That's when I should have bought them a drink to repair the vibe, but I didn't think of it. I said, —I'm going to go walk around, and I head over to the walkway.
Heavy traffic around the corner. I leaned up against one of the big black leatherette couches waiting for it to die down. I looked around. I was feeling a bit worn out. A guy was staring at me, a young skinny skinhead, badly shaven, with his head bent forward and mean eyes. I looked away. I moved on.
Just after the turnstile there was a spot on the couch. I sat down. I've been standing for three hours, I thought. To my right was a pretty unremarkable young Chinese guy. I watched all the guys go by. The skinhead came around and stood about six feet away, leaning against the guardrail. Talking to a guy who didn't appear to belong to him. He kept looking at me, I don't know, with the expression of a masochistic hooligan, or rather of a vicious thug, yeah, that must be his trip, vicious thug. A couple years ago, I would have totally fucked him, I thought to myself. After about five minutes, I got up. I took the path by the stage, retracing my steps.
While I walk upstairs I realize I have to shit again. It's really incredible, now ecstasy does the same thing hash does to me: my body knows it's about to relax so much so that it anticipates it.
I find my stall. My empty Corona is still there. I shit and then I wipe myself like crazy and then I get up and I retrieve the E at the bottom of the mini-pocket in my jeans. Since it doesn't have a groove, I break it with my teeth so I don't lose any of it.
The half left in my hand is too big, so I break off another little piece to make it really a half, below a certain threshold there's no effect. On the other hand, I don't feel like being super fucked up in case it's too strong like at the Queen two months ago. Thankfully Todd's British boyfriend was used to this sort of thing, we hugged it out until we both felt OK. That's why I only take half, if it's not enough, I just take the rest later.
I'll never get old.
I button my shirt back up and tuck it back into my underwear, and I zip up my jeans and buckle my belt and I loop my jeans belt back on my leather belt again. They're still not tight but at least they're not baggy. And then I walk out of the stall and I rinse my hands and I drink from the faucet, and I rinse my mouth and I throw some water on my face and my forehead and neck, and I dry my hands on the sides of my jeans and I look at myself in the mirror. I adjust the sides of my shirt. A little smack behind to flatten it. Here we go again.
I'm going downstairs. I'm going to dance.
I'm waiting for the E to kick in.
It normally takes around a half hour. That's long.
After about fifteen minutes, I think I feel something happening visually, but it passes.
After a half hour still nothing. I go to the bathroom at the end of the passageway, it's too annoying to go back upstairs, and I look in the filthy mirror hoping that my pupils are dilated. No dilation. This fits with the total absence of any effect from the half-E. I guess what Paul really meant by, —really pleasant: — nothing. At any rate it's obvious that it's not the same kind he slipped me when he wanted to fuck me. I leave the bathroom in a huff, even more because there's nowhere to sit down. A guy walks by and looks me right in the eyes. I look at my watch. Eleven twenty. If nothing's happened in ten minutes, I'll take the other half. I'm afraid that one won't do anything either, when the dosage is too weak nothing happens unless you take the whole thing all at once.
I head back to dance. Then, after a couple minutes, I finally feel something kick in. I slow down to better feel what's happening: muscles relaxing, warmth, deeper breathing. My back straightens all by itself. This is cool. Then, all of a sudden it's out of control, and I feel like barfing but I calm down by breathing slowly, without moving, and it passes. I never puke anymore when I take E. I've mastered it.
And then it's the best: I start smiling, a smile I can't help but make, and that I don't feel like stopping, because I am truly happy. I'm feeling really good. I still hold back a little, this isn't London. The last time at the Queen the boys in the bathroom got totally pissed when I went there to drink some water, It's completely ridiculous.
It smells like hash. The musclemen next to me are smoking dope. Things have really changed in ten years. Before you'd never smoke openly like that in a club. It will be legal soon, that's for sure.
Ok, so now I'm hot, I am feeling good, so I take off my shirt and I play with my body. Boom, boom, boom, I roll my arms to the beat. There's still a lot of people, so I can't do what I really want, like jump in the air or walk like a duck, or walk like Linda Evangelista, or shake my ass, or dry hump an imaginary ass, but it's not a big deal I'm still happy.
Right when I start to tell myself I'm really thirsty and that I should go grab a drink, Tom passes by and gives me his Corona, my favorite beer! I'm dreaming… I take a sip and give it back. We dance next to each other a little. Smiles. I think he must have taken some drugs too but I'm too lazy to check his pupils to be sure. Actually I don't give a fuck.
He leaves. I keep dancing, not too bad at shaking my ass, and then I start to tell myself that it wouldn't be a bad idea to take the other half that I still have, wondering if I'm not totally coming down off my high, in any case I'm not peaking that's for sure.
Since it turns out that I still feel like shitting (even though I was really convinced that I was empty, it's the E that does this), it's time to head back up to the upstairs toilet. I try to cut through the dance floor since it's the shortest, but the people are moving so quickly that I should avoid that mess (smile), and head off down the right side peacefully walking down the walkway (relax).
Thrilled by this choice, I cross the few feet that separate me from the walkway on shaky legs and smiling like an idiot at everyone (it's good to be stupid), and that's when I run into Georges leaning against the wall while taking a hit (so cool!). He hands it to me, I take a drag, I give it back with a wink and head off.
After climbing the steps looking divine (with one small hitch on the path, though) I march triumphantly down the darkened hallway. —Guillaume!, I hear behind me, so I turn around (Hey?), and Paul, whom I've already moved past, and who's with a guy, asks, —Everything going OK? —Yeah, super, I reply, —I'm going to take the other half, and feel a smile starting from behind my ears and I take off and he goes, —Have a good night!, and I nod my head, already gone.
The walkway is dark, it's nice, I don't even know how I am walking it's so easy. My God, the skinhead is still standing there from earlier. I head towards the left. A guy smiles and brushes my left nipple as he passes by. He's hot so it's nice. I run into the guy whose name I forgot and his British boyfriend who likes hairy men, and I smile at them as I pass by, and then finally I get to the stairwell, so I head right, and climb the stairs. Calm and serene. The top of the staircase is blocked by some sort of grey security rope. There isn't anyone upstairs anymore, they're cleaning it for the next event. I step over the rope. The empty bathrooms are still filthy. But not revolting.
My beer is still there. Still empty. Oh no, there's still some at the bottom. I drink the last drops, and then I try to get the slice of lemon, but it won't work with my fingers, I'd need something else, so after a while I give up and I piss, and then I sit down to shit. This gives me the idea to rest. I sit back against the wall. I tip my head back. I close my eyes. This is great.
And then I wipe myself (I checked when entering that there was still toilet paper. No problem), I get dressed with only my t-shirt, not my shirt, I want to be more casual, I roll my shirt up and hang it off my belt (left side). I retrieve the half of ecstasy from my mini-pocket and I put it in my mouth, and then I flush and I leave and I look at myself, it's good I'm not too wrecked, and I rinse my hands, and then I take some water, cold, in my palm, and I drink it. Another guy who wasn't afraid of the security rope arrives. I take a last look at myself and leave the room.
I stop to get a cigarette (I don't have my shirt on anymore, my cigarettes are in my back left pocket). I ponder the dark
and empty club. An Indian man is washing the floor some distance away. I go back down the stairs. Ask for a light. Take a big hit to get back that fiery feeling I had last time at the Queen, with those Rothmans Blue cigarettes, but especially with some stronger E. Right now, I'm not hallucinating as much.
It's then that I think about chewing some gum. It'd be a blast to chew some gum while smoking. I'd have to ask someone I know. Like Jean-Luc for example, who is still here dancing right at the bottom of the stairs, and who always has some on him. So I head down to the dance floor and stand right in front of him and say, —Jean-Luc, you wouldn't have any chewing gum? (in a languorous voice). He opens his eyes. —Umm no, bummer, I gave away the last one not too long ago. —Shit, I say,—I really want some gum. —They have some by the coat check, he says. Blow pops. My hope is reborn. —How much?, I ask. —Not expensive, something like two francs, he says. I search my pockets. Perfect, I have like seven left. —Jean-Luc, you saved my life, I tell him and I leave.
I walk along the edge of the dance floor to access the small staircase that leads straight to the exit. I'm walking super slowly because I'm really fucking high. I get to the coat check and think they must be able to tell. There are only two rows of jackets left. The blond girl is talking with a brown-haired guy. No one is paying attention to me. All good.
—Good evening… Are there any lollipops left?, I ask the guy who's sitting on the counter with his legs dangling. —There's two, he says. —One will do, I say. —How much? —Two francs.
I pay, I take my lollipop and I head off passing the first straight couple of the night as I head down the stairs.
This lollipop is incredibly hard to open. It takes at least five minutes, the same amount of time it takes to get back downstairs, find a corner of the walkway, try to open it with my fingers, and when that doesn't work, with my teeth.
After a while I finally manage to tear up a small piece from the wrapper that's sticking to it, and I peel it off, and I put the sucker in my mouth.
It's Coca-Cola flavor.
It's huge.
I try to suck it hard to make it smaller because it's stretching my mouth out, but that doesn't work either, so I settle for folding the white stick in two, it's a little less ridiculous like that I think. And then I head back on the dance floor.
That's why all the young super energetic guys had them yesterday at Station. It makes you salivate and then you aren't so horribly thirsty like you always are on E.
It's also pretty helpful to have the sugar for energy.
It's right then that I recognize Frédéric. He's dancing shirtless in the middle of the crowd just a few feet from me. I head towards him, —Hey, I say. He smiles big. We kiss. —How many years has it been since we've seen each other? Three years, I think, since he worked reception at my gym. We met back when I used to live on Henry-Monnier, he and Donald were neighbors, and we'd run into each other on Saturdays at the laundromat. —How's Donald?, I ask. He nods his head towards him, dancing shirtless on the steps.
It's already been a few years since Donald's metamorphosis. Back when Quentin and I had sex with him, he was super skinny, a twig, his stomach stuck to his spine, skinny legs, and a small hairy ass. The only thing that hasn't changed is his beautiful Latino face. As for the rest, now he's an athlete. I hate him a little bit because back then I didn't do so good, Quentin always took over during threesomes. I would have liked to do it again correctly, but then it was too late. I smile at him from where I'm standing without going over and kissing him hello.
I'm standing in the hallway. Andy comes over. There aren't a lot of people around. I can see his bluish gray eyes staring me down. He says, —I want you, in his amazing English accent. Silence. —Really bad.
I am completely fried, totally peaking again. I roll my shoulders. I say, slowly, —That's nice, but I really don't feel like fucking. Silence. I don't want to be rude. So I explain, —Look, I'm on E and I'm feeling good, I don't feel like fucking right now.
Actually it's his mouth that bothers me. It isn't big enough.
—And plus I don't really like blonds, I add. —But I'm a redhead, he says. I've got red hair. —Not really, I say. —Down there, I'm ginger. More than here, he says with a twang. He points to his head.
I stare at him thinking, —He's a freak. I like that. —Do you like this?, he barely sputters in French. I say, —Yeah, I do.
His boyfriend arrives. —–Do you like him?, he asks. —That's your boyfriend, I tell him.
I'm so old-fashioned.
The math teacher is dancing on the dance floor. I'm above him, on the walkway, by a column. He turns his head. Eye contact. Straight as an arrow. He breaks first.
I'm in the downstairs bathroom. I take a piss. It relaxes my body. I take the opportunity to check if my balls and cock are a lot or just a little bit shriveled by the E. It's not too bad. I zip up.
I turn on the spot and exit the potty.
I turn right around to exit the squat toilet facing forward.
Down the stairs.
One guy says to another, —Next week, I'm going to Madagascar.
I'm hot. I stop at the bottom of the small stairwell. There's some fresh air.
People are starting to leave.
A tall thin guy leaning against the railing in front of me stares at me with the intensity of someone with nothing to lose.
The guy to my left, beautiful face, young, buff, says to the guy next to him, beautiful face, young, buff, —I work for a newspaper. A business newspaper.
The tall skinny guy is still staring at me.
I head back to the dance floor.
The muscle men are still out there. Calmer. Wearing more. Beer in hand.
Nod hello to Gabriel, who works in porn. We don't get along too well right now. Back when I met him, about five or six years ago, I was very disdainful.
—Do you remember me?
I say, —Yeah, I think so. What's your name again?
—Thierry. We fucked one time at your place and once at mine. You're Guillaume.
I remember. September ’93. I was back from Italy. A month of swimming, push-ups and abs. I was unquestionably at the basement of Palace. We had dinner at Diable9 with a friend of his who just got back from Goa. And then we had sex at my place. He wanted me to come in his mouth but I couldn't. A few days later we had an orgy at his place, bareback, with a Swiss skinhead we cruised together the first night.
So apparently semen keeps you young. He has more wrinkles than at the time, when he was already pretty rough-looking, but he's still just as fit.
—That was a good memory, he says. I say, —Me too, it stayed with me. I had fucked him pretty good with a dildo to make up for myself. Barebacking used to freak me out back then, I went limp.
He turns in arabesque in his charcoal t-shirt and greenish-gray sirwal pants. Dances with his Black boyfriend who's just as graceful as he is. Very nice.
That was Nicholas.
He's changed. confident. Shoulders. He has a classier look. Shorter hair. Clearer skin.
I head towards him and I put my hand on his tight gray-blue t-shirt that says Fashion sucks.
I don't say anything. He looks at me doubtfully. —You don't remember, do you? I tell him, —Uhh, a year, a year and a half ago?, he says. —No, more than that, I tell him.
It's been about four years now. I met him on the Minitel. He came over to rue Bellefond. We fucked (safely) and used dildos while making out hardcore, it was hot, and then when I did him again he was clearly more passive, almost maso. It was actually me who had pushed him down that path by playing the macho dominator, but I ended up feeling alone.
His face lit up. —Ooh! You're in Paris right now?, he asks. —I am back for good, I say. —You're the one who wrote a book, he says. We talked about it with David, the one who you call Doc, we were on vacation together last summer. How did it turn out? — Yeah, I answer, not bad, 3000.10 —Yeah, that isn't bad, he says. —And you, how are you? I say. —Ok, he says.<
br />
Four years ago, he was freaking out about his T4 count.
—You're getting more and more stylish, I tell him. —What? (the music is really loud). I say again, —Stylish! He still didn't hear me. —Stylish! Now he understood. He shrugs and smiles a little.
The music is worse. I rest on the edge of the dance floor.
Nicholas says something in Thierry's ear. They know each other too.
I don't think I'd do most of the guys I've done if I met them today.
I'm withdrawing from sex.
Andy comes towards me, shirtless. I'm dancing, shirtless. He says, —So? You don't like me? No one's ever hit on me like that before, I think. I say, —Pfff… it's not that… it's just that I don't really feel like fucking tonight. Pause. —You coming to London? I don't really understand what he means.
—Do you ever go to London?, his boyfriend translates, and joins us. Here's an open relationship that's working, I say to myself. Actually, I am supposed to go there soon. With some E it would probably be good with Andy. —I'm going there in ten days, I say.—Ok, let me give you my number, Andy says with his thick accent. Do you have any paper? I shake my head, No. —Ask the bartender, I tell him. He leaves.
—If not, we could always have a threesome here, his boyfriend says. I say, —Yeah, that would be nice, but I don't feel like fucking tonight. He doesn't say anything.
We dance.
Andy comes back. He hands me a small piece of blue paper. He says, —Call me? I reply, —Of course. I put his number in my back right pocket.
Cold. Put something back on. People often catch a cold on E because they don't pay attention to freaky stuff.
With Tom and Georges, shirtless on the walkway. —Uh oh! You gotta shave all that!, a little queen tells me while passing by.
I don't say anything. I look at Tom. Then Georges. —It's a young crowd, I say.
They smile.
The lighting is orangey-pink.
The Works of Guillaume Dustan, Volume 1 Page 16