A little annoyed, I started to fuck myself like that, it wasn't that good because I couldn't sit and relax. He pulled me towards him. He told me, actually he whispered: Some poppers. Not simply Poppers, which would have been an order, or, Could you please pass me the poppers which would have been lame, no, just Some poppers, and I gave him a sniff, one nostril, then the other, and he started to kiss me, and I put down the poppers so I could take him in my arms, and I took a drag on the endless joint that we had rolled while he started to fuck me with the first eight inches (by three wide).
Rhythmically. Softly, but growing deeper each time. We kissed each other as if we were hopelessly in love with one another, and in a way that was the truth. And when the passion started to flag, I sat back up and I took the final couple of inches that were left without trying. He really knew what he was doing. With a raging hard-on, I rested my legs in a V on his muscled stomach. I looked at his belly button. I caressed his torso. He looked at me. I thought he was beautiful. It was so powerful that if it kept going like that I was going to come, so I took some poppers and I relaxed a bit more, opened up a bit more.
I started to fuck myself seriously with his cock while we were playing with each other's nipples. Then he got up and tilted me backwards, one arm around my back to hold on to me, I clung to him, he fucked me from the front, my ankles on his shoulders. He went in and out even deeper, it didn't hurt at all, I caressed him, the small of his back, his butt, his hips. Poppers. He sat up straight, held me by the ankles, and went at it horizontally. Then he held my legs together and held them straight against his stomach and his chest. Relaxation. Still deeper, more open. He wedged his palms in the hollow of my knees, leaned in with all his weight, I was painfully hard, he slowed down the rhythm. Poppers.
After a while, I was ready for him to fuck me from behind. He started on all fours, then he had me stretch out completely, pull my legs together, he lay on top of me, I moaned, it was love. He slid us onto the side and he fucked me like that from behind in the laziest position, he played with my nipples while screwing me gently, I turned my head to kiss him. Then he brought me to all fours for the home stretch, this time I was really open, he started to go for it deep, as deep as Quentin, and there's nothing more to say, he held me by the hips, I was cupping his balls in one hand while jerking myself off with the other, he was pile-driving me deeper and deeper, faster, harder, I could feel that he was close, and I followed. When he started to come while shouting I let go almost at the same time as him. I told him not to pull out. He made a couple more strokes. Then I felt him go soft and I said OK, that's good, even the best things must come to an end.
He pulled out, removed the full condom, tied a knot, let it drop to the floor into the ashtray. We were entwined. It must have been four years since I had felt that. Trust in someone.
* * *
I saw him again at Gold Coast a couple months later. He wanted to go at it again but I didn't. Several months later it was me who wanted to but not him, he had met a guy and when he was with someone he was faithful. I was jealous.
25
(1994)
Over the course of the fall Quentin had started to move his new lover into the house. I thought that I couldn't end my life in such a sordid way. So I made an appointment with the nearest shrink. The day I went, it was funny, I almost didn't have the strength to walk. I spent almost the entire first session sobbing. It had been years since I'd shed a tear. A month later I left Quentin. I had been training for five years and the world championship was cancelled. I met a guy, the one I called Terrier7 when I wrote this story, then another, the one whom I called Stéphane. Stéphane was cute. Modest. Very well-hung. It wasn't working anymore with him and his man. He left him for me. He wanted to make me happy. I gave him a makeover: green bomber jacket, short hair, tight jeans, Rangers. Like almost all well-hung guys, he was really into sex when I met him. I did what Quentin never did. I trained him. I taught him everything I knew. Safe, necessarily, since he was negative. It bothered me a little that he wasn't a good dancer. I was such a perfectionist.
26
(1994)
It was a night when I knew that he was getting home late. I got on the Minitel. I got cruised by two guys who were putting on a scat party in Saint-Paul, not far from my place. I wasn't really into it but since they replied no, coke, to my u hv jnt? I told myself Why not. I had never really tried to explore this darker side of my personality. When I arrived at Saint-Paul, there were two of them, mustached, fifty years old, not very fit, looking like ’70s clones. A homemade commode with a real toilet seat lid was enthroned in the living room, just high enough to slide your head underneath. I fondled them a little to qualify for the coke. I concentrated on the one that was slightly less ugly than the other (and who was hard), but not too much, so I wouldn't upset his friend. I wanted to be sure that my lines were thick enough. They were. The coke was really cut like it almost always is in Paris, but OK it did a little something. Enough to send me to the bedroom, after having declined the honor of christening the living room toilet.
The one I thought was OK started fisting the other one while I spun around doing little things, like playing with nipples. Of course his bowels were full. After ten minutes it smelled so bad I started to retch. Then again. I almost barfed by the bedroom door, I barely held on. I'll be back! I told them, always full of fun when I'm high. It smelled better in the living room. I grabbed my clothes that were all over the couch. I got dressed. I went back into the bedroom to tell them I was taking off, holding my nose.
OK, you have our number, right? they asked, hard at work. Now the white plastic drop cloth was totally covered with it. I went to walk around Quetzal. Nothing was going on. I went home, too awake, but I didn't want to drag myself to Transfert.
27
(1994)
I'm a seduction machine. I wash and moisturize my body daily. I wear contacts. Lotion. A facial scrub once a week. I shave every third day. I trim my nose hair and ear hair, I trim my eyebrows, I shave my balls and my ass every two weeks, on the same schedule as my haircut. I trim the other areas of my body: pubes (1/8”), armpits (1/4”), back, shoulders, chest (1/16” to accentuate my muscles), sometimes the legs too. I brush my teeth three times a day, I have my teeth cleaned every three months, I wear unscented deodorant, I eat enough protein to make the gym pay off in muscle. Aside from work, I only wear sexy clothes. I'm always in tight jeans, tight t-shirts, or tight tank tops, sometimes a butch plaid shirt, sometimes a bomber jacket with a jean jacket underneath (that was the style back then), or a classy new fad, the butch, waterproof outdoors jacket from the U.S. in a yellow-beige. Or else all of that before but with leather 501s. Those were perfect for shopping in the Marais.
Technically speaking, I'm at the top of my game. I am a pleasure machine. I receive people at home wearing leather chaps, leather thongs, Rangers. I have music, toys, drugs. I have an immaculately clean ass. I can do everything. I kiss. I lick. I suck. I pinch. I twist. I breathe in. I pull. I push. I stroke. I smack. I hold. I open. I spread. I go. I come. I delve. I piss. I drool. I spit. The only thing I still don't know how to do is come in a condom. I'm still able to have an effect. Now guys almost systematically want to go at it again. Everything is perfectly worked out. That's probably why it's not working anymore. It's not the pleasure that's absorbed me until now, but the apprenticeship.
28
(1994)
Finally I decided that I couldn't stay with Stéphane. I was sick of being like Quentin, staying with someone simply to take advantage. I was sick of watching him suffer. I left him.
29
(1994)
Les Docks. I could walk there from my new, grim apartment near Gare de l’Est. It was good because I didn't have the strength anymore to take the métro to go into the city spots in the center of town. Too long. My desire for sex couldn't withstand the four métro stops to Étienne-Marcel. As usual, I found the biggest dick in the backroom. I sucked it. After a while the guy asked
me to go into one of the private rooms. He was young and handsome, and very well-built, in a tank top, baseball cap, tight jeans and boots. I accepted.
We finally found an empty one. We went in. We closed the door behind us. We kissed. How many guys have I made out with in my life? At least a thousand. I wasn't getting hard so I went down on his cock that was fat but especially long, hard but a little soft like I like it, outside of his jeans. I pumped it deep while choking on it, crouching so I wouldn't soil my 501s, while jerking off. He let me do it, he liked it, and then he grabbed my head with two hands and face-fucked me, that turned me on, I knelt on his boots and I sucked deeper, harder. He pulled me up and he kissed me, I ate his face, we were locked together, then he went down on my cock and he sucked me off, not well, it's terrible how most guys are bad at sucking, with the tips of their lips, with their teeth, not at the back of the throat, avoiding the balls. Too afraid of seeming like they really like it. Too afraid of coming off as sluts. I started to go soft. I stopped him. I went down on him again. That way at least I was sure that something intense would happen.
When I started to feel him getting close, I stopped. I got back up. I asked him You wouldn't want to fuck me? He said Yes. My ass isn't clean though, I said, we could go to my place, it's just nearby. He said No I can't get hard if I'm not in a sex club. I thought to myself Hardcore. I felt like I was close. I said OK. I went back down on him again, he was a little soft. I got busy. He got hard again, but slowly. I ended up coming before him because I couldn't wait anymore, on the floor between his boots. I kept going a bit. He still wouldn't come. I was starting to get fed up blowing him now that I had come, so I stood up and I started nibbling on his nipple, he had the big nipples of a sex pro. I cupped his balls while he jerked off, and then I moved over to the other nipple and then I could feel that he was really getting close so I kissed him, really hard, as if I wanted him for the rest of my life, my arm around his waist, really tight, my left hand still on his nipple, and he came and I came closer and I took him in my arms. We stayed there a moment cheek to cheek until it started to fade. We got dressed. I asked him his first name. We vacated the private room.
30
(1995)
I wasn't going to the gym anymore.
* * *
One exceptional night I went to Keller. The place where I had met Stéphane a year and several months before. I got hit on by this beautiful leather pussycat, dirty blond (like Terrier), with a goatee (like half of Paris). I was drunk (as usual), I took him home with me, in the comfort of the music, the joints, the lube at hand, and the best selection of dildos.
We kissed. He worked up a ton of saliva. I told myself Ah! He's into drool play. Two minutes later, bingo, he was drooling on the tip of my lips. I swallowed to give him the green light. He spit on my face and then licked it back up. We traded off spitting on each other and licking it off in the sensitive spots, while drinking some beer and pissing on each other (spitting implies pissing as a general rule). He fucked me (safe), for five minutes, and then he came.
31
(1995)
I was alone. I didn't go out to nightclubs or bars anymore. I was a star who no longer wanted to play. A faun who no longer wanted to dance. All that was left was what I had made my life about for so long: joints, the Minitel.
* * *
Forty years old, beginner S&M, looking to get dominated… I told him I wasn't interested. To begin with I never do beginners. Too much work. And certainly not beginners who were forty years old. No guy who was in relatively good shape would admit to being forty years old on the Minitel. They'd say thirty-six and then I would do them.
He hit me up again that same night, I logged on again (our phone bill was pretty high in those days). u wanna make $$? I laughed since, in the end, all these tricks knew the magic word. I wrote back, yes, cc?, A way to profit off my toys. He offered 1500 francs. I had already done this two or three times with Quentin so I knew how much a long session cost, it was around 2000. I said, ok 1500 1st, but 2000 after. I waited. you have a message press *sent, I saw on the screen. normally its cheaper after, my future client mentioned. I replied, no after its more money because you won’t be able to do without me.
We spent hours on the Minitel. He said that he didn't dare talk to me on the phone just yet, that he would give me another 200 francs to pay for the chat. He wasn't stupid. He asked all the smart questions. do you have some hash? alcohol? how do you fuck? do you alternate with caresses? what kind of music? I said dance, house, trance. He said that he liked trance for sex, but that he preferred techno. I was surprised he knew so much. Apparently, he was really well-versed in my field of work. He asked me what he should call me. He didn't like “master” too much. I agreed that it was actually a bit ridiculous. And anyway, he wasn't into boot-licking.
I asked him what he liked. Getting his dick worked over, his balls, especially his balls. To be bound. He wanted to be bound quickly. And to wear a mask so he couldn't see me. He said I could take it off later, pull him by his hair, slap him, that he already had done that and he liked it. He said that he had just discovered sex, that he had always worked too hard, that it didn't leave him any time, and then that he had just begun recently, that he had realized that he liked to be dominated, that he had accepted it because it was good for him, that he felt better mentally, even at work, that it gave him confidence, he said It's like when they say a woman is well-fucked. He asked me what I thought. I said that I thought that to really experience his sexuality with other men he had to be both a top and a bottom. But that it was already a good thing that he had accepted being passive.
The next day he called. He wanted to role-play. In his movie he wanted to be Jim, the eighteen-year-old virgin kid on the school's soccer team who'd come to be trained by me, the team's coach, a total womanizer who was infamous in our small town. It was going to be hard to pull off the super athlete part, I hadn't been eating these days ever since I became single. I told myself that I was still manly enough to be credible. I was already annoyed but I said, OK. We planned for a weeknight, around eight p.m. I warned him that at midnight, I would kick him out.
The day of our meeting I came home early. I had everything ready. For everything to go off without a hitch. I took out everything we could use. Handcuffs and footcuffs. Dog collar. Ball parachute and clothespins (when you're really horny, you don't feel the pain. Up to a certain point). Cock sleeve, nipple clamps, inflatable gag, martinet, riding crop. Ice cubes in a Tupperware, some whisky, glasses, three joints, two towels, a butt plug, a child-sized butt plug, he said he was pretty much a virgin, a tube of xylocaine. Everything was in arm's reach by a small table near the bed. I hooked up some nylon ropes to the mattress’ handles. Laid out the black plastic shower curtain over the bed. I put on a trance compilation album on the laser player. It was ten to eight. Shit, where is the leather mask? I put my cock ring on, my leather thong, with a zipper, my Rangers, my chaps. A t-shirt so I wouldn't catch a cold. The heater was turned all the way up but it wasn't super warm. He was late. I lit a joint. I drank some whisky with ice. He called to say he was sorry, he had been held up by his boss, and yes, at eight p.m. on a weeknight, that's the way it was at his job. I didn't say anything. He said he was on his way. I waited.
He buzzed. I opened the door of the apartment. He was supposed to walk in alone, walk down the hallway, turn towards the door on his right. I was supposed to come up behind him from the living room where I was waiting for him, throw his mask on and blindfold him (my mask didn't have a zipper). Everything went as planned. He was really short, very bulky, pretty dorky, bowl haircut. His undershirt was soaked in sweat. Gross. I put the mask on him, I blindfolded him. I grabbed the bottle of whisky that he had brought and that I wouldn't ever drink because it was J&B. Oh well.
I grabbed him by the strings of the mask, on top of the head, and I pulled him towards the bedroom. The situation excited me. I threw him to his knees, I made him smell my package, I pulled his pants and his unde
rwear down around his thighs, I smacked his ugly fat ass. So Jimmy boy, you like to be used, you filthy little whore! He had huge balls and the tiniest dick. I grabbed his balls, pulled them backwards, that made him squirm, I pulled harder, until he had to take a step backwards, I said Well, yeah, you're going to have to move if you want to keep them! I made him walk around the room two or three times, pulling him like that. He was out of his mind.
I stopped. He was pretty knocked out, out of breath. I decided I would start to get him drunk. I poured him a first glass of whisky on ice, directly in his mouth. I made sure he drank it all. That's why he was here, to no longer be in control. Come on! A bit more! Yeaaah! And now you're going to smoke a little, then you'll be wasted for what's next. I shoved a joint into his mouth. He took a hit. It made him cough. I made him take another. It felt good to be a little mean. He looked up at me with his watery eyes and said I've never felt so good. I made him shut up by shoving his face back into my package. You want my cock, eh, you little bitch, etc. I pulled it out. I've never had my dick sucked so terribly. Teeth, not much further than the tip, yes sure, he had a mask on, that wasn't really practical, but still. People don't understand the value of hard work.
Thirty minutes had already gone by since he arrived, everything was going OK so far and I didn't want the voltage to drop. I decided that now was a good time to tie him up. I put the leather handcuffs on him, his hands at the front. Now get undressed. Yes you can, come on, go for it! I whipped him a little so he wouldn't lose himself in the depressing monotony of undressing. I tied his hands and feet spread-eagle, onto the black shower curtain that was just thick enough for it to feel sexual. I got to work. I pulled on his nipples (he had little tufts of hair around them, it had been years since I had seen that. Everyone is shaved in my world). I pulled on his balls, I put clothespins on them, Jimmy was going to have to suffer a bit if he wanted to stay on the team. The music was grinding all around us. All of a sudden, I remembered the ice cubes. They hadn't completely melted yet, that way I didn't have to go back to the kitchen, which was good because I was feeling lazy, and pretty tipsy from the joints and the whisky I was knocking back between the abuse. I rubbed the ice cubes over his balls, his cock, his nipples, pushing them down, waiting for them to burn. He moaned a little. A little harder if I stayed in the same spot for a while.
The Works of Guillaume Dustan, Volume 1 Page 25