost natural smile creeping across my face, replacing the tense fixed grin from before. I look around. It already looks better.
The Works of Guillaume Dustan, Volume 1 Page 14