Sin and Zen, #1
Page 1
This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.
SIN AND ZEN
First edition. July 17, 2020.
Copyright © 2020 S. W. Stribling.
ISBN: 978-1393761709
Written by S. W. Stribling.
Also by S. W. Stribling
Sin and Zen
Sin and Zen
Anger and Hope (Coming Soon)
Standalone
Butterfly
Mexican Rain
Watch for more at S. W. Stribling’s site.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Also By S. W. Stribling
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
Sign up for S. W. Stribling's Mailing List
Also By S. W. Stribling
About the Author
1
I walked into a bar. Two and a half minutes later, another guy walked in.
‘What’s that you’re drinking?’ the guy said.
‘Life with a bit of juice.’ I said. ‘I try to start my day with both.’
‘Smart,’ he said, ‘haven’t seen you around here until this morning’s formation, noticed you were a 2°REP anglophone.’
‘Ah yeah,’ I said pointing to where my name tag usually is, ‘must be the clever name they gave me: Slater. Or as the French say it, ‘Slaughter.’’
‘Murphy,’ he said right before he put his newly arrived Carlsberg to his lips for the first sip of the day.
‘Pleasure.’
‘Likewise.’
It was beautiful out. It usually was in this little part of sunny Marseille called Malmousque, a place that both the rich French and poor, broken foreigners called home.
‘Smoke?’ I said.
‘Yeah, go on.’ He said. He grabbed the cigarette and hopped off his barstool. ‘So what brought you to the Legion?’ Murphy said as he lit up.
‘Long story best told when drunk,’ I said, ‘but the short answer is boredom. You?’
‘I think I always knew I wanted to join.’ He said. ‘Can’t do much in the Irish army and thought the Legion seemed like a good idea.’
‘Past tense,’ I said. ‘What did you break to end up in Malmousque?’
‘Back and foot. You?’
‘Femur.’ I said.
Another moment of silence as we let the chilly sea breeze run through our short shorts and broken bones.
‘I met an English guy in Aubagne that warned me about going to REP.’ I said. ‘He broke his ankle on his first jump. I didn’t believe him, so I had to find out for myself. I guess he was right.’
‘Yep.’ Murphy said. ‘Lot of anglophones in the REP. I was there for four years before my accident, so I got a few jumps in.’
I hadn’t been so lucky. A veteran of two armies, two countries and I ended up injured off a training exercise.
‘Lost the air to my chute,’ I said, ‘événement avec un autre parachutiste.’
‘Same story.’ He said.
‘And it’s supposed to be a one in a thousand chance of happening?’
‘Something like that.’ He said. ‘They’re supposed to be switching over to the bigger chutes next year. The ones you Americans use over there. The regulars have already switched over, but you know, we’re at the bottom of the list for new equipment. Expendable is the way most of the French see us.’
‘Well, I guess I shouldn’t complain,’ I said. ‘I get paid to sit here in the sun and drink and it’s not even nine in the morning yet.’
‘Yep,’ Murphy said, ‘Living the dream in the south of France.’
We dragged on our cigarettes while Murphy’s last words lingered in our minds. Contemplating what we have lost and what we have gained in just a short time. Almost as quick as the fall that left us both in hospital beds and now hobbling around on crutches.
I always felt lucky when I stepped outside here. The white refracting light glistened off the small, choppy blue-green waves of the Mediterranean. The wind always present, but welcome in the late summer heat, blew gently over us and kept us cool while we sat in the morning sun. It really wasn’t so bad here once you got past the normal nitpicking and angoisse any military gives you; the cleaning, the uniforms, the standing in formations three or four times a day for no apparent reason, and the sharing of rooms with people that always seem to be the most inconsiderate bastards you’ve ever met.
With two drags left, Murphy said, ‘Have you met many other guys, yet?’
‘In Malmousque?’ I said. ‘No. I made a few friends in Laveran while I was there. But I just got here yesterday evening.’
‘Right.’ Murphy said. ‘Well, there are a few anglophones around; two South Africans, a few Englishmen, and a Kiwi. We usually grab a drink together in town from time to time. We will see off one of the Safas who’s deserting tomorrow. Probably get shitfaced tonight and head to Paris first thing in the morning.’
‘Why not?’ I said. ‘I’ve only seen Paris by plane. I guess I should probably go visit and see what’s so fascinating.’
‘Beer?’ He said.
‘Yeah, go on.’
I CAN BARELY REMEMBER getting on the train to Paris, and I can barely remember seeing the young man off that was heading home to South Africa. I definitely didn’t remember heading back to the pub afterward. I remember meeting Murphy’s girlfriend who lives in Paris. Nisrine her name, a giant of a woman. He had told me she was tall. Everybody is tall to me. I’m five-six with my shoes on. But she was fucking tall. Sweet though, a gentle giant. Nothing like the Amazonians you hear stories about with spears, nets, and horses.
Murphy and Niz were back at McBride’s for lunch and a pint. I was sitting across from the girl I woke up next to at a quaint little brasserie that probably looked like something many Americans have paintings of at home.
We ordered a bottle of wine and I let myself feel the sun soak into my skin. There isn’t a better way to drink than sitting outside at a small table, cigarette in hand, and a good-looking woman on the other side.
‘So...’ she said, ‘Tell me about yourself.’ Luckily, she spoke English fluently. It makes me self-conscious being a small-town American when I see these Europeans have spent just as much time learning English as I have and most of them speak it better. Though, I’m sure it was my broken French coupled with an American accent that got me past the first drink with her last night.
‘Tell me about yourself, pretend it’s a date, the first, and we never had sex before you knew my name.’ she said.
I wasn’t sure I could remember her name now or if it just didn’t register because I had never heard a name like it.
‘A date, eh? Never been good at those.’ I said. ‘So profession and pastime questions?’
‘Yea,’ she said, ‘cause I’m still not sold on you being a penguin trainer. Though it was pretty cute you trying to convince me of it last night.’
‘No.’ I said.
‘No, you’re not a penguin trainer, or no you won’t tell me your life story?’
‘Both.’
‘Why not? Because I’ve already slept with you? You don’t have to work for it anymore?’
‘No,’ I said, ‘it’s definitely not that. I’m sure you’ll make me work for it again.’
‘So, why not?’ she said, ‘You plan on walking away from here and never speaking again?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘Not that either. After this morning, I would like to see you a few more times. I’m hoping it was good for you last night.’
She smiled. ‘Yea, all three and a half times. I’m sure you even started to propose to me. Albeit a half-assed attempt at declaring your love and future plans with me if I promise to see you again.’
‘Damn,’ I said. ‘That bad, eh? Well, I guess I better confess that it’s been a while since I’ve been with a woman until last night. Congratulations on being the first French one, and the first one this year.’
It’s September.
‘I’m honored.’ she said, ‘So who are you?’
‘I don’t know. Somebody new.’
‘Ah-ha, with me?’ she said. ‘Why me?’ She paused for a moment and stared at me, looking for an answer, or just waiting for one. ‘You let your guard down with me. I left you feeling... Comfortable? Vulnerable? Accepted?’
‘Jesus. You always analyze guys like this on the first date?’
‘Only interesting ones.’
So I told her my story, briefly. She told me hers. We were as equally impressed as we were different. A few times I repeated a few things that I had said the night before and couldn’t remember telling her. She was a sweet girl; fed me and made sure I never had an empty glass. A rare quality I would come to appreciate in my future time in this country. And then she wanted to pay for it all herself, a quality I appreciate about French women that is rare back home. I really tried not to let her pay the whole bill, but she wouldn’t have any of my hard-earned cash. I’m not sure if she felt sorry for me as the shaved-head, crippled monkey that I was or if she really found something entertaining about my company.
‘Are you staying in Paris again tonight?’
‘If you’ll have me.’ I said.
‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Though this time we’ll try to spend a little more time together before you stick your hand between my legs, okay?’
‘No promises, but I’ll try.’
‘I know you took a shower earlier, but do you have any clean clothes? You got a beer stain on that shirt and those socks look like something you pulled out of your military sack.’
‘Well, I wasn’t sure how long I’d be staying and these are the only civvies I have. So you knew last night I was in the military?’
‘Well, I’m not an idiot. Between you and your friend, you didn’t look like much else. Besides, the shaved head and heavy drinking kind of helped.’
‘So you have a thing for military guys?’
‘Not at all. But you seemed innocent. You have nice eyes.’
‘Innocent enough, I suppose, but probably not as much as you think.’ I said.
‘Ecoute, I got two hours before I have to go to work. I’ll take you shopping for a shirt and some socks, and if we have time, we can go back to mine before I have to leave.’
‘You’re sweet.’
She smiled.
We left the brasserie and walked around one of the main shopping streets. I think she had more fun dressing me than I did. Being in one of the fashion capitals of the world, I was sure anything would have left me better dressed than the top of the line Wal-Mart clothing that I was wearing back in Arkansas. I would probably even get gay-bashed for looking this stylish. I’d have to keep an old shirt and ball cap lying around just in case I ever went back home.
So I let her lead me along and do the shopping. She found me some clothes that got her more excited about me than she had been the previous night. So we made the time to swing by her place and see what they looked like on the floor. I then walked her to work and was getting ready for the kiss goodbye and to find my way back; back to wherever I was before to grab a drink and see how Murphy’s night ended.
‘Have fun at work.’ I said.
‘Wait,’ she said, ‘Shouldn’t you take my number, first?’
‘Well, I was planning to play Marco Polo, but if you insist.’
I gave her my phone and let her put it in. I still couldn’t remember her name. Within five seconds she’d typed in the number and her name and then call her phone so she had mine.
‘Voila,’ she said. ‘I’ll call you later.’
‘Okie doke. See you later.’
A little kiss and I was off in the general direction she pointed me in. Her name was Margot, pronounced ‘Mar-go’, without the ‘t’ as is standard in the French language.
LATER THAT NIGHT, MARGOT came back and joined the three of us for drinks. I went home with her that night too. The next day we met up back at the bar for lunch and a few drinks. Then Murphy and I were on the train back to Marseille. I kept in touch with Margot, not the Facebook way, but we texted each other a lot over the following days. She really was a clever girl. I would see her again two weeks later when she and a friend would come down to visit, but after that, we would slowly lose touch. She would find herself a real boyfriend and I would continue moving forward in a way that I never had before in my life.
2
After Margot, I had gotten lucky a few more times, but nothing that ever really stuck. Not that the sex was bad; I just didn’t seem to like the person the next morning as much as I did her body the night before.
Once was with a middle-aged woman who took good care of herself. An artist she was. Met her at the Vieux Port pub that I started to frequent. She took me and had her way with me after the first two glasses of wine and a block of cheese at her place. It was good. It was everywhere. There was once she even said, ‘I’m not done with you yet.’ We danced naked, literally. We climbed the sink. And whenever I would pass out either from exhaustion or booze, she would go down on me until the little man was singing. And whether I gave consent, she was already on top. She had some built-up pressure to release, and she kissed me as I imagined a lonely woman would.
She must have had a bedroom full of her abstract paintings. She slept on a mattress on the floor of her living room.
‘Why don’t you hang ‘em up?’ I asked.
‘I hate them.’
Right. Art. I’m not cultured enough to understand. She complained a lot about how difficult it was to sell them. I thought that was obvious. I mean the only people that buy that shit are people with money to waste, right? How many of those are there in relation to starving artists? But I heard her woes. I wasn’t an artist myself, but she had spirit. A twisted one, but I suppose it’s better to lose your mind and keep your spirit rather than to lose both and become normal. I would’ve seen her again, but the next morning when I was trying to leave to get to base on time for formation, she literally stood in front of the door and wouldn’t let me, not until I promised I would call and see her again. So I did. And I left. And I never called her again. I even avoided the pub for the next few nights just in case she came looking for me.
ONE DAY IN THE FALL, I got chatty with a girl on the metro leaving the hospital where I do my physical therapy. She was Italian-Spanish-French. I’m not sure how you divide that up, but she was dark-complected and seemed more proud of her out-of-country heritage than her live-in country one. We were getting off at the same stop and so I asked her if she’d like to have a drink
. She seemed hesitant, so I showed indifference and then she said sure. We had a few drinks and then went for a walk around the port. Not too much of one, she felt sorry for me with my crutches. But far enough away from the noise and onto a bench overlooking the boats. It was nice. We talked, and I tried to understand what she was saying as I was thinking about how to kiss her. Confidence not being high to make a smooth move I went for pity, ‘Have you ever kissed an American before?... Do you want to?’ It’s sleazy, but it worked with my timid boyish charm.
Eventually, it was late, past ten in the evening, and there were no more buses to take me back to base. With crutches, it’s an hour and fifteen-minute walk from the wrong side of the harbor. I played my sympathy card again, and she said I could stay with her, but that we weren’t going to have sex. In all genuineness, I said okay. At hers we watched a movie, cuddled, made out and went to bed. The bed led to touchy-feely, rubbing, and eventually me in her mouth.
I was pleasantly surprised and enjoying it, but I can rarely finish that way. It’s not that I don’t enjoy getting head. I can just never seem to get past the idea of cumming in a girl’s mouth. It seemed pretty fucking disgusting and disrespectful, even in a giving sense. She must have noticed that I didn’t finish that easily because she gave it a good go and it was one of the best I’ve ever had. No doubt if I had put my mind to it, I could’ve finished, but the girl deserves some reward for her efforts and I would not go down on her. Not on a first date. She ran off, handed me a glass of water and then threw a handful of condoms on the bed. I was thinking one round ought to do it; I was pretty tired, but maybe I could make it twice.
The first time I proved more mobile and flexible than I thought I could with my leg.
The second time I let her do the work. She mounted and showed me how lovely the southern European women looked with the dim streetlight creeping through the windows. It was exciting. I was enjoying this young woman.
Then, she slapped the shit out of me. I wasn’t sure why, but it seemed to be a positive thing for her. It definitely put my percentage of finishing back down to zero. She slapped me again and started moaning. I wasn’t sure if she was doing it for her pleasure or to take away mine. It fucking shocked me and I was back in the war just thinking about survival. The third time I tried to catch her arm. Eventually, I had to grab both arms and power through until I heard it was time to finish.