by Emma Becker
I drink inside your tear
I spread out your naked legs
I open them like a book
Where I can read my death
Babette had just rolled herself a cigarette and begun smoking it, when I yelped.
‘What? What?’ she cried out, springing to my side.
‘I’ve just received a disgusting poem,’ I squeaked, half smiling, reading the first lines, amusement mixed with loathing. ‘A poem about cock slapping.’
I answered him hurriedly, Babette endlessly repeating ‘shaft’ and ‘scrotum’ behind me. Then she said: ‘Don’t you see? That man is already in your bed. Worse, he’s thoroughly enjoying himself there.’
ELLIE
My dear, of course no one is aware of anything, and least of all my angelic uncle . . .
The final verses are rather pretty . . . When can I see you?
MONSIEUR
I’m certainly keen to see you but shouldn’t we wait a little longer?
ELLIE
Wait? Why should we? Do you want some more poems?
MONSIEUR
There is something magical in discussing crude things without knowing each other . . . but I know I won’t be able to resist much longer . . .
‘I like your first name. Ellie. Ellie. Ellie. Ellie.’
‘A pleasant mantra. But it doesn’t surprise me – I’ve always known I had a bedroom name.’
‘Strange how different you sound from your texts.’
‘Different? Would you like me to be wittier?’
‘Witty? How funny . . . No, I like you as you are.’
‘But still, you haven’t asked to meet me.’
‘It’s all I dream about . . . but I’m enjoying our conversations . . .’
‘This . . . literary tension is quite nice. Keeps the tummy warm.’
‘Exactly. Delicious . . . Tuesday morning?’
‘What a good idea!’
‘Where could we meet?’
(Maybe Monsieur is wrong to provide me with so much rope. Maybe Babette was wrong to leave so early. Once I’m alone, I promptly abandon all my principles.)
I do have an idea, but you might find it indecent.’
‘Nothing is indecent – and, anyway, I like indecency. Where?’
‘I often work in hotel rooms. It’s too noisy at home. So really I’m just inviting you to meet me at my office. I’m often in the fifteenth, rue des Volontaires.’
‘Fine with me . . . How intriguing. Rue des Volontaires, then. I have to go. Write to me again.’
‘I will.’
‘Sometimes in my dreams . . .’
‘Report everything to the doctor tomorrow.’
ELLIE
My dear,
A late response to a point in your letter that was bothering me.
You wish to thwart my youthful assumptions with your manly experience. Fine. So, a woman can crave a cock. I shall eagerly await the moment when this comes true, although I just can’t see myself ever saying, ‘Anyone, any cock.’
Or maybe it’s already happened to me. Although to reach such a state of mind and body, I must have been travelling through Ohio or somewhere close.
Damn it, what about the poetry of it? It pains me to believe that a woman can turn into such an animal that all she can conceive of is that part, however fundamental, of a man.
Although I’d have to forget all those nights I’ve spent tossing and turning in my bed, in torment, nailed to my sheets in a crucified pattern of passion, forever hungry. But maybe you’re right. Maybe that’s all I was seeking . . . insofar as I spent the evening with a girlfriend who had once experienced the very same thing. All very Peter Pan-like in the telling, but I’m sure you’ll appreciate it. It takes place at night, then. Not just a single night, as there are many of them. A dark night, late, and the Young One on the first floor, confined to her blue childhood room, is twisting and turning between her damp sheets, unable to find peace, literally crucified by the imperative need to be filled, the craving that happens to be the only phenomenon capable of turning a young girl into a woman. Aware that any attempt at self-satisfaction is useless, as any climax thus achieved is just another hollow stimulation; as soon as the orgasm fades, all those thoughts would just come charging back. And, on so many occasions, I just lay there spread out in my bed for someone to open the door, anyone, and take me. Anyone, the son of the neighbour who seems to spend his life spying on me, the guy who comes to repair the boiler, a burglar even. The body of a man; no more, no less. The body of a man, the hands of a man and the demands of a man and the undescribable, delicious and profoundly shocking smell of man. That’s what I was waiting for, when I was smaller, for Peter Pan to come to me. It’s quite funny this Peter Pan story. Not long ago, I was writing to a boy, ‘Did you know that God invented nighties so that girls can wear them without knickers? I think that’s why Peter Pan came to visit Wendy. The little slut must have been sleeping with her legs open.’
Have you read the actual J. M. Barrie novel? I believe it’s both the most beautiful and saddest story about the death of children and their early erotic awakening. In fact, I’m quite certain she wore nothing under her nightie . . . and what about the pesky Captain Hook?
All this to explain how affecting the cravings of young girls are, despite the insomnia they generate, how despairing and full of paradoxes. I know so few girls of my age who have experienced a true orgasm in the arms of a man, ‘true orgasm’ meaning one initiated simply by penetration.
I don’t know the reasons. That at twenty our bodies are still unexplored continents? That boys of our own age don’t properly understand us?
At any rate, the only pleasure available to us is of our own making. And when we experience that almost hysterical craving for sex, it’s a total waste of time to try to reach it alone. The specific part of our body isn’t screaming. It’s a desire that takes root in the deepest part of the gut and demands, animal and instinctive, a man’s gut to rush against, because that’s the way things are. It’s a physiological fact that we are made to be filled by a man. Whether we come or not is beside the point. So, in a way, you may be right. ‘Just a cock.’
It ain’t easy – it’s even humiliating – to be belittled thus. Reduced to crawling, begging.
Changing the subject, I just remembered you basically telling me you had no memory of discussing your taste for Mandiargues and Calaferte with my uncle. You did actually talk about it, one weekend in Jersey or thereabouts, with my mother. The facts, just the facts: six months ago, my mother caught me yet again with the Calaferte volume in my hands and said, ‘I don’t understand how you can read that book over and over again!’ To which I responded that it was possibly one of the most beautiful books ever written. And I think she answered, ‘How funny. You’d get on well with one of Philippe’s colleagues.’
Me : ‘?’
Mum: ‘One of the surgeons who works at the clinic. He’s heavily into erotic literature.’
There you are. That’s why we’ve been writing all these mails over the past days. Of course no one else needs to know. But you are as conscious of that as I am.
3.30 a.m.
Once again, do forgive me for the clumsy style and any spelling mistakes. It’s that time of night when I’m no longer quite in control of myself . . .
Ellie
MONSIEUR
I’m often startled when I read your mails . . . as if you were a wonderful creation conjured up by my subconscious and my memory. Peter Pan . . . my very first unforgettable conscious erotic memory . . .
Yesterday I read every line of your blog while watching the photos on your Facebook profile. It was later reflected in my dreams. I’m eager for you to wake up properly . . . not that I have any objection to imagining you sleeping, alone and lasciviously clad in some unknown garb, the thought of which gives me shameful and delicious ideas . . .
I’m slowly waking up . . . My room is all red. Lascivious . . . I like your choice of words, Monsieur.
I am lascivious and barely awake, waiting for the boiler repairman to arrive.
This is where I regret spending fourteen years studying surgery while a boiler repairman’s certificate would have sufficed today . . .
You have no sense of poetry! There is nothing more beautiful than your job. Anyway, maybe I need medical attention. You see, I’ve just twisted my wrist. I need you to call on me. To look after it, of course.
Of course . . . to look after you . . . but are you alone?
My father is working in his study. Why? Did you want to come round?
How could I resist? My mind’s all scrambled . . . Tuesday seems so far away still . . .
Doesn’t patience feel like a row of teeth biting into your stomach?
Beautiful . . . Toothmarks exploring your flesh . . . your skin shimmering with impatience . . . and me behind my desk sitting awkwardly in an attempt to conceal the incongruous rise beneath my trousers from the gaze of all eyes in the waiting room.
Enough! You almost make me want to break my wrist!
Can’t have your wrist out of action. You wouldn’t be able to free the stranglehold of my belt . . . your light-coloured eyes wantonly seeking mine.
My dear, I’m in a meeting with some journalist friends. You’ll make my cheeks go all red.
(The truth: I’m burrowed inside my bed like a helpless cock-teaser running out of ideas, unable to come up with the right response to his provocation, even incapable of imagining myself looking into his eyes while I open the flies of his suit trousers.)
I like making your cheeks go red . . . You have also . . . affected me . . . a lot. Is it a bad thing? Is all this wrong? And if so, would it change anything? Can I call you?
This man, on the other side of Paris, at the other end of the line, light years away from me, showed such old-fashioned delicacy as soon as he guessed I was taken aback by his masculine banter. Now that I’ve revealed myself to him in words that vibrate from his mobile, he wants to hear my voice. And I’m absolutely terrified to listen to compliments about my body or my mouth – which he has never even seen. I can’t imagine his voice; can’t imagine the way he might chuckle at my possible wit or because he knows I’m going red in the face. But I’m sure his voice will be the voice of the devil, whether it’s deep and dark or clear and precise. And because I can’t confront the devil with any form of assurance, I can only contemplate this call with the guilt of a kid who fucks guys around in Internet chatrooms.
Later that afternoon, as I had little else to do, I went to avenue Daumesnil to get waxed in a salon more used to older women. At least, that was what I assumed when I asked for a full Brazilian and the beautician gave me a puzzled look. In my handbag, my mobile was buzzing. Unknown caller. Unknown caller. Unknown caller.
Once I was hairless, I found the nerve to answer.
‘Ellie?’
I knew it was him. It could have been anyone, but the voice had had a first name. Standing alone in a puddle of sunshine, my Wayfarers perched on my nose, I answered: ‘Bonjour, Monsieur.’
Did I mention how nice the city smelled that day? A lingering sun turning all the buildings slightly orange. Standing motionless in the middle of rue Dugommier, I bit my fingers while I weighed up the sound of his voice, the depth of his laughter. All around me, people moved in the slow motion that only belongs to summer, unaware of the story that was about to begin right there under their gaze. In spite of the muted heat of the waxing, a strange buzz was spreading under my skirt and, fearful that Monsieur might notice – God knew how – I moved the conversation into inconsequential areas. He answered, slowly, politely, complacently even, but somehow it was better than talking about sex. This man knew. This man had read my words. Maybe he was being gallant, pretending to believe my innocent-student spiel. Was that the impression I was giving? Was it really me?
And then, out of the blue, anything but spontaneous, I had to say something else: ‘Your voice sounds so young!’
He burst out laughing, and I did too. Then, embarrassed by my gaucheness, I floundered in a sea of clumsy explanations.
‘Not that you’re old! It’s just that your voice sounds young in comparison to . . . I mean, I was expecting . . .’
‘An old geezer!’ Monsieur was still laughing.
‘No, just a deeper voice!’
Under my silk blouse, my back was wet with sweat.
I miss your voice already . . .
When I said you had a young voice, it was meant as a compliment. You have a lovely voice, clear and serious. Young, which you also happen to be. Well, not as young as me, I’m just a baby, even more so after what the beautician just did to me.
Hmm. I love it . . . My lips are already quivering at the thought of assaulting you there . . .
Stop saying things like that! You almost made me swallow my cigarette!
Things like what?
When you referred to my depilation.
I can’t stop imagining the likely crimson hue of your mound following the recent treatment.
You’re the devil incarnate. I just confessed I was now smooth and vulnerable, and you’re already taking advantage of it by text. I just hope that in the flesh you’d do the same.
I will . . . totally . . . You’ll find out how much by feeling how hard I would be against you . . . rock hard . . . against your smooth baby skin . . .
What shocking sort of perfume might you wear?
Habit Rouge by Guerlain. My sort of smell.
Do you talk? I mean, during.
I speak, I listen.
Cool.
(When you are five years old, the advent-calendar chocolate is the equivalent of a morning erection, peacefully waiting to be unsealed. Fifteen years later, Monsieur’s mails are like the onset of a heart-attack.)
I’ve just arrived in Holland . . . My thoughts are full of your wisps of blonde hair, your cheeky smiles and adolescent sex . . . I am obsessed with you, Mademoiselle . . . I’m counting the hours . . . I’ll be silent . . . I’ll undress . . . and my tongue will move towards you and lick your drowsy stomach . . . My inquisitive hands will invade you . . . My sex will feverishly seek you out . . . You will pretend you’re asleep . . . but once my tongue has begun exploring you and I’ve tasted the dew dripping between your thighs . . . felt your breath rise in your chest . . . your hands grip the sheets . . . I will bite your neck and almost trigger a scream that will linger in your throat until the moment my hard cock dives deep into your little pussy . . . while my fingers delve into your shuddering little arsehole . . . my cock plunging even deeper . . . making you beg ever more indecently for things I cannot write down here but which I promise to do to you . . . You try and hold back the pleasure and it’s oh so terribly painful . . . but the expectation of an even more intense explosion helps you hold on longer . . . You shamelessly growl . . . impaled . . . restless . . . sweating profusely . . . eyes wild . . . the tip of your little pink tongue emerging between your half-open lips . . .
Did you get the text messages I sent last night? Was I too crude?
No . . . not at all. Crude, most definitely, but enjoyable. I’m working, can’t answer you right now. Can you wait a bit longer?
It’s not easy to wait, Mademoiselle. I’m under your spell. May I call you?
I’m in my father’s car. You mustn’t make me blush!
I feel it’s my duty to make you blush.
Tell me how you will be on Tuesday when I enter the room – and tell me about your breasts . . . I’ve just had a walk in the cold outside so my jeans won’t betray me.
I have small breasts. Round. My nipples get hard terribly fast. Because they’re small, men tend to neglect them, and small breasts are more sensitive.
I promise I will not neglect your breasts. I will worship them, kiss them, caress them, crush them, lick them . . . and maybe you’ll help me come between them.
Between my breasts. Not just over my face.
A bite of sandwich has just gone down the wrong way.
See what happens when you become too perverse! Although I should take full responsibility for that.
Tell me about your arse.
My back arches a lot so my bum looks big, but it’s my favourite bit of me. Big maybe, but hard and round.
I’d like to spread your arse cheeks open . . . while you’re on all fours and watch my tongue slowly insinuate itself inside your small door . . . opening for me like a shimmering flower, sucking me in like a divine leech . . .
‘How do you reply to a message like that?’
I handed my mobile to Alice, who was smoking by the bathroom window.
‘He’s so FILTHY!’ she cried, almost throwing the phone into the washbasin.
‘What should I do? How should I answer?’ I asked, as I spread the soap across my skin.
‘Maybe you should just wash your divine leech. Make sure it’s clean.’
Let me call you.
I’m in my bath.
I’d love to be there, pushing your stomach against the bathroom’s cold floor, your face squashed against the tiles, entering you . . .
Now you’ve made me truly wet. I’m quite curious about what we might get up to. Loads of possibilities. Unless you die first, choking.
Not a chance. My whole body is drawn to you, as is my soul . . .
ELLIE
As I said, but I’ll say it again: an endless day. From eight in the morning to eight at night (twelve hours later) I’ve been wrapping pots of lily-of-the-valley and almost cut myself every time a new text arrived. 1 May’s balance-sheet: my legs are painful and right now, slipping into my pyjamas (my girlfriends are deep in conversation in the next room), I can’t even look at myself in the mirror. I don’t know how you’ve achieved it but you seem to have taken possession of my eyes – every time I peer down at my body I burn up inside. Give me back to myself.
I’m so totally amazed by the fact that we did once come across each other before. I just keep on thinking about it. It means that a year or so ago while you were operating on some wide-open stomach I was watching you, and you could feel my eyes on you, but neither of us knew anything about it at the time. No doubt you already had the same eyes, the same mouth, the same hands, the same body, the same voice, and there I was so close to you, hidden under a uniform that probably suited me no better than crotchless pants would Golda Meir . . . We still didn’t exist for each other, I was only the vaguely inconsequential niece of Dr Cantrel and I made no impression on you whatsoever . . . no more than a baby.