The Works of Guillaume Dustan, Volume 1

by Guillaume Dustan

  * * *

  The next day I felt like making him a really nice breakfast. I saw him again a week later. He asked me to marry him but I said no because I already had Quentin. He took it out on my asshole so hard that after I walked around with my legs spread apart and I could barely sit. When Quentin came back, he noticed. He fucked me even harder than usual.

  8

  (1989)

  An S&M party. Already a good feeling of belonging. I just entered the competition for the most beautiful ass. I came in second, after having incontestably won on the applause meter, but the guys on the jury wanted to vote for one of their friends, a huge slut with a gaping hole. I won a shitty dildo, super hard. It's getting late. Things are starting to loosen up. I walked around. This guy who I thought was even cuter since he had sex with Quentin (who told me in great detail how amazing it was, and that he had a huge cock) is grinding against the thigh of a He-man. I head towards them. Actually, they aren't doing anything, it's lame. I feel avenged from the complete indifference this guy was manifesting towards me. Farther off three guys are standing around another guy, his naked ass in the air. One hand is trying to force its way in. Another slaps the pitiful ass, super hard, the poor guy shakes each time. I give him providence. I place a hand on each of his butt cheeks. I spread them. I run my fingers around his almost satisfied hole. He relaxes. My palm slides in. I continue my walk around the party. No one is left except these old guys who are whipping each other. I go back to the bar. It's a madhouse. A giant circle of people, actually, around two small mustached guys all in leather pressed upright against one another. At first I don't get it. Then the one behind gets on his knees and I see that he has his hand in the ass of the one in front. He is pushing with all his strength to go in deeper. Fisting is very physically demanding. The other guy is completely smashed on poppers. In two minutes that's it, practically up to the elbow. So A (the one in the back) presses with his free hand on B's back (the one in front). B leans forward. A gets B to kneel down only using the strength of the hand that was inside. Not bad… A's arm slowly comes out. Then A covers both of his forearms in elbow grease (The jar was at his feet). Yes. He first puts in his eight fingers squeezed together, no thumbs. He spreads his palms out to loosen the ass. A real pro. Then his hands enter. A charitable soul gave B a hit of poppers (now on all fours). Both forearms slowly disappear. Very slowly. They stop right before the elbows. And then they come out, just as slow. A looks at the audience. Everyone applauds. B gets up, his face incredibly red. I tell myself at fifty years old, why not?

  9

  (1989)

  At the end of the year I found myself in Brussels doing an internship. I came back to Paris every weekend. With Quentin every time we had sex was better than the last. I opened myself up even more. He wasn't the biggest but he was incredibly skilled. He was trained in San Francisco and New York, where he had spent a year back in 1980, the golden age of poppers-sniffing sinsemilla-smoking leather clones who danced, danced, danced and fucked, fucked, fucked. He had never stopped since. My experimental side complimented him well. I loved collecting new sensations. I was always buying new toys.

  We put in place an extremely efficient routine: we smoked our umpteenth joint for the day. I would go wash my ass. Nipple clamps for both of us. He would start fucking me with a dildo or fisting me to open me up, and then would fuck me (safe) for 20 minutes, half an hour, sometimes more, while adding lube all the time and taking hits of poppers, in every position and in every spot possible, at least twice a day.

  We would go out, to BH, the trashy night club on rue du Roule. Twenty-four and twenty-seven years old, not an ounce of fat, very short hair, perfectly styled. We were the hottest. We would bring guys back home. When they were tops they would fuck me. If not, I would watch Quentin. I felt like such a bottom with him that I wasn't really able to top others anymore. When he was really going at it, he looked just as in love with them as he was with me. That gave me an intense feeling of weakness.

  As I was leaving one Sunday evening I saw Alain, the little guy Quentin would fuck during the week, heading up the street to take my place in a bed that was still warm. I thought that Quentin could have at least asked him to come a little later. In Brussels I was hooking up with Jean-François (now dead), the doorman at Wham, thirty, thirty-five years old who was smooth-talking me. So that way I also had a lover.

  He was HIV-positive, even a little sick. That scared me given that I was negative, but I forced myself. One night, I didn't understand why, he was talking down to me. I felt for a brief moment that he hated me but I ignored it like when I thought Quentin was being sadistic: I did nothing. A little while later, Jean-Francois's condom got lost inside me. In December I had retinitis. Every morning I felt like vomiting, dry heaves so powerful I would have to stop in the street.

  10

  (1990)

  I took the test in January, like I did every three months. Positive. My legs crumbled under me when the lab tech told me the results. I was hoping it was a mistake but it wasn't, the western blot test was positive too. I thought Well that's it, now I'm like the others, remembering the massive guilt I felt when Pierre, one of Quentin's exes, had cut his thumb in the kitchen, there was so much blood and I was so scared that I fled. Quentin didn't say anything when I told him the news. That night he jerked off lying on his back as if I didn't exist. Then he cleaned himself up and finished his joint. I asked him for a hit. He handed it to me. I felt like I'd better not touch him if I didn't want him to dump me. It was when Pierre became positive that Quentin dumped him.

  I was scared that I would never be able to have sex again. I told myself that it was just like riding a horse, after you get thrown you have to get back up right away. Quentin wasn't really available, so the next day I got on the Minitel. I got fucked. I breathed a sigh of relief. I always had that.

  Back then there was no treatment. Statistically, I had about five years left. Sentenced to death. There were a lot of stories of guys who died in a couple months, in a year. I thought about that. Ten times a day. Twenty times a day. Every time I was hungry, every time I was cold, every time I was tired, every time I felt weak. I thought that the virus was winning. Death was the essence of my thoughts. Every thought ceded to it. Death was going to have me. There was nothing I could do. I sat in my cell. I awaited my execution.

  Little by little I stopped. I stopped reading. I stopped going to the movies, the theater, even exhibitions. No more parties. I saw my friends, my family less and less. What was there to talk about, anyway? I worked it out so that I wasn't in photos anymore. One day I went to my mother's. I found all my old letters. The ones from Françoise. I threw everything out.

  Quentin kept me around. There was still some interest, for my money, for my ass, for my conversation. I should have left. I didn't have the strength. I knew that if I was alone, I would never escape my thoughts. I needed him to forget. To forge ahead. Drunk, high, digesting, in front of the TV, at the gym, dancing, fucking, always with new guys, my mind stopped. More precisely, it limited itself to what I was doing. I was absorbed. I was at peace. That said, when Professor Machin, an old friend of my father's who was taking care of me at the hospital, told me there was something, a drug, no one knew if it worked, it was still too soon to assess, but it was something, it was a gamble, I said yes, I swallowed, three times a day I swallowed.

  11

  (1990)

  Work took me to Greece in the spring. I started off by sleeping in the airport because of a surprise strike. Twenty-hour delay. It wasn't that bad though, it helped me forget about my problems. I had organized all my meetings in Athens around the weekend, so on Saturday I took a bus full of Greeks (the young guys were truly sublime) and went all the way to the gay beach, a giant slab of marble above the sea.

  There was pretty much no one. I tanned. But then I got bored so I cruised this guy who seemed German, but tough luck, he was a French guy, moderately sexy but I needed some company, so I took him to dinner out a
t the port of Piraeus crowded with families, the parents were singing, the kids were screaming, the food was drowning in oil, but it was fun. He wanted to go to bed early and I didn't want to have sex with him so I went out by myself to a disco, on top of a hill, after wandering around the city while I waited for it to open. I got there early, there weren't many people there yet, I danced to Sweet Dreams.

  Some of them want to use you

  Some of them want to be used by you-u

  Some of them want to abuse you

  Some of them want to be a-bu-sed

  * * *

  The club closed. The beefy tattooed Marine still wasn't interested in me. I looked around one last time, the little mustached man who was cruising me earlier was right behind me. He started to hit on me in broken English. He actually wasn't that bad, looked thirty, thirty-five. I French-kissed him and then he took my hand and he bluntly placed it on his package which was really big. Then it began.

  At his place he first showed me his collection of ancient coins. I bent over. He felt my ass. He lowered my pants, and then fucked me (safe), on poppers, holding on the the display case, then in every room in the apartment, for hours (in any case at least one), with an energy that's been unrivalled even eight years later (except for Chad Douglas on video with that little blond guy in a scene well-known by connoisseurs), in every position imaginable, he never went soft, we were dripping sweat. Then sperm. I finally went back to my hotel sharing a heaven-sent taxi (Sunday, at six thirty a.m.) with an older couple who didn't speak English but smiled at me. The adventure.

  12

  (1990)

  At Quetzal with Quentin. We have a date with Marc and Éric, two guys that he met at Transfert the previous week. Quentin went to their place to fuck Éric in front of Marc. He proposed that they do it again as a foursome with me. He told me I could abuse the little one and get roughed up by the big one. I said OK. At any rate, why say No? And now we are here. Us and them. Much older than us. Ten years older. Late thirties. The big one is really ugly. He straight out has a gut. But he is wearing a bomber jacket, tight faded 501s, Rangers. Seems very sure of himself. The little one is bald, shaved, wearing a bomber jacket, tight faded 501s, Rangers. They're actually just like us except I'm not bald yet and Quentin isn't ugly yet and he has some Doc Martens on. He doesn't want to be like everyone else. The little one has gray skin. He is very nervous. He's almost twitching. It's true he has a great ass but he arches his back so much that I feel sorry for him.

  * * *

  I didn't say a word, as usual. We drank some beers. They talked about sex. The little one was laughing nonstop, really hard. Quentin was feeling his ass in front of everyone at the bar. We ended up leaving. At home Quentin continued to caress the little guy's ass while smoking a joint. I thought that it had been ages since he'd done that to me. Marc, a bit unhinged, ordered Eric to get undressed and to suck Quentin off. Consequently, I sucked Marc off. Then Quentin fucked Éric (safe. Quentin always had safe sex. He was still negative). I thought, that's what he wanted. The orgy was only a pretext to fuck Éric again. It's understandable, it was going really well. So well that Marc, jealous, started to whip Quentin's ass. He wasn't too delicate, so Quentin ended up telling him to stop (not right away though, he didn't want to be too rude and he didn't want to stop fucking Eric).

  So Marc started to whip Éric and went at it harder and harder since Éric is highly experienced, but after a while Éric, who had already suffered a lot without saying anything, was in so much pain that he arched back with every blow (there will be trouble at home later, I thought, but years later they're still together). That upset Quentin who asked Marc to stop. Marc stopped and sulked since he's usually in charge. I went to drink some whiskey in the kitchen.

  Marc followed me. I didn't say anything to him. He kneaded my nipples while I was drinking, pretty rough, like everything else he did, but it was OK, it didn't hurt, on the contrary. Once I got pretty hard he slapped my dick a couple times and then he asked me if I wanted him to work my ass. Quentin must have briefed him. I said Yeah, but only did it really gently, since I wasn't nearly as experienced as Eric. I was lying but it was for a good reason. We went back to the bedroom where Quentin was getting sucked off by Éric. Marc fumbled through his toy box. He pulled out three dildos, a chrome egg and a scrotum pouch. I thought This guy is a connoisseur, because of the last item. It was a leather pouch, with snaps, that you stuff your dick and balls into on top of one or several cock rings, and you fill the whole pouch when you're halfway hard. The sensation of not being able to get totally hard because there isn't enough room in the pouch, getting hotter and hotter and sticky with sweat, could be really cool. I couldn't get it on because I was already too excited. I thought about my mother, that was the only thing that really worked, and I was able to get my balls in, then my dick, and close the snaps.

  Since Quentin was already using the bed, I laid out a sleeping bag on the floor with a towel on top and then I rolled a joint while Marc stuffed the egg inside me and charged over it with the first dildo. The dildo pushed the egg deep inside. I could feel its metallic heaviness. I was playing with my nipples while smoking a joint and hitting some poppers. The dildo was a reasonable size. Everything was going swimmingly. And then Quentin and Eric, whom I had heard finish, came over. Quentin was surprised that I still had free hands. This is why I loved him. Quentin was hellish. Quentin was the Devil. I told him that now that he was there to help me smoke my joint and give me poppers, I didn't need them anymore. So Quentin went to get the leather collar and the handcuffs. He put on the collar while Eric placed the handcuffs, then he attached it all with the spring hooks that were designed for that. No hands! My dick was swelling to the max inside the pouch, it almost hurt, but I was also feeling good because Marc changed dildos and started to use a pretty big, black, slightly pointed one that I didn't like that much, but still, he was doing it rather well so I balanced it with a nice oral trip alternating between Eric's dick, a bit soft, and his big swollen balls, he was wearing six metal cock rings at once. But after a while Quentin, inspired by my example, or rather simply tired of servicing me (the joint that he was smoking was finished), dragged Eric near him so he could be fucked with a dildo. Since I didn't have my pacifier and I couldn't jerk off because of the pouch, I became more sensitive to what was happening further down, where Marc was busy pushing the black dildo from earlier in a little too deep. I said that it was starting to hurt. He slowed down but he really didn't know how to use a dildo smoothly, and it was still too deep so I told him I would prefer something less brutal, thinking about the third and last dildo he had selected that was even bigger, so really big, but more supple, that would do quite well for a while before I untie myself and jerk off, and he said OK.

  He pulled out the black one and he put four fingers deep inside me. Fine, obviously we weren't going to use the dildo, but fist. I unlocked the handcuffs from the collar (it's something you can do yourself) and I grabbed some poppers. He added in his thumb. Then he pushed his hand. And it went through, I quickly unbuttoned the pouch so I could jerk off, I was afraid that I wouldn't be able to get hard because of the pain. That's the risk with this kind of practice, you're on the edge, the sensations are so intense. But not at all, my dick was perfectly soft, but completely full of blood, and in the span of three seconds, I was able to get a massive erection back. Meanwhile Marc had gotten his hand even deeper. I felt that he was opening it to fetch the chrome egg (from the back of what? my rectum?). He pulled his hand out with the egg inside it. But I didn't have time to come so I asked him Could you please put it back? He stuffed the egg deep inside me with two fingers, and then he put his hand back in to retrieve it again. I let him do it again a third time and then I thought that I had reached my limit and that a fourth time would be annoying. As soon as he pulled it out I came, in huge quantity. Then I checked. There was quite a bit of blood on his glove, but obviously it was only from superficial vessels. Good. I looked at him. I said Wow, and then I
peeled myself off the lubecovered towel to go wash up. Egg hunting, another thing I had never done.

  13

  (1991)

  Soon after, I met Thomas, at BH one night when I was alone. He had just won a one-week trip for two to a Club Med in Tunisia. He invited me to go with him. I went. Like always when I distanced myself from Quentin, I came back to life. Everything wasn't perfect without him, but at least I was myself. I wandered around the beach under the Easter sun, in the wind, completely high, listening to Satellite of Love on repeat on my Walkman. And then I went to get my haircut alone in town, at an Arab barbershop where I was the only foreigner but that's what was cool, and when I left, a guy followed me, walking his bike. I didn't know what to make of it considering his type, a local with no money. I ended up turning around suddenly at a moment when he was really close. I asked him what he wanted. Make love with you, he answered. I looked at him. He actually wasn't that bad looking after all, another little mustached, beefy guy in his mid-thirties, a type I was apparently destined for throughout the world. I asked him when and where, he said Tomorrow, I have a friend who is lending me his house.