by Val
About the Book
The true story of a young woman’s life as a high-class call girl in Madrid.
When Valérie Tasso’s found herself destitute after an abusive boyfriend ran off with all her money, she began to earn a living in prostitution. As a middle-class French girl, her sophistication and poise held an appeal that Spanish men could not resist. From sex in a graveyard, to unusual acts with coca-cola bottles, Valerie Tasso found this life far more enjoyable than she could ever have hoped.
In the tradition of Belle du Jour and The Sexual Life of Catherine M, Valérie Tasso’s memoir is a riveting tale of sexual promiscuity.
Contents
Cover
About the Book
Title Page
My 1,200-Metre Marathon
The Aphrodisiacal Power of Coca-Cola
My Encounter With Cristian
I Go On A Trip
I Go Native
Not Nice
My U-Turn
Slices of Life
The Cop
The Argument
Sleeping With The Enemy
The Interview
The Trap
Our Love Nest
I Find a Job
Broken Dishes
The Seizure
A Suite For Two
My Father Has Died . . .
Obsessions With Time
The Contract
The Worst Is Yet To Come
My Unhappy Valentine
An Unhappy Ending
The Brothel
There’s Always A First Time
Miss Sarajevo
Careful, We’re Being Watched!
Manolo The Lorry Driver
The Sponge
Politically Incorrect
The Marquis De Sade Waltz
In The Eye Of The Camera
Plastic Fantastic
My Turn To Pay . . .
State of Siege
Revolving Doors
I Meet Giovanni
The Glass Man
What’s He Like? Where Did He Fall In Love With You?
Accident At Work
Out Of The Closet
Partner Swap
My Guardian Angel
Odyssey in Odessa
Change Of Century, Change Of Skin
The Rescue
What Now?
About the Author
Copyright
Insatiable
The Sexual Adventures of a French Girl in Spain
Valérie Tasso
Translated from the Spanish by Nick Caistor
My 1,200-Metre Marathon
Encounters may be brief, but no two are ever the same . . .
I LOST MY virginity on 17th July 1984, at 02.46.50 in the morning. When you’re fifteen, you never forget a moment like that.
It happened when I was on holiday at the house of my friend Emma’s grandmother, in a mountain village in France.
I immediately fell in love with the place and its smell of eternity, and with the group of boys we went around with. But only one of them really caught my eye: Edouard.
The grandmother’s house had a beautiful garden and was right next to a stream that brought a cool breeze to the summer heat. Opposite the house was a field full of grass at least a metre tall, typical of somewhere where it rains a lot. Emma and I spent whole afternoons hidden there, lying on our backs chatting about the boys, and flattening the grass with our heavy, pubescent bodies. At night, we would climb over the garden wall to meet up with the boys again and flirt.
I never told Emma what had happened. One night, Edouard took me to his place. I remember I didn’t feel a thing, apart from a sense of shame that I had not bled at all, as well as the strange sensation that I had wet the bed. I left his house under cover of the noise of the lavatory chain, which I pulled to hide the sound of my footsteps on the stairs.
Eleven years later I saw Edouard again, at a conference organized in a Paris hotel. We locked ourselves in the men’s bathroom, trying to rediscover the impulse we had felt more than a decade earlier, either from a fear of growing up, or simple nostalgia. But it wasn’t the same, and once again the sound of a flushing toilet heralded my disappearance – this time for ever – from his life.
After that first time, I began to feel guilty, and tried to overcome or at least mitigate my feelings of guilt by repeating the experience as often as I could until I reached adulthood. It was not so much that I had abnormally precocious desires, more that I wanted to experiment, out of a sense of pure curiosity.
At first, I put these impulses down to the fact that Mother Nature had endowed me with a special sensibility, which I responded to through my body. This lasted until I enrolled at university at the end of the Eighties.
While I was studying, I was more concerned with my career than with boys. I wanted to be a diplomat, but in the end I changed to Business Administration and Applied Foreign Languages, and graduated without much effort.
My family had taught me good manners, the art of behaving properly, and this, combined with a fairly traditional education and difficulties in communicating, meant I increasingly kept my feelings to myself. A well-brought-up girl like me could never tell her parents she had started her love life so soon.
My sexual life reawakened in my last year at university. I realized I had something special about me which attracted men. I was a witch, and set about discovering enchanting Merlins all over the city: men with some spark to them, lovers, especially those whose veins I could see beneath the skin: I thought that was really sexy. Men whose pulse I could feel at their wrists. Men who could hear a pen scraping on paper, who got emotional at the size of an ink blot on a white sheet of paper. Men who like me could see the particles that made up the air around us, who could see its different colours. People for whom the smell of a blocked toilet in a discotheque at four in the morning made them reflect on the fragility of human existence.
People who made me feel alive.
I know deep down that this search of mine was the symptom of a terrible sickness: silence, solitude, lack of communication. That’s why I decided to write down my experiences in a diary. That was the only way I had to explain myself and communicate. I had already tried the most natural way, that is by talking, but I was always very clumsy, because the words came out without me being able to control them. I found it impossible to state my ideas, which was no way for a diplomat to embark on her career.
My real communication began with my body, the sway of my hips, the way I looked at people. Whenever I got a ‘yes’ for moistening my lips with my tongue, or for a gaze at someone, or a ‘no’ for holding my hands across my lap, I began to understand.
Some men like women to talk while they’re making love. I’ve never been able to do that properly, and it’s brought me many disappointments. Several men vanished after our first date, even though they admitted I was a good lover; according to them, they needed more communication.
‘What do you know about communication?’ I would retort, pushing them out and slamming the door in their face.
I began to realize that people needed to put a name to things, to simplify them by using words. This gave them the mistaken impression they were understanding them. I, on the other hand, started to communicate less and less through words, and increasingly with my body.
If you want to define me with a word, go right ahead, I couldn’t care less. But you should know that in reality I am a nymph. A Nereid, a dryad. A nymph, nothing more.
The Aphrodisiacal Power of Coca-Cola
20th March 1997
TODAY I GOT a call at the office from Hassan. Hassan! It’s two years since I last heard from him.
‘Traitor,’ was the first thing he said. ‘You vanished. But as you see, I
know where to find you. I have to go to Barcelona this week for my newspaper. I’d like to see you.’ Hassan . . .
For two years (not continuously) I had an affair with Hassan. He had (perhaps still has) a special obsession with pushing empty Coca-Cola bottles up my vagina. First he made me drink them, then . . . I’ve no idea where his obsession with Coca-Cola, or rather the bottle, comes from. I suppose he must have a complex about his penis – and, truth to tell, it doesn’t exactly have much artistic or physical prowess.
Apart from sex, we didn’t talk much, but we shared a love of Saint-Exupéry’s The Little Prince, and we both dreamt about what a real love story should be like, sighing deeply. But I always knew he was not my love story. He is Moroccan, I am French. And in some way or other I knew he wanted me as his lover so that he could fuck the whole of France and colonialism.
So today there was no sex, simply a phone call and interesting possibilities . . .
22nd March 1997
Today as I was leaving home I saw a guy in the street. Just by exchanging glances, we decided to make love. As soon as we got into a hotel on the Via Augusta, he took me in his arms and led me to the kitchen, where he laid me on the marble worktop as gently as though I were a china doll. At first, he scarcely dared touch me. But then he pulled off my sweat-drenched tee shirt and held it to his face. All at once he started taking deep breaths and sniffing at the shirt, centimetre by centimetre. He was breathing its sweaty smell in as hard as he could. I could not help staring at him, delighted by his fetishism that was new to me. Beads of sweat stood out like pearls on his forehead, and trickled down between his eyebrows. I leaned over him and started delicately licking them, drinking him in. I could feel his uneven panting right next to my cheek. Excitement gripped my stomach; my thighs twitched. I was losing control. I began to feel giddy, as my body cried out to be stripped bare, to become one with this stranger. He bent towards me, and felt under my skirt until his fingers touched the elastic on my panties. I thought he was going to take them off, but no: instead he raised my skirt and pushed them aside. And took me there and then, his eyes still fixed on mine, searching for every reaction my face showed, every expression.
When we said goodbye in the street, I had no wish to ask him for his phone number. And he had no intention of giving it me. I’m not in the habit of spoiling a meeting like that with a promise to see someone again. A repeat session with a stranger doesn’t interest me. I prefer to pick up someone else in the street.
23rd March 1997
Today Hassan arrived in Barcelona. We agreed to meet at the Majestic Hotel.
‘Come at seven. Ask for the key in reception and go straight up to the room. I’ll be there a bit later. Please be discreet. I’ll be coming with my bodyguards. You know the score . . .’ he told me on the phone this morning.
I arrived at the hotel five minutes before the agreed time. I asked for the key and got into the elevator. Some fat foreign businessmen made me squeeze into a corner and almost crushed me. Just thinking about all that flesh oozing cholesterol made me feel nauseous. I’m sure none of them has an exactly full sexual life. And besides, their sort always leave you wet with perspiration, because they sweat like pigs.
When we reached the right floor I got out of the elevator. I could feel the swine examining every centimetre of my body from the waist down, with particular emphasis on my backside. If they carry on like that, I thought, I’ll haul them all off to my room, even though I’ve got something much better to do.
I opened the door to the room, drew back the curtains to let a bit of natural light in, and then headed straight for the minibar, with the firm intention of removing all the Coca-Cola bottles. I wasn’t in the mood for any sadomasochism, however light. I was quite happy though to perform my best striptease for Hassan, a belly dance without the veils.
I always get nervous before one of these encounters. I switched the TV on and started zapping channels to the rhythm of my heartbeat. Eventually I fell asleep. The sound of the door opening woke me. It was him.
‘Why aren’t you undressed yet?’ he asked reproachfully.
So much for my planned striptease. He made love to me silently with a passion he had never shown before, right there on the carpet. We changed positions several times as if we wanted to share the uncomfortable floor, and the scratchy carpet fibres. I suddenly imagined all the millions of mites we must be squashing; just thinking of them made me sneeze uncontrollably for minutes on end. Hassan took me out of this microscopic zoo by licking me all over. I was surprised at the time he took to see me get pleasure, without thinking of himself. It was his way of rediscovering me after such a long time, with no need to speak. It occurred to me that like good wine, some people improve with the years.
‘You remind me of an actress I once had a relationship with,’ he said, stroking my hair after soaking my stomach with his semen. ‘She always used to tell me: “You can’t imagine how many kilometres of dicks I’ve sucked just to be famous!”’
He burst out laughing.
‘A Moroccan actress?’
He nodded, and drew deeply on the cigarette he had just lit. Then he put it between my lips. Though I’ve never liked the taste of a damp filter tip, I accepted it all the same.
‘That’s some confession! I could understand it in Europe, but in Morocco? Anyway, what’s that got to do with me?’ I asked, half seriously, leaning up on my left elbow.
‘Nothing. Just that you remind me of her. I don’t know why, but I saw her face in my mind.’
After an impromptu fellatio, I calculated that if a man’s prick measures an average of twelve centimetres, in order to get beyond a kilometre and reach a miserable 1,200 metres, I would have to fuck ten thousand men. Or do it ten thousand times with the same man. I don’t think much of that second option. Much more interesting to go for the ten thousand. I’ll stick with that hypothesis.
‘Fuck that friend of yours, Hassan!’
‘What’s wrong with her?’ he wanted to know, lying there with his legs still spread wide and cupping his balls in his hand.
I shrugged and got up to go to the bathroom. I felt sticky, and wanted to wipe off the semen I had all over my body with some toilet roll, and then have a shower.
I did not want to spend the night with Hassan. I needed to get up early, go home and change my clothes because I had an important meeting to attend. As soon as my lover fell asleep, I left without a sound. I always leave like a cat.
Ten thousand men. I must see how far I’ve got some day.
25th March 1997
‘Will you come to Madrid with me?’ Hassan asked. ‘I can’t miss the event at the Zarzuela Palace. And I’d like you to help me to translate what the papers say about the meeting.’
Not entirely convinced, I decided to go with him. I reserved a room in the Miguel Angel Hotel, and we took the last evening flight. In mid-air, while he was absorbed in his newspaper, Hassan started openly to stroke my legs. I could see the people next to us becoming uncomfortable, so I opened my legs a little wider, for Hassan to be able to run his hand right up the inside of my thigh. Our neighbours looked the other way in disgust. Some other passengers tried to glance surreptitiously at us out of the corner of their eye, but I stared at them and they soon looked away. I have always been astonished at how hypocritical people are. They throw their hands up in horror, yet at the same time they have a morbid fascination for what others are doing.
When we got to the hotel, Hassan suggested we make love in the shower. I was delighted with the idea. When we were both standing in the tub, with the water coursing down my back and his legs, he took the bar of soap and started rubbing it against my pubic hair. Then he reached up and started to soap my nipples. He began to play with them, his hand circling round and round. The slippery sensation of the water and the soapy foam had an immediate effect on my body. Hassan’s movements got more and more rapid, so I felt backwards and guided his penis into its natural habitat. Five minutes later, we both came at the
same time.
26th March 1997
While Hassan was at his meeting with the heir to the Spanish throne, I tried to link up with Victor López, who works in offices not far from my hotel. Victor and I had met in the Dominican Republic, where every weekend we made love for everyone to see on the Playa Bavaro. During the week, I was in Santo Domingo, and he worked in Santiago de los Caballeros. Four hundred kilometres apart. I wanted to see him again, because I was getting bored cooped up in my room.
‘Who shall I say is calling?’ his secretary said, icily. I suspect that like many women, she’s in love with her boss and doesn’t like the idea of putting through a call from another woman. Especially if she sounds attractive.
‘A friend of Victor’s,’ I replied, trying to sweeten her a bit.
‘He’s not available at the moment. But if you leave me your number, I’ll get him to call you as soon as he’s free.’
If you don’t give him my message I’ll kill you, I thought to myself.
An hour later, Victor rang.
‘I can’t believe it! What part of the world are you ringing from?’ he asked, sounding overjoyed to hear from me.
‘Well, I gave your secretary my mobile number to throw her off the scent, but in fact I’m very close by, Victor.’ My mysterious tone intrigued him.
‘You are?’
I could tell from his voice he wanted to see me at once.
‘Go on, tell me where you are!’
‘I’m in Madrid. I’m staying at the Miguel Angel. But I’m with someone. So I could have a quick coffee with you, but nothing more.’
‘No, don’t say that! I need to have dinner with you at least. You’re always appearing and disappearing. When am I going to get more than an hour with you?’
He sounded really upset.
‘I could have dinner with you perhaps, but that depends on whether or not the person I’m with has a business engagement tonight. Let’s have a coffee first and then see what happens, OK?’