The Works of Guillaume Dustan, Volume 1

by Guillaume Dustan

  I stopped sucking but I stayed hunched over, fascinated by what I saw, the dick I was sucking, the hands, the crotch, all the bodies surrounding me that were becoming more and more indistinct. I could be swallowed up by this jumble of hands, dicks, mouths. I could stop caring about knowing who they belonged to, if they were big, old, ugly, diseased. I could easily go off, go crazy, swallow every cock that came my way, become an animal, only to come out hours later, clothes torn, stained, naked, covered in sweat, saliva, sperm. I was already thinking about how the bourgeois guys from Trap would look at me as if I was a slut, a whore. I stood up quickly, tears in my eyes. I stumbled over to the door holding my jeans up with my hands. I got dressed by the exit, my heart racing, without daring to look ahead.

  3

  (1988)

  But I went back. A week later. Alone. I noticed this guy leaning on the ramp. Older than me. Thirty. Cute. Checkered grey-blue shirt, rolled up. Well-built. Dissatisfied look. I walked towards him, relaxed because I had already come in the backroom. I asked him if he liked it here, playing it cool given the face he made earlier when he was looking around. We criticized it. When there was nothing left to say I looked him straight in the eyes. He French-kissed me. He played with my nipples (disappointed to see that there wasn't much there, but he didn't show it. He would tell me about this a couple years later. We went on to see each other after that summer, not often, but regularly). It seemed more prudent to go to his place, since he was a perfect stranger.

  His place was OK, clean. He rolled a joint with some Moroccan hash. It was the first time I smoked since it had made me sick five years earlier in the country with my sister's friends. But he didn't need to know that. He played some house records, the best of which was this song that I didn't know, Bam-Bam. Actually in that genre I only knew MARRS's Pump Up the Volume, which I danced to with these prehistoric moves (I had learned them that winter in New York). I was happy. My knowledge was increasing. We drank some grapefruit tequila and then he fucked me, with poppers, on the living room couch. We finished on the carpet. With the poppers, the hash, the alcohol, the music, fucking was different than what I was used to. It lasted much longer. It was way more intense.

  I saw Gilles regularly that summer. We would go tanning on the lawn at Les Halles. Had dinner at Studio, cour du Temple. When I came back from taking a piss (I always have to pee before eating in restaurants, half out of curiosity, half from the stress of having to spend so much time looking into someone else's eyes), he had made himself comfortable, his legs stretched out and spread under the table, you could sort of see the bottom of his ass through his torn 501s. So trashy that it made me shudder, me who was always so clean in my Lacoste.

  I got to know the violet light in the middle of my head, eyes closed, when I took a hit of poppers while he was fucking me, from the front, then from the back, the skylight was open, it was August, I looked at Paris thinking of the scene (was it Our Lady of the Flowers or Funeral Rites?3) where the two guys have sex on the rooftop. He ended up fucking me with a dildo that wasn't much bigger than his dick but that seemed enormous. I had a dizzying, cold sensation when he put it inside me, it was the first time in my life that I had been fucked by something other than a dick, I took a big hit of violet light for it to last, it was so good. Hypnotic.

  So good that I couldn't get hard to have sex with Nathalie, who by all accounts, was the woman of my dreams, beautiful, elegant, intelligent, aware of my tastes and in love with me, and whom I would have married even without a name and without a good family. I had to choose, so I left her and continued to see Gilles until he dropped me, anyway he had always said that he couldn't love me, he was still hung up on his ex.

  So I decided to become a bombshell. At the end of the summer, I shaved my head for the first time in my life. I bought an old green bomber jacket (extra small) off my sister's boyfriend. My mother didn't recognize me when she saw me coming out of the métro. I thought I was off to a great start.

  4

  (1988)

  I still remember Christophe's horrified expression (who I was seeing for the first time since the gnocchi incident) when he sat down, like he was going to burst into flames, on my bed that I had moved from my bedroom to the living room, right in front of the entry door of my one-bedroom apartment. I didn't give a shit about his reaction, I had decided to live out my fantasies. I poured some tea and then sat back down on the armchair facing him. I was wearing a souvenir t-shirt from a parachuting contest. Black. Tight jeans. Studded belt. He said I looked unhealthy dressed like that. He was properly dressed, like always. I didn't say anything. We drank our tea.

  Then I went over and sat down next to him and kissed him and we had sex. Even if I didn't love him anymore, I always loved his nose, his mouth, his incredibly soft matte skin, the dark rings around his black eyes, his dick almost identical to mine. Two mirrors rubbing against each other. He always had this extraordinary ability to move smoothly from one position to another, like an animal. He didn't fuck me because he had decided to stop having anal sex with guys. He never liked it that much before, I remember how angry he got back in Milan this one time when I convinced him to try it and I was dirty. As for him, I wasn't allowed to fuck him ever since the first time we made love, I had been too aggressive. He got a fissure that, according to him, would come back if we tried.

  I met Quentin shortly after, it was like something out of a novel, at BH4 where I had dragged this little slut that made me do coke for the first time in my life, off the hood of a car when we were leaving Boy. Quentin fucked both of us, the slut and me. The next day I asked him for his number. I saw him again. I was fascinated by his confidence and his uncommon, even superhuman, ability to arrange for his own pleasure. He ate (well). Drank (only the finest wines). Fucked (the best looking guys). He was strong. He was free. He had a motorcycle. Things to teach me. I decided to have him. It was easy seducing someone. Christophe, for example. Franck, Frédéric. I always achieved my goals.

  * * *

  In the weeks that followed, Quentin got to me with his other lovers. I tried to keep Christophe on the side to show him my independence, but since I wasn't in love anymore, I no longer wanted Christophe, so it didn't work out. We split for good that fall.

  5

  (1988)

  At Broad.5 Grapefruit tequila. That's what I've been drinking since I met Gilles. I danced to Comateens’ Get Off My Case, my favorite song at the time. No one was hot. No one was hitting on me. I walked back home, it was the beginning of fall. I stopped at the Henri-IV square near the end of île Saint-Louis. I jumped over the barrier. There wasn't anything interesting in the gardens. I took advantage of the view it gave over the Seine. I went down the stairs towards the quai (with that feeling of being watched, which I was beginning to like). I walked around. Six guys in total, two of whom were already pretty busy behind a tree. I retraced my steps very slowly. A little mustached guy wearing a plaid shirt stared at me. Not bad. I approached him.

  We made out. He used a lot of tongue, in a rather sensual way. Soon after he started playing hard with my nipples, which, along with the kissing that was still going on, got me really excited. I tried to find his so I could do the same to him. They were incredibly big and bulgy compared to mine, which barely stuck out from my flat areolae. This went on for hours and then he ended up pulling my dick out and jacking me off. I did the same to him. It made me laugh because he was wearing these totally preppy plaid wool pants. We sucked each other off taking turns. We came while making out and playing with each others’ nipples, it's unfortunate we didn't have three hands each. He was Scottish and worked at the British Embassy. I didn't think that was something you'd tell a stranger. He gave me his number.

  I crossed the Seine.

  Jussieu.

  I liked rue Linné for its crocodile fountain that sat across from the entrance to the Jardin des Plantes. It was right around here that I passed by, walking fast, a young short-haired guy, with a black bomber jacket, tight jeans, b
ig boots. We looked at each other. Ten feet later I turned around. He walked thirty feet and now it was his turn. I stared at him without moving. He kept walking. Fifteen feet later he turned around again. I smiled wide. He started to walk again, towards me. Once he reached me I said Do you want to go to my place? It's close by. He said that he was in a rush. I said that we could go to the entrance of the park, under the carriage gate, about a hundred and fifty feet away. He said OK. We headed towards the spot. Three a.m. No one in the streets. He took me in his arms. He was a lot burlier than me. We kissed. He grinded on me. I liked that. He ended up feeling my ass up. That's always what ended up happening, you just had to wait. I unbuttoned my bomber jacket, pulled the front of my t-shirt over my head to show off my chest, that was another trick I had recently learned. I felt the heat. I saw some thick hair poking out around his collar, that turned me on, I took off his checkered gray-blue shirt and then I felt his naked chest against mine, hairy chest against hairy chest. Like a real pro I took out some poppers. When he wanted to fuck me I also had what was needed, condoms and a little tube of KY. He turned me around and he started to fuck me, from behind. From the other inside pocket in my jacket, I got out the nipple clamps I bought last week (my first). I place them on while he was starting to pound me. Obviously, I knew what I was doing.

  Oh! Oh! Oh! Oh! Oh! Oh! Oh! Oh! Oh! Oh! Oh! Oh! Oh! Oh! Oh! Oh! Oh! A-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-ah! I gave him my number because he was living with a guy and he couldn't take a call.

  Normally I like it the other way around, to have the guy's number and not give out my own. Actually there wasn't any “normally” yet. I still wasn't used to all this stuff. But I digress. He called two days later, around eight. I was cooking for myself, some pasta, or else frying ground meat with canned salsify. He said he could swing by that night. I told him that was perfect, that I was actually free this evening. When I opened the door, he was still just as sexy and virile in his black bomber jacket, grey 501s.

  We each had a whiskey and then he rolled a joint (beginner's luck: a guy who can roll joints), which we smoked while talking about classical music (he played the cello), before going to the bedroom into which I had moved my bed back because having it in the hallway was a bit over the top.

  We started kissing. He took my shirt off, so I took off his, and then we sat down next to each other for the pants and shoes, he kept his underwear on (nerdy), so I kept mine on too, caressing each other on the bed getting really hard, and then I got fed up not seeing him naked so I grabbed his underwear on both sides and pulled them down. His balls weren't shaved (Mine were, ever since Gilles. Before, I had noticed all the hardcore fags at the gym were groomed but I snubbed it), his pubes weren't trimmed short but he had a really big dick (I knew that already), a little pointy (oh well). I sucked it. He smelled like a redhead. Then he pulled me up to kiss me, and then he laid me down on my back, my ankles on his shoulders, it turned me on to see that, the huge torso of a guy who was bigger and stronger than me, above me, ready to penetrate me. He started to enter me, super hard, too big, it got stuck. Ouch. He pulled out, he waited ten seconds, tried again. Ouch.

  He pulled out. He used some KY. He fingered me with some lube. Handed me the poppers. I relaxed. He pushed two fingers in, that wasn't too bad, then he replaced them with his dick. It went all the way in, I could feel his pubes and balls against me, I was stuffed, he leaned over on me, we kissed, I let myself go, I was feeling good. He fucked me rhythmically, slow at first, harder and harder, first from the front, then from the side, then from behind (it reminded me of this military guy, thirties, mustached, very good looking, who played footsie with me on the métro. I brought him back home, ditching the friend I was going to meet. He fucked me in every position ever created). I would edge myself to the point of busting, take a hit of poppers, I didn't want it to stop. He came. I asked him to stay in. He continued to fuck me the same way and then started to go limp, so he told me he needed to stop. He pulled out, he took off his condom and asked me where he should put it. I told him In the ashtray. He took a walk to the bathroom. Then he came back to bed where I was waiting for him, more or less jacking off. He sat down between my legs, facing me. He put three fingers inside of me, gently, firmly. I got hard really fast. He pulled them back out. Then he put four in. I couldn't think about anything other than this feeling of fullness that no one had ever talked to me about. I was so hard. Hard, hard, hard, hard. He passed me the poppers and I took a big hit and I felt him push in deeper.

  I lifted my head up. His was looking down at what he was doing. I felt his hand get swallowed up by my ass (how could something like that happen to me?). A-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-h! I came at that same moment. He pulled out slowly, asked me if I was OK, I told him Yes, and then I felt my cheeks stiffening up. I thought Tetany, I knew the symptoms ever since I dated Magali three years earlier, I looked down at my hands and I watched my nails dig into my palms, so I told him that I was having a tetany episode and he said Shit. Do you have any medication? I muttered out no, that I thought it would just pass by itself. I let myself go. My body curled up, my head rested on the hollow of his thigh. He gently caressed me until it passed.

  6

  (1988)

  At Boy. I hit on this older guy, my size, cute, obviously a top, playing pinball by the bar. I wanted us to fuck this younger shaved blond, obviously a bottom, who cruised me on the dance floor. Everything went well. I fucked the blond guy who got fucked by the other guy too. One dick in the ass, one dick in the mouth. I was the ham in this sandwich, on top of the blond kid and under the brunette. The blondie had really short hair, like fuzz. The next day he actually went out to buy us croissants for breakfast. I fucked him again when the other guy left, doing a better job. I wasn't able to come because of the condom. He came first. I finished off by hand. When I opened the door to his building, I found myself in a strange part of the 17th arrondissement. The sun was shining and I felt good in my new skin. Reality offered no resistance. I was the Human Torch. I was The Thing. I was Fantastic.

  7

  (1988)

  At Boy again. No troubles getting in. I'm young. Cute enough. Super short hair. My green bomber jacket comes down just above my ass. My ass is super firm, round, fitting tight but not too tight in my old 501s. I'm wearing a button-down sky-blue oxford shirt to not look like everyone else, sleeves rolled up above the elbows to look manly. Plus a pair of semi-new Nikes, without socks. I copied Quentin, I didn't leave my jacket with the coat check (his was an out-of-style jacket, part leather, part raincoat. I always dressed in style), so that I wouldn't have to wait when I wanted to leave. I pushed open the swinging doors, I dove into the noise and the crowd. The DJ was playing some trashy disco song that I loved, dancing to it was the best. I carved out a small path through the bodies on the floor to a corner and I danced. Dancing was both a pleasure and an asset. After that, the song wasn't as good so I headed to the bar at the back. I cruised along the walkway where people were standing, sitting, dancing, chatting, sleeping, looking at me or not looking at me. Things are easy to read in Paris. People who act like they don't see you don't like you. If not, it's good. The bartender came over right away. I drank leaning against the bar so I could check everyone out. No one really stood out so I headed back to my spot in the middle of the walkway, in front of the stairs that lead down to the dance floor, a strategic place.

  One. Dance. Two. Scope out. Three. Look away. Four. Too ugly. Five. Not a chance. Six. Dance. The music is too acid tonight. I decided to go pee. I was making my way through the crowd when he appeared. Big, beefy. Black bomber jacket, black t-shirt, black 501s, black slicked back hair. Beautiful face. Big mouth, badly shaven, glittering eyes. I wanted him so bad that it was like slow-motion. He stared at me. When we finally passed each other, carried away by our desire, all I could do was turn around hoping he would do the same. He turned around. I didn't move. He moved towards me. I took a step forward. His face now was right above mine. He said Hi. I said Hi, do you think you're go
nna stay here awhile? He said No, we can leave right now. Wow, he's fast. I asked Should we go to my place? It's nearby (I was squatting at Quentin's while he was traveling). He said OK. We headed towards the exit. I followed him through the crowd.

  Doing this at Quentin's bothered me a little, but since he was always going on about freedom… I also found it to be pretty appropriate for my new self. I carefully rolled a joint. He asked me if I had any toys. I got out my dildo, my pair of nipple clamps. I was already wearing my cock ring. After a while I found myself naked, on my back, my feet on his thighs. He was sitting cross-legged, facing me. He fucked me with the dildo. I loved watching his chest, his muscles, his flat stomach, his black hair. He kept his jeans on so I didn't know if he was hard. I was.

  He pulled out the dildo, it was dirty, I went to wash my ass in the bathroom, a little stoned, when I came back, he was smoking a cigarette on the bed, I laid back down, I knew what he wanted. Sex. He touched my hole, squirted some lube, he shoved three fingers deep in me. Then four. He added the thumb. I was relaxed, it was never going to pass through, his hands were too big. He told me to take some poppers. I took a hit (back then they were still real amyl nitrate). Then I felt the largest part pass through, his knuckles and his palm. A sharp pain shot right through me, unbearable. Aahhhhh! He pulled out. He waited. It dissipated. I told him he could start again. Now I wanted to feel his hand inside me. He placed his pinched fingers again near my hole, he pushed steadily, until it got stuck again, and then I hit the poppers right away without bracing for any pain and… all of a sudden I felt it go in, I swallowed his hand in a split second. It was incredible. It was good. I looked at him. He was proud (he was young too. twenty-seven, twenty-eight). I told him That's too much, I can't. He said Yes, yes, you can, you'll see, go ahead, take another hit, and since it looked like it wasn't the first time he was doing this I trusted him, and took another hit and the pain turned into something incredibly strong and made me completely hard. Presence. Truth. So he went even deeper and I said No, no, I can't, and I came a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-h! Then I had my second-ever tetany episode but I didn't give a shit.