The next day I told Thomas that I wanted to go back to the hammam, and just like the first time, he wanted to stay by the resort pool, so I headed out to meet him at this Arab café full of guys who stared bullets at me since I was the only foreigner. My date arrived just as I was starting to feel uneasy. He looked at me as if he were in love with me but I didn't smile too much because I didn't want to hurt his feelings. How do we do this, I asked? He said On my bike, so I hopped on behind him and we left. We got totally out of the city, he was pedaling valiantly. Forty-five minutes later we arrived at this small project under construction. His friend's apartment wasn't finished but there was a bed. He threw himself on me and French-kissed me deeply, so energetically that I almost started laughing, then he pulled his dick out which wasn't bad looking at all. I stopped laughing. I got to work.
We got undressed because I asked him to. He kept his undershirt on and his socks, I thought Sexual repression. He wanted to fuck me standing but I insisted that we go on the bed, I figured a little sensuality would be good for him. On the bed I put a condom on him that I brought with me, then I laid down on my back, he started like that and then pretty quickly he turned me around, he fucked me too fast and too hard, while smacking my ass, I was surprised (after I asked him where he learned that, and he answered in American movies, I dreamed about world culture), and then what was supposed to happen happened given his relentless rhythm, I couldn't help coming. I told him that I finished, he pushed on the gas, since I already came it didn't feel too great but whatever, I grit my teeth and thirty seconds later it was over. I turned around and then I saw the condom at the edge of the bed, empty, and I said You took it off? And he said Yes, I don't like them, and I turned pale.
At first I was scared so I didn't say anything. And then halfway back I felt so guilty that I told him I was seropositive, that he has to get tested in three months. He didn't understand so I explained, and then he got it. If you have AIDS you shouldn't make love, he said. I pointed out that One I didn't have AIDS, two he shouldn't have taken off the condom. He said that he didn't like that and that I looked like I was healthy. I asked him if he had sex with a lot of guys and he said no but that there was this teacher from Lyon that would come and see him twice a year and that he was going to live with him in France, I was a bit skeptical but after all you never know.
He asked me to meet up with him tomorrow evening in front of a hotel on the coast to see me again one last time before I left. Since I was feeling guilty I said yes, pretty sure that I was going to get my ass beaten by him and all his friends. On the other hand, I couldn't imagine what he could have told them, so regardless I bullshitted Thomas again and I met up with him and his bike under the palm trees in front of the hotel. He told me that he had done some research on AIDS and that I had to eat a lot of honey because it washed the blood clean. I gave him my number in Paris. He never used it for the two years that I still lived at that address, but I still eat honey today.
14
(1992)
Boyzone. Alone. One of my mom's friends lent me her apartment for the week, that way I wouldn't have to be at home, things suck with Quentin at the moment. I was drinking a beer while watching the porn video. At the same time I checked out the guys who were there. My eyes landed on him. He was the only doable one. He was wearing a red bandana around his neck, which meant he liked fisting, and a cock ring on his Perfecto jacket, on the right shoulder, therefore a bottom. Tight stonewashed 501s, torn above the butt. Frye boots. Smaller than me, rather well-built. He was obviously a big slut. Actually I was a bit repelled by his mug, somewhere between pig and bulldog, but I told myself that my disgust was part of the pleasure. When you want to fuck all the time, you can't be that picky. So, when he glanced at me discreetly for the third time playing the Midnight Cowboy part with my Heineken (which I was drinking straight from the bottle), I concentrated on my beer and then I turned my head in his direction and I stared right in his eyes thinking really hard that I was going to:
destroy his ass.
I felt it was getting him wet. I didn't talk to him. He was hanging around this huge jerk. I waited. The jerk ended up leaving to walk around the back room. The slut didn't waste any time asking me if I came here often, telling me he never had seen me before. I told him that I had come to take a look around because at the moment I didn't live too far away. Mysterious. I put my hand on his ass staring straight into his eyes. I French-kissed him while rubbing his ass. He stretched out his ass. I pushed my tongue and my hand in at the same time. He arched his back even more. That's the advantage of S&M bars: no one gets offended if you have a little sex front of everyone. He was eating my tongue. I stopped as soon as I started to get hard. I just wanted to know if it could work. We agreed on a plan consisting of reciprocal fisting. Right when I proposed that we leave I already didn't want him anymore. We left under the gaze of people who had already slept with me, or with him, or with neither of us and who were drooling without a clue. He followed me down the Avenue Trudaine, glistening under the rain, empty. We passed in front of my high school. I thought about Claire, Hervé, Françoise. We talked about the places we went to, the hardest places. His voice disgusted me. I kept quiet so that I wouldn't end up not having sex.
In the elevator, I turned him around, I pushed his face against the mirror. Since he was smaller than me it was easy to give him the impression that I was in control. I was the only one who didn't believe it. I untied his belt. I looked at his face, pressed, mine behind, normal. I was annoyed because I wasn't getting hard and I wouldn't be able to keep the cowboy act credible for much longer under these conditions. So I decided to stop grinding on him and to pull his jeans down. I had to spread his white, fleshy cheeks, to reach his hole, shaved, gaping. The elevator stopped. It would have been a mistake to exit right away. But I wasn't that dumb. I took advantage of it to pretend I was interested in all this. Pulled my hand from his ass to his mouth. Put in two fingers (to get them wet. He knew the drill). Let him get off by sucking on them for two minutes. But not for too long before I dove back down massaging his hole with my sticky fingers. I still wasn't getting hard. I started to freak and made a mistake. I got out of the elevator first. Then a second mistake. I didn't turn the lights on. Now I was in an all-out panic with keys I didn't recognize, and a lock to find in the dark. I still managed to open the door. I made him go in first (three: see above). I threw my bomber jacket on the bed. Turned on the small lamp. Put on some house. I started to roll a joint. I suggested he go wash his ass. He told me he had already done it (obviously). I said OK (four: dumb, I shouldn't have said anything). I finished rolling my joint. I took a drag (five: you have to take three hits for it to take effect) and I passed it to him.
Without a word, I got up and I went to the bathroom (six: it freaked him out). I stripped half-naked, just the bottom, because I was cold. The hot water wasn't running, it went on for ages, I didn't understand why. In fact it was because I was using the wrong faucet (seven). I douched. I dried off. I should have put on my jeans without underwear to go back to the room. Or even gone in there naked, but at that moment my pecker was too small, all shriveled up by the cold. That would have still been better than coming back with a wet towel around my waist (eight).
He didn't get undressed. I felt even worse. I sat on the bed. I took the joint back (nine: I should have caressed him). My towel opened. He touched my ass. This pissed me off because I was planning to start things off, but I didn't say anything as I didn't want to come off as ridiculous. He wasted no time driving a finger all the way in. As tense as I was, it didn't feel great. He should have gone slower at the start. I let it go. Ten. I even cooperated by lying on my back, legs spread. I took a hit from my joint trying to jerk off with some lube. He slipped in three, then four fingers, too quickly. I wasn't getting hard. Then he tried his hand. It got stuck at the knuckles. I took some poppers but it made me lose what little erection I had, and I was already worrying that he was going to hurt me, but the poppers automatic
ally relaxed me and his hand slid in. That definitely hurt so I asked him to pull out but he said that it was fine, that I should take another hit of poppers. I had no desire to continue this nightmare but I tried to calm down. Eleven.
I took another hit of poppers. It hurt a little less. I tried to jerk off but I couldn't get hard again. He turned his fist a little inside my tight asshole. That was hurting. After five minutes (twelve: I shouldn't have waited), I ended up telling him that I would rather stop, that I didn't really like getting fisted without being hard. He seemed surprised (I didn't know then that it could actually feel quite good under certain conditions. Ones in which you're relaxed. I asked him if he wanted me to work on his ass. He said OK. So I went to clean myself up and I came back. I rolled another joint to start things off again. We smoked. We didn't touch each other. I came towards him. The closer I got, the more I wanted him to go away. He was lying down on his side. I slid one finger in his ass. It went in like a knife through butter. I got hard right away. I started to jerk off. Two fingers went in just as easily as one. So I wanted to fuck him since he was so loose. Not face to face, I did not want to see his mug. I didn't ask him what he thought (even though the little enthusiasm he manifested was enough for me to see he wasn't liking this). I just said I'm going to fuck you. I turned him over. His ass was enormous in that position. I put on a condom, but too late, I had already gone half soft again. I thought I was going to be pathetic. As if that wasn't already the case. I slipped a third finger in to get myself hard again. That worked just enough for me to penetrate him. I didn't feel anything inside. I wasn't hard enough, and he was way too relaxed. I kept going though, I slapped his ass a little so that he would tighten up but that didn't do anything. I pulled my soft cock out. I ripped the condom off so that I could get hard again. Without a word I started fingering him again. Three, four, five fingers. I kept pushing but it wouldn't go in. I could feel how contracted his anus was around my hand. I didn't know what to do. I pulled my hand out slowly. I put it back in. It still didn't go in (which wasn't all that surprising since I hadn't relaxed him). He ended up telling me that it was hurting. I told him that it was probably best to stop. He gave me his phone number so that we could do it again while high on acid, maybe that would help.
Three weeks later I was in front of his building in Les Halles, totally depressed after a workout at the gym. I called him from the café across the street. He told me to come up. I climbed the stairwell covered in crappy carpeting. His place had carpeting too, and dirty. He didn't have anything to smoke. We shared a beer (I hate beer). He showed me some polaroids of people fisting that he took during an orgy the night before. Assholes dripping in grease around dildos or forearms that were coming out of them. Not one hard dick. Then he sold me two hits of acid. Invited me to the next orgy. I didn't go.
15
(1992)
Ever since I've been positive I've seen myself as a loaded gun. Sperm replaced the bullets. With it I had power, like guys attacking banks with syringes. The first time was a skinny blond. I took him from behind. I got soft. Shame. I pulled out. I jerked off. I couldn't get hard again. I pulled the condom off. I jerked off thinking about what I could do. I pushed back in, no condom. I ended up going soft again because I was thinking too much. I pulled out again. I finished myself off by hand, plenty of guys do that. He didn't see anything. I was the only one who knew.
The second time it was a little brown-haired boy who welcomed me bare-assed wearing chaps. I went soft as soon as I put the condom on as usual. He was on his back. It was stupid because that way I ended up alone, and when I felt alone I only wanted to do one thing, and that was to die. But it was also true that I wasn't attracted to him. One way or another I was only having sex with guys I wasn't attracted to, I had decided that I didn't really give a damn. I wasn't going to be picky. I'd take what I could get. I needed even the smallest piece of desire. With ugly guys there wasn't any competition. I was sure that they wanted me. That sustained me.
I pulled off the condom and then I jerked off and it made me hard thinking that I could bareback him, he hadn't noticed anything. So I went in, I was rock hard. I fucked him and it felt amazing. I pulled out to come, it was so good to have an orgasm like that, like before when I was alive. I came in my hand. He turned his head. I was sure that he knew. He just said that it had been so long since anyone had fucked him so delicately. I was totally offended. And then I thought that I was going to hell. That I was lost.
16
(1992)
Vacation in London with Quentin. Totally grim. We did so many drugs that we missed our return plane. I went out and bought tickets for two days later and some soup as a bonus since he had caught a cold. Through the dark cobblestone streets, the asphalt glistened in the rain, I was wiped out, it was Monday evening, a family was getting out of their car, I was surprisingly happy.
I had read in the community newspaper that there was a leather S&M party the next day, in a nearby club. I needed some comfort after Quentin's low blow. Needless to say, it didn't work out. First I struggled to even find the place. I went in. I paid. Guys were getting dressed in a communal dressing room, like in gym class when I was fifteen. I followed suit. Inside they were all in leather or in latex. I was wearing a latex body suit that I had just bought (for too much) off the roommate of the guy we spent the day with on Sunday, after the club, getting high on E, acid and joints (with the hash I had brought from Paris because Quentin had left first—he had some free time since he was unemployed— called to tell me that he couldn't find any here, and I almost got caught at customs, they totally made me take off my Rangers and my socks, thank God the twelve and a half grams were in my underwear). As usual, Quentin managed to monopolize the guy, at the end I left crying, in the middle of the night in some rough neighborhood where I miraculously found a taxi instead of getting robbed and beaten by a gang of guys loitering at the gas station where I had taken refuge.
Nothing really happened at first. I talked to a fat naked skinhead wearing a harness but he was fat. So I went to the bathroom and took an E, which turned out to be a terrible idea because obviously it made it impossible to get hard. I ended up finding myself on the floor looking for my chrome cock ring that had cost a fortune and that had slid off either while I was blowing someone and/or getting boned, because my balls and dick were so shriveled up. But then, all of a sudden, I saw myself. I felt so humiliated that I froze. I looked up. Twenty feet in front of me, an alpha-male in army pants and harness who was playing video games earlier was getting his nipples sucked and nibbled on by three guys, his big dick perfectly straight. My life wasn't like that.
17
(1992)
I was twenty-six. Everything made me want to die. Getting up in the morning. Taking the car out (a Lancia coupé my father had bought me. Quentin loved to go fast), to go to work. Going down every morning at ten past eight to move the car the mornings I didn't go to work. Grocery shopping. I did it so much that it hurt my hands, I could barely carry the bags up the six flights of stairs to my apartment, thinking that I'd have to move when I got sick (there was still no treatment. I was still taking AZT without knowing). It wasn't even worth killing myself, it was only a matter of time.
That was pretty much it. M. was the only person whom I was still seeing, about once a month. I was alone. At the same time I was surrounded. Quentin, still unemployed, played it cool, stayed at home, hit up guys on the Minitel at least three times a day. I would find them in my bed with him when I came home from work. Sometimes I would ignore him. I would refuse to have sex with him. I knew what that meant: boycott. If I was being infantile or bourgeois, Quentin was capable of ignoring me for days, a week, even more. Which meant that, since I only had him anymore, that I didn't have anybody at all. So most of the time I gave in. Considering what I was used to with him, it was pretty pathetic.
Sex just made me want to die even more. It had been so long that Quentin had been telling me I wasn't good at it (“No, not my nipple
s, not like that!”). So long since he'd shown me he was happy. I started to go limp. I'd go limp when I fucked which wasn't all that new. I'd go limp when I bottomed. I'd go limp when I jerked off. The result, predictable, but which I didn't foresee, was that, since I was no longer useful, Quentin more or less left. He had a lover. He saw him three times a week. He would tell me in great detail how amazing the sex was. I found myself alone for half the week and every other weekend. I knew I had to leave him but I was really afraid of what life would be like without him. I wasn't strong enough. And then when he was nice to me I felt so great. But that didn't happen so much lately, since Quentin didn't like to fuck guys who didn't get hard, the ass doesn't react.
One night we were in bed, completely wasted as usual. He was watching TV. I was on my side of the bed. I was bored. Before, after sex I would cuddle up against him. I felt safe. Not anymore, that also wasn't working anymore. I wondered what still turned me on. There were two things: old guys and S&M. Old guys because they wanted me. S&M because when the guys were tied up and gagged, they couldn't criticize me or turn me down. The following days I looked on the Minitel. I ended up finding a bottom, submissive, in his forties, pretty ugly but super obedient. I tied him up. I gagged him. I whipped him. I fucked him (safely). He didn't complain, quite the contrary. I saw him again (me who never sees anyone again). I was beginning to heal.
18
(1993)
In the beginning of the year we moved into an Haussmann-style apartment in Les Halles, Quentin, me, and his best friend Jean-Luc. Even if he was structurally on his side, I was happy to have a third person around. We all used the Minitel for hookups, a lot. There were really all kinds of people on there. I started a Polaroid collection of my most interesting tricks: the guy who drank his own piss, the guy I tied up to the red office chair with sixty-five feet of rope, the little biker guy that I fucked through a hole in his leather pants, the guy who whipped me all over as if it were a massage (I got hard without touching myself), the lawyer who worked nearby and would come over and get fucked with a dildo during his lunch break, the hairy guy with whom we had hung fish weights on our nipples and a Rangers boot on our balls, the guy from Martinique with a huge dick who would go soft while fucking if you didn't play hard with his nipples, the little slut who told me Sex is my strength, the American who slid his balls inside my ass after penetrating me with his big dick (curiously, I already knew him. I hooked up with someone on the Minitel, Nice Bastille Cock, a swimming trunk hookup, I took a shower with him, also in a bathing suit, and then the guy destroyed my ass (safe) with his huge eight-inch rod, then the American arrived, and the two of them started to play this whole macho-man gangbang thing, so I kicked the American out so I could breathe a little), the one who had a neck brace and two-inch-long nipples, the one who went to mass nearby. Each had his specialty.
The Works of Guillaume Dustan, Volume 1 Page 21