The Works of Guillaume Dustan, Volume 1

by Guillaume Dustan

  I go back to the basement. I dance. After about five minutes, I'm already too hot. I take off my shirt. I roll it up. I tie it around my waist. Another five minutes and it's time for my t-shirt. I don't want it to be soaking with cold sweat when I put it back on. I keep dancing, and then I start to get tired, so I decide that it's time for a pick-me-up. I pass through the tight crowd to reach the bar. Paul is there, leaning against a pillar, talking to someone. I don't care, I go right up to him and say, —How've you been? He says, —Good and you? I say, —Yeah, my head says, —No. I keep going., —So, was your party last night? He normally throws one on the last Saturday of each month. —No, I just got back from vacation, so I didn't do it, he says. I reply, —Oh, good, I say, because yesterday I was at Station, and all of a sudden I thought that it must have been the night of your party, but it was too late, it was already five, and I was really pissed that I missed it.

  — How was Station?, he asks. —Saint Tropez in Paris? I say, —No thanks! he says, in a disgusted tone. Here I'm exaggerating, considering I stayed until five thirty a.m. There was a group of exotic looking women, probably trannies. The one in the middle with an enormous mouth, eyes, black hair returned my gaze. I thought, —She looks like Lapin.7

  Paul throws his head back. He laughs. He acts all bougie since he started throwing these parties. —And how was your vacation, was it good? I ask, —Awesome!, he says. —Where were you?, I ask. —In Thailand, on the island of Phuket (as if I didn't know that Phuket was an island), then in Sydney for carnival (such a faggy vacation). —Cool, I say. —And yours, was it good?, he asks, —Yeah, I say, I went to Toulon and squatted with a friend while I tried to make progress on my second book, and now I've been here in Paris for about a month, I was supposed to only stay for a week, but I can't bring myself to leave, there's so much to do. He nods his head. And then, instead of buying me a drink like the last few times we ran into each other, he starts talking to his friend again. I can't hear anything, the music is too loud, I'd have to be right up on him to hear but that would be too needy, and plus I hadn't been particularly nice to his friend.

  The last time I was in Paris I had sex with Paul. I didn't particularly intend to. I had already done it four years ago at Sébasto's and it hadn't been that great. At the end it mustn't have been for him either, since I'd explained to him in great detail all that wasn't good with the way he fucked. But he wanted me, and he had me. He gave me some super good E, and bought me drinks at all the bars in the Marais, and when I told him I wanted to smoke he found me some sublime hash in no time at all. Then I told him there wasn't any issue with me ending up at his place. I was so fucked up that I barely felt anything when worked my ass after fucking me. Yet I should have been suspicious because the first time I did that I told him that one couldn't possibly imagine touching a guy's hole with fingernails like that. Only that time, I was a lot less fucked up, just high on some hash as usual, so I didn't let him use me.

  There's a lull between him and the other guy, so I lean in towards his ear and say, —I have to still tell you that it took me two weeks to heal after the last time, since your nails were too long. That made him laugh. —Oh yeah, you already told me that four years ago, he says. —Yeah, but you haven't cut them despite that, I tell him. Nothing. He starts talking to the other guy again.

  I'm a little annoyed. After a blow like that, he could have at least bought me a drink. I look around. Then he's quiet. I say, —Do you have any E for me? —Maybe, he says. So I say, —I can pay if you want. He says, —If you pay, then yes. —Fuck the last time you gave it to me, I say laughing trying to stay nice. —I have long nails, he says. So I say —So it's a hundred, right? He nods. I reach into my jean pocket and pull out a hundred, without hiding it just to fuck with him, and he gives me some E with one hand while taking my money with the other, and I say, —Thanks, and he says, —You'll see, this one is really pleasant, and I say, —I hope (since the one he sold me the last summer cost twice the normal price and was pretty average) and I add, —And that way I even saved myself a drink.

  In theory you shouldn't drink alcohol when you're on E. It's not too good for the liver, but most of all it brings you down. If necessary, clear alcohol, pure. Ideally a little bit of acid or speed and some cannabis or also, supposedly, a very small amount of Special K. But I don't have any of that tonight, which isn't so bad, since I don't especially want to get completely wasted. —Later, I say to Paul, and I head into the crowd towards the dance floor. The skinhead from earlier passes by me, followed by what must be his man. We look at each other. He really isn't bad. The other less. I retrieve the E that I had put in my front right pocket and I slip it into the mini pocket just on top to be safe.

  The dance floor is a cluster of alpha males getting off on all their muscles. The music is still just as weak. I feel like going back and asking Paul where people are going after, but he wasn't very nice, so I don't. I decide to go take a piss and grab a drink of water. I don't like the bathrooms downstairs because they're small and get dirty quick. I head back upstairs.

  I go into the men's room and take a piss at the trough, it's quiet since there's no one around. And then I wash my hands and throw some water on my face and neck, and take a look at myself in the mirror.

  An Arab guy in jeans and a jean shirt, thirty-five years old, brawny, comes out of a stall. —Wow, are you hairy!, he says. I turn towards him and I say, —Yeah, staring him straight in the eye and smiling big, I'm an animal. —Hey, there are certainly people who must like that, he adds. —Yeah, I have plenty of fans, I tell him laughing. —But still, that much hair, it smells, he says. —You're tripping, I say, me, I always smell good (that's what Basquiat says in the Schnabel movie I saw three days ago), I smell like honey… He laughs and he says, —So you must be a little bee… I think about it for a moment to see if I agree, and then I say, —Yeah, I say, going flower to flower!, and my smile grows even wider, and I hold it like a precious gem as I walk away, wiping my hands dry on my jeans, going back down the stairs towards the basement.

  I run into Tom in the antechamber. The night is starting to take shape.

  He's still just as cute as ever. Even more so, since he's been on the triple therapy. As his everlasting friend George told me at the ASMF party in February—It's crazy how it perks them up! It must be said that before he always had a tan because of the drugs he was taking for his Kaposi's sarcoma. His boyfriend, an American who was struggling to find a job in Paris, forget about a residence permit, died three years ago. It was horrible, an entire year of diarrhea in Tom's apartment over on rue Quincampoix, and then he went to die at his mother's house in the U.S. Tom is for me the incarnation of courage.

  Tonight he is looking very good. A perfect look, with a little black choker and a ’60s-style rayon short-sleeve shirt that shows off his huge biceps and his full, round pecs. I won't mention his nose and his thick wet lips. I've always wanted to have sex with him, but without success. I met him when he was Quentin's regular lover, about five years ago. At that time nothing ever happened because I think he was a little in love with Quentin. Quentin, on the other hand, would spill all the details on how things went in bed, and what he said was totally credible, so it made me drool. Plus, I heard other things. Anyway. And more recently, last summer, while we were smoking a super strong joint in the place where I was squatting in Belleville, which should have helped matters, he told me when I brought up the subject that now he couldn't because we knew each other too well. Well, screw it.

  —Hey! How are you? So? You're in Paris? Tom asks, and we kiss each other on the cheek. I confirm and then I start to complain. The music is boring, do you know where we should go next? He doesn't, there's nothing special going on aside from at the Queen, but things will get better here, and it looks like Pascal is going to DJ all night, they're not going to stop at one a.m. like usual. —Oh that's cool, I say (reasonably impressed that he's on a firstname basis with the DJ), I have some E. I'm such a hick, I think. You don't say thi
ngs like that, unless you're going to offer some, and even still. This one time my friend Todd just stuck his tongue out and there was half a pill on the end of it, he signaled that it was for me, and I took it just like that. Classy. Tom and I catch up and then he takes off. I stay there, I don't feel like going back into the crowd.

  —Hey!

  This one, it's been ages. I don't even remember his name. Seven years? Eight years? It was when Quentin and I were starting out, we actually met him at Gay Tea Dance to be exact, and we took him home for a threesome at rue Henry-Monnier. Apparently, it was a good memory for all of us because every time we see each other since, we say hello, which isn't always the case with past hookups.

  I give him a kiss on both cheeks. Usually I don't do that, but here it's been years since I have seen him, and I feel like being close. I wonder if he was the one who was wearing that sort of mauve leatherette jockstrap with strings, but I don't think he was, it must have been someone else, the same type but bigger, he's also a nice memory. At any rate, he hasn't changed a bit. His face has aged a little maybe, and he's got a goatee now. He also seems trendier, he doesn't have those tight, distressed 501s like before, but beige army pants. I think they make him less sexy.

  —How are you? he asks, It's been ages since I've seen you. —Yeah, I say, I left Paris for two years. And you? —Ok, he says. —Still single? (one of my favorite questions). —No, I've been with a guy for five years now, he replies. —Oh yeah but how come I've never seen you with him? I ask. —He's British and lives in London, he says, but it works out, with Eurostar. —Cool, I say, and plus, you don't live together, so it makes it a lot easier under those circumstances. He agrees. —And do you see each other often? I ask. —It depends, he says, sometimes practically every weekend, sometimes less. —And here you're out all by yourself, I say full of innuendos. —No no, he's here somewhere, he says. Oh look, there he is.

  The new guy is my size. Shirtless. A bit of a potbelly. Him at least it's clear he doesn't go to the gym more than three times a week. Real army pants, dark green. Big brown boots (Caterpillar?) Short chestnut hair. Blue eyes. Slightly thin lips.

  —Andy…uh, what's your name again?

  —Guillaume.

  —Andy, this is Guillaume.

  He looks me up and down. Actually, I would even say he was checking me out.

  —He likes hair, his boyfriend says.

  Indeed, mine is visible. My shirt is completely open, the sleeves rolled all the way up. —Oh yeah? I say, and I kiss Andy on the cheeks. But I'm not that into him, I really don't like pale, hairless men. And above all, he doesn't have a big-enough mouth. That said, it's always nice to please.

  —What are you guys up to after? I ask. —We don't really know, it seems like things will keep going here, the French guy replies. —Yeah, I say, there's a rumor. —Otherwise there's always the Queen, he says. —Yeaaaah, I say, —It's disco on Sundays, isn't it?, disco night kills me, here it's much better. —Yep, he says. This is where we met, remember? I say. —I remember.

  Andy asks him something in English. I don't listen.

  I don't think Andy is a queen. He's normal, the other one too. Maybe just a bit more precious. They both must fuck each other. The one I know has to be a bit more of a bottom, Quentin fucked him hard back then. But who knows. Surely he must have evolved since, just like me, like everyone. We all get more butch as we get older. Even Terrier8 has become macho. The last time I saw him at the ASMF party, he wouldn't stop getting his dick sucked.

  —I'm going to go walk around, I say, later! It's crazy at the bar so I head off towards the left, along the walkway. It's beginning to be cruising time. Eye contact. It took me a long time to realize that when someone looks at me, it's because he's interested. And yet I don't look at anyone I'm not attracted to. I'm not interested in knowing that I'm attractive to someone who isn't attractive to me. And when I find a guy attractive I'm actually kind of shy. Except when I really like them a lot. Then I can't keep from hitting on them. So it all works out rather well.

  I head back to the dance floor. Since I don't want to drink, I'll go dance. The music has gotten slightly better. I find a spot that isn't too asphyxiating near the speakers, it's better in the corner where everyone's shirtless. And I dance. I let the music infuse itself in me, moving very gently at first. And once my ass finds the rhythm I accelerate. The pelvis moves on its own. I shift from one foot to the other. The shoulders start to roll and the arms follow. Faster. I shift back to the pelvis to balance myself. The energy stops at my navel. I contract my abs. Dance above. Chest forward, arms in the hollow of my abdomen. Chest back, arms raised, belly beating the air. The music isn't deep or fast enough for me to do what I really want but still I do it wholeheartedly. Everyone is smiling all around me.

  I tie up the sides of my shirt so I feel better about my upper body and it's sexier. It's better to forget the bottom half, I can't feel anything with these fucking big-ass jeans, just my knees, not the ass or thighs like when they're normally tight.

  My shoes are really too big, it's annoying.

  And plus the music has gotten totally stupid, all HI-NRG with the beat in double time, no echo, no nothing. I look around for a good dancer who I can get in sync with, it's a trick I recently learned, it's motivating, but no one inspires me, well, maybe that guy, but I try, and then no, it doesn't work.

  I decide to take another walk around. I go through the dancers, it's a whole art, you have to seize every opportunity not to get smacked or elbowed in the face. The dancers have the right of way. The nighttime crowd is civil, nothing like the daytime. This surprised Delphine and Bettina when I took them to the Queen two months ago. No one pushes or shoves. You feel a hand—or the tips of fingers—on your hip, your shoulder, your arm—two hands when you're too liquored up to pay attention. You're gently rotated to make you understand that you have to give way. You give way. There's also the lit cigarettes that mustn't burn anyone. People hold them up high at first, but once they're half-smoked they flip the lit end around to the inside of the palm. Transporting a full glass is a game of skill in itself. Personally I cover the top with my hand for more security. If it moves too much I'd rather lick my palm than be covered with a gin and tonic. There are never any fights. It's peaceful.

  I run into Tom at the same spot as earlier. This time, Georges is with him. It's funny because I know Georges in a completely different way than Tom. We were in the same class senior year. That's fifteen years ago. We didn't really talk to each other a lot back then, he mostly kept to himself and I was one of the superstars. It was about six years later that we ran into each other, back when I started to get engulfed in the ghetto. I saw him a lot at Palace. He was already pretty well-built, maybe a little less than now, I'm not sure. Me, I was strong and proud and I would dance like crazy without getting tired for hours, while everyone watched me, It was cool even though I was very unhappy because of Quentin.

  Georges and I have gotten even closer in the last two years. I saw him each time I was back in Paris. I felt good being around him because of all the things we had each lived through in parallel, nightlife, the sex, the drugs, the failed relationships. But this time I didn't contact him. He gives me the impression of having found such strong inner peace that it's annoying me. But he's a really good person.

  Anyway Georges is shirtless and I am staring at his nipples, which aren't over-developed but beautifully chiseled, and I kiss him on the cheeks (we've never fucked, that's also probably what's bothering me) and I say, —Hey how are you? —Yeah, real good, he says (I knew it!). —How about you? —Mmmm, I say, in a semi-pathetic tone. I think I'm going to drop the E pretty soon.

  Georges asks me how Marcelo is doing (Marcelo is Lapin). He met him last summer when we came to Paris together. I say that I dumped him after it got to be too much, we were hitting each other, but that it's OK. —Do you guys still see each other? —No, he didn't have a visa anymore, he went back to Chile, actually in the beginning he was working, he had
a residence permit for nine months, and after we struggled to get him a tourist visa and then had to humiliate ourselves with the cops to get them to extend it, normally he was supposed to come back in September with a student visa but that didn't happen since I broke up with him, and now he's in Santiago, that freaked me out a little because there you can't get access to treatment unless you have money, finally he found a really good job, but a really good job in Chile means like 400 dollars a month, anyway I call him once a week to keep his spirits up and I'm planning on going there next winter to see if we have a future together. How about you? Still single? —Yeah, he answers laughing, I've sort of given up. —Yeah, I say, either way it's a mess.

  —Where's your man? I ask Tom. —Gone for the weekend, he says. —That sucks, I would have liked to meet him, I say. I always want to see what other guys’ partners are like. The alchemy of couples, that fascinates me. —Is everything still going well between you two? I ask. —So-so, he says. I say, —Oh… —It's fine but I'm not in love, he says. —Yeah that sucks, I say. It's not the same when you don't think it's Real Love, I tell him, emphasizing the capitals.

  I don't remember what we say next, and then Tom and Georges say something to each other that I don't hear, and then no one says anything, each dancing in place, and since George dances particularly well, with all the latest arm gestures, which I haven't yet learned since I'm only rarely in the capital, I fuck with him a little by imitating him. After a while he notices and says, —Are you copying me?, in an outraged tone of voice and I say, —Yeah, I'm trying to learn all the latest moves. He doesn't comment, which means I'm really an asshole but that he forgives me.