The fact is that by the time she saw his message sitting in her inbox at work she was full of regret for having sent hers. Too bold, too raw, too crazy. So unlike her. She was afraid she was pushing it, that would be scared, that he would run away. She barely managed to finish reading his response in one sitting. Trembling, dizzy, perspiring, she found herself out of breath, quite literally, gasping for air in short breaths. It would be hours before she could type a reply, and needless to say that no other work got done that day.
“This might sound trite, but my reaction was...............WOW! The content of your reply was totally unexpected and therefore packed an even bigger punch than you might have expected. I have read it several times and it continues to arouse me. You have evoked some very powerful images and the conversational style makes me feel that you are with me in a very physical sense. Almost like an out-‐of-‐body experience.”
“What sort of man…” she began thinking, but no, such a question had now become meaningless. This was Michel, she thought, and she repeated the name, over and over, in her head, realizing only after a minute or two that she was saying the name out loud. Music, laughter, a prayer, she was as giddy as Tony in West Side Story, as smitten as Maria. Michel. Her French lover. Unlike anyone she had ever met before. His every word a poem to her ears, his every sentence another silky strand in the web he was weaving around her to her delight. There were the occasional moments of fear, but it was not him she was afraid of, but of herself. Never had she so willingly given up control to anyone, and this was “so unlike her”. Naturally, she reveled in doing things that were unlike her as after all that is the point of a prim and proper façade, but only when it was by design. Whenever Michel asked for something, Catherine, as she now should be called since it was around then that Michel noticed the unpleasant imbalance at the pleasure she had in saying his name, said yes before even realizing the word had come out of her mouth, and this too was very much unlike her. For the name also she said yes without thinking, and within seconds she was flooded with a wave of conflicting thoughts. “What’s wrong with Cathy?” “Of course he can call me Catherine: that’s my name!” “Nobody calls me Catherine!” “Good lord! It’s not my name anymore, it’s his name for me!” “Why am I panicking like a little girl?” But then she listened as he said her name and the instant pleasure she derived from it erased any doubt in a flash. Soon enough she would find it pure magic when he would answer the phone with her standard issue “Community Relations, this is Cathy, how may I help you today?” only to be met with a pause followed with a suave “Hello, Catherine”, the prelude to often over an hour of sheer conversational bliss. And every conversation gave rise to renewed ardor in their messages, electronic echoes of their melding thoughts across the ether.
“Dearest Michel, It is unbelievable how time flies when I am talking to you. It is quite paradoxical that the more we speak, the greater the desire I have to continue the conversation. This morning was lovely, and how near you felt to me. Almost as though I could reach out and touch you. I left the patio, entered the house and climbed the stairs. There I finally removed my robe and stood before the mirror. Your eyes taking in my sun-‐ warmed body, jewelry glowing at my neck, wrists and earlobes. Reluctantly, I donned clothing and made ready to face the day. But your voice remained with me and in me.
Yours,
Catherine”
“Dear Catherine,
Indeed time ceases to exist when we are together, and it is always a bit of a surprise when we are re-‐immersed in its continuum and find that the shadow on the quadrant has moved quite a bit. So also it is when I write to you. I have just put on an old album: Kate Bush's "the kick inside". The first track says many things resonant of what we share. You move me. This morning, you stood in this open temple of the sun, in full priestly dress and I stood behind you, basking in your shadow. My soul sensing solace, my serene face softly seeking your scent in you hair. Then you came up so that I could see you in full, gold and gems gently glowing on your skin, your breath slowly wafting towards me like the breath of the ocean, your breasts rising and falling with each wave. And though each wave brings you closer to me, with each my body aches. You move me.
Yours truly,
Michel”
Far from conflicting thoughts of any kind, Michel was happy. Never had he written any such prose and the words flowed from him, gushing from a well that he had long known was in him, but always repressed. There were occasional moments of shame, usually just after sending a message, when he would suddenly think of himself as a silly parading peacock pouring out pompous sesquipedalian drivel just because he could, or one of those dreadfully ridiculous pigeons in heat puffing himself up while running after a female. Her next message would erase any doubt and plunge him back to his newfound little corner of bliss, and soon enough, shame had been replaced by mild embarrassment brought about by her frequent reminders to him of how different their backgrounds were. Undeniably her upbringing in rural Idaho bore little resemblance to his passage through the elite institutions of the French educational system. She was heir to a long line of potato farmers. He was a direct descendant of the Marquis de Lafayette. But he knew that she used this as a mere pawn on the chessboard of their conversations and that contemplating this did not overwhelm her, only that it was an endless source of wonder for her that “a man such as he” could be interested in her. In fact, he thought of her as one of the most sophisticated people he knew, with one remarkable difference: her total lack of conceit. It was in America that he had been introduced to the difference between absence of conceit and naïveté. In the world he came from, that distinction had been lost long ago. But from the first time he and Catherine spoke, he had felt a form of magic operate. With her, he was completely open and honest, never feeling the need to be careful when he spoke or wrote. He could have found it hard to believe, but there were too many signs. He was not superstitious or spiritual in the least, but he knew enough to not argue when the stars align. To him, a coincidence was just a coincidence, but serendipity was key. He felt no need to ponder the fact that on his mother’s side, he was a direct descendant of Parmentier, the nobleman credited with having introduced potatoes to France, nor the fact that her grandfather had gone to France as a mechanic with the Lafayette escadrille, but to ignore the pleasure that this gave him would have gone against the grain as it gave him wonderful counterarguments to her talk of different worlds: “You and I are the only two people I know that have a portrait of Lafayette in their home. Most marriages are based on less than that!” To him, whatever she claimed separated them only amounted to the lovely idea that whatever they shared of each other’s past would feel fresh, new and exotic to the other so that it would be a very, very long time before the ever bored each other with reruns. He made her laugh and that
filled him with joy, but more importantly he could send shivers down her spine, quicken her pulse, shorten her breath. Sometimes he would write at night, knowing she would read in the morning , then call her in the afternoon and find her still trembling from his now overtly sexual fantasies with her. She would respond in kind only adding to the awe she inspired in him. He had never met a woman so openly innocent about her sexual pleasures and fantasies. He realized slowly that his own libido was a jumbled imbroglio of repressed desires strangled by years of accumulated misperceptions and that he was a crumpled mess of a man stunned into disbelief upon hearing a woman tell him that she found pleasure in pleasing a man. Deep down he’d always known such a woman existed but had despaired of ever meeting her.
“Dearest Michel, I just realized that I have been thinking of your orgasm as something unrelated to me, as though I have stimulated you to the peak but then just sit by and watch. But what would it mean for me to hold you in my mouth or my vagina as you come? Would you remain in my orifice during this entire process?
Yours,
Catherine”
It fascinated Catherine that she could be having the same effect on him as he on her. He spoke of her initiating him, bringing him into a new world as a midwife and disbelief would have nagged at her mind if it weren’t for the joy palpable in his voice whenever they spoke. On the phone, she was brazen, describing how she would please him if they were together, how she would slowly bring him to orgasm, and it thrilled her to hear him speak of squirming, seated and not being able to stand up for a few minutes until he was less rigid. How could it be that a couple of semi-‐ platonic flings in high-‐school, her marriage and one affair had given her greater understanding of sex than Michel, the well-‐bred worldly and traveled French aristocrat? How could she possibly have anything to give to this wonderful person who had read so many books she would never read, seen so many places she had never been to, steeped in the long history of his illustrious family? But he just brushed such things away as mere trifles, weaving ever more powerful spells of enchantment. How could I possibly imagine what it was like for you growing up?” she once asked. “I’ll take you there” he answered, and he did.
“Sweet Catherine,
I walk into the room looking for you. You see me and stand, with perhaps some apprehension on your face. Maybe it is because you do not know this place. Maybe it is because of the look on my face. I don't really care. There is weariness in my bones and I need comfort. I take your arm and pull you toward the long oak table. I bend you over the table, pull up your skirt and pull down your panties, knocking off your shoes. I unzip and pull out my Phallus. Not hard enough yet, but getting there. I grab a hand and pin it in your back, pushing you down firmly onto the table and kick your feet apart more. My phallus is ready, and I jab it in. I grab your other hand and pin it with the other, both your wrists in my firm grip, pressing you onto the table, and I am in you. I let go of your hands to grab your shoulder and pull you upright. I grab your breasts and squeeze them tightly. And I am in you. I feel the quickening but I hold it back. I drop your breasts and push you back down onto the table. Your torso moves back and forth on the dark wood as I pound it in, pound it in. Finally the moment is coming. I pull out of you, grab you and pull you back while pushing you down on your knees. I put my phallus in your mouth and push it in deep and explode, bending over, pulling you into me. My grunts turn into howls as I empty myself. The fire moves from my loin to my veins, and I let it consume my passion and my rage. I push you away and slam my fists on the table. With a final roar, I contract every muscle in my body and reassert control. I stand tall and refasten my pants. Out of the window, I catch the last embers of the sun on my domain. This is my mother's second house and will one day come to me, her second son. This table is nearly two hundred years old, almost as old as the house, an old farm. My family has owned land in these parts for over five hundred years. Before that, they were serfs belonging to the count and lord of these parts. Eight miles from here, there is a cemetery where lay twelve generations of my ancestry. I help you to your feet and look deep into your eyes. I brush a finger against your lips and smile. This place is not much further from your home than is Los Angeles. I have not been here physically for 18 years, though many times in dream, and I do not expect that I will be able to return for another ten years. Until then, nothing here will change much, nothing will move... It is an important place for me, which is why I needed to 'take' you there. We will return many times, if that is agreeable to you. There is a meadow, a stream, a forest... It is a lush, verdant place of live oaks, wheat fields and a beautiful rose garden. My adoration you have earned many times over.
Sincerely yours,
Michel”
Her response marked a definite turning point in their affair.
“Dearest Michel,
You have taken my breath away. Perhaps the time was right for you to assert yourself and take me in your domain. All doubts have flown from my mind and I can think only of my desire to please you. I want you very, very badly.
We are in my bedroom. You are naked but I am fully clothed. Your hands reach up under my blouse and your fingers trace the outline of my bra. Your fingers travel onward and slip inside my slacks. With a shock, you realize that I am wearing no panties. You unzip my pants and let them fall to the floor. Your growing cock fits so nicely between my legs. You unbutton my blouse. I take your hand and indicate that you are to sit on the edge of the bed. I kneel before you, clothed now only in my bra. You lean back on your hands and your beautiful cock rises to meet my lips. My sex is pulsating with sensation; I am so aroused by this vision of myself in my bra with my
bottom exposed. My tongue explores every inch of your erect phallus as you watch with awe. Up and down its full length, I lavish every ounce of my attention on giving you magnificent pleasure. I stop periodically to look into your eyes and to give you a chance to catch your breath. You let me be the guide, until finally I can sense that you are at the point of no return.
Your hands are on my head in blessing as every nerve in your body seems to explode. And I remain there, head bowed, until you reach to bring me into your embrace.
I am yours, Michel. I will not doubt you any longer.
Catherine”
While neither of them would cease to marvel at their ability to write as they did to each other, and certainly some of their previous messages had been even more sexually explicit, they did cease to wonder if it was acceptable to write that way of such things, or whether the recipient would be shocked or turned off by anything they had to say. It was a degree of freedom added to the creative matrix of their affair, and indeed each message would deepen the imprint of their soul that each would leave on the other. Each day found them renewed, a blank
page ready for the other to write on with the ink of their life, of their bond, of their shared fantasy. Distance and time shaped their relationship but not as an obstacle, instead instilling into it a sense of rhythm, as if infused with the daily pulse of their common heart. Of course there was the occasional empty inbox, rough reminders of the precariousness of the better things in life, the sharp pang of pain of a heart that skips a beat, the unforgiving lingering fear that one might wake up… They trusted each other fully but also understood that life has its dictates and that their relationship by its very nature could be extinguished in a moment because of these. Or simply be rudely interrupted, such as the time when she went on a ten day vacation with her husband out of reach of the magical electronic ink that he transported her with. He wrote to her just before she left so that he could be with her while she was gone.
“Dear Catherine, Ten days... a hundred years of solitude. Ten days to be measured in months. But of course nothing compared to how long it took for us to find each other. We shall speak in a few minutes (I will call you), but since you will be rereading this message thereafter, these words will be my last before you are temporarily whisked away to distant climes. I would leave you with a series of sketches of stories to come. A sampler if you will. You see, ours is not a linear encounter. The very way in which we communicate fragments time to be rearranged as in a kaleidoscope, and from our encounter there are many paths that you can follow to tomorrow, depending on which e-‐mails you reread, which stories, in which sequence... So it is also for me looking forward. There many stories to be told, some which cannot follow each other, some that can repeat at different times. Some begin now, most later, and some, of course, have already begun. Here then are some fragments of narratives to come, pieces from different puzzles put together to form a different kind of image...
The Pleasure of M Page 3