A few months later, in August, I saw Raymond again. He was just back from Japan and made a date with me at the bar of a trendy restaurant near Montparnasse, la Closerie des Lilas. Avoiding the crowded dining room, we took supper by the terrace hedge. Elbows on the big white tablecloth, chin in hands, I listened to his account of Tokyo“ love hotels”. A prostitute who spoke no French had agreed to be his escort. Raymond was talking to me like an old cohort: I felt flattered and thrilled by a natural intimacy, a simplicity I’d never known with anyone else. Making extravagant gesticulations, he described to me those suggestive Japanese decors, revolving beds in the shape of a car or a woman’s shoe and painted a bright Chinese red, sulphurous water cascading down over the young woman (a devout Catholic) who laughed making the sign of the cross in an attempt to communicate. They’d watched a porn movie where the women wore white triangles between their thighs instead of pubic hair.
He brought up what had happened in the Fontainebleau Forest the previous spring. If only he’d been able to catch a glimpse of me squatting… Or at least heard me doing it! He’d have closed his eyes, knowing I was behind the branches. But from that distance, it was inaudible.
“Did it excite you to know I could have turned around at any time and seen you?”
“A little. I was afraid…”
“Of being seen?”
“Yes. Ashamed.”
“Would you have rather peed standing up?”
“Like a man?”
“That’s right.”
“Like you in your trousers!”
We burst out laughing. The waiter brought the desserts. Raymond glanced at his plate and looked me in the eye: “I would even have drunk from you…”
We’d had a full bottle of white wine. I looked around. Two tablefuls of Americans were talking at the top of their lungs, like stock-market traders on the floor. I slipped my wineglass under the table and sat on the edge of my chair. With one fingernail, I pulled aside the elastic on my panties and peed into the glass. I regulated the flow with the tip of my index finger, aiming the jet by obstructing the orifice. My middle-finger gauged the level. I didn’t let it brim over, but I had trouble stopping. The glass reappeared and I handed it to him over the immaculate tablecloth. “Here… fresh from the spring.”
He sniffed the warm wine, wet his lips and began to sip.
Raymond dropped out of sight for years, staging musical comedies in New York. From time to time, we spoke on the phone.
In the meantime, there was Joseph: tall, crewcut, he became my closest friend, my collaborator and, by dint of spending all that time together, my lover. After two years of a beautiful friendship, he whined for sex. A human being, he argued, could not be regarded as pure intelligence. Especially not him. Not the bosom pal who lived inside that big carcass quivering before me. I had to love the whole animal. Thinking back, I wonder if he didn’t lift those lines from some Rohmer movie.
I’m still fond of Joseph, but I have a terrible time loving him physically, even the least little bit. However, we work together, we live under the same roof, and I don’t meet any other men. So I let Joseph fuck me. His tongue is coarse and clumsy. Sucking and lapping away without a break. Personally, I love the occasional time-out. Anticipation. Kisses inside my thighs. The mouth pulling away, breathing on the fluffy hairs, coming back to work. Sad for me, Joseph just loves to lick.
When he fucks me, I come, but only then. A battering ram he’s got there, a long, thick sledge-hammer, a very efficient tool. But his skin repels me, and so does the obscene way he throws out his chest when he poses for me, kneeling on the bed with his thighs apart. He has the exhibitionism of a she-puppy. Besides, he’s too tall. When I lie on him, my mouth is nipple-high. Which makes kissing on the mouth a contortionist’s exercise. And Joseph is not very flexible. So I nibble. My fits of contained rage suit him to a T: he has sensitive breasts. Anyhow, I said to myself after our first screw, it’s just as welclass="underline" he has halitosis.
As soon as we became friends, Joseph had asked me to tell him about my sexual adventures. From the day we became lovers, every fantasy he had was based on some experience of mine I’d told him about. He’d do somersaults on the bed trying to suck his own cock because I’d had a West Indian lover who could do it. When he heard about what happened in the forest and at the Closerie des Lilas, he insisted on following me into the WC there he begged to be my receptacle, my chalice, my loving cup. He offered himself as toilet paper to wipe my lips.
Today, Joseph and I have over a thousand subscribers to our Internet site, “The Water Hole”. Recently we’ve put live images on line, with credit card payment in advance (Visa and American Express only) but, aside from that, we provide all sorts of advice for golden shower enthusiasts, everything from diuretic herbs to tricks for overcoming inhibitions.
While I sell my holy brew in chats with net-surfers who dream of the virtual creature going into action right over their faces, Joseph creates new graphics for the site. When it’s his turn to run the chat-room, he pretends he’s me on the Web while he gets an eyeful of the trickling video screens.
Last month we installed a Webcam in our bathroom. Whenever Joseph goes to the toilet, he turns it off. Understandably: it’s the only time he’s ever really alone. When I’m not emceeing the chat-room, I’m peeing in front of the camera in real time. Our customers jack off watching me. I thrust out my pelvis with my weight resting on one hip like the dancers with silver wigs at the Crazy Horse Saloon. Except that my act is motionless. Only the stream trembles a bit. For viewers with classical tastes, I squat in the bathtub and pull down my white panties, an athletic model by Calvin Klein. Perched on the edge of the wash-basin with the camera behind me, I spread my buttocks with my hands so lips and anus are both in the shot. Standing in front of the bowl, I pee into it like a man. Naked under a wasp-waist corset, or wearing a gold chain around the waist and a black g-string which I pull aside with one fingernail, I do it into a wine carafe. I gauge the trickle. I concentrate on letting my belly fluids gush. Online wet-nurse. “L ’Origine du monde.” I soon learned to take sensual satisfaction from a pee. I came to enjoy it. But I miss the touch of other flesh: skin contact, violent caresses have become my most cherished fantasy. I envy prostitutes the warmth of the customer’s body.
As for you Web-surfers out there, I know only your name, your age, the alleged size of your penis and sometimes the colour of your eyes. Not one pubic hair in sight. No odours except for Joseph’s, and he smells of piss. I suspect him of collecting drops from the enamelled bowl when I’ve finished my stint. I’m afraid of smelling that way, too. Sometimes, dear water sports lovers, I hate your guts.
What about me in all this? I feel brutalized by my work. But the money has tamed my “me”. The Water Hole, on the other hand, has long since ceased to be a source of pleasure. At the gym, I meet young men working out. They’re vain and shy. I go straight up to them, propose we go to their place right then, that afternoon: “I’ve got this husband, you see…” And I’ll come like a bomb in some athlete’s mouth. Instinctively, mechanically. As if I were starving for sex. Light-years from those laborious orgasms with Joseph. Practical, acrobatic sex. I like to sit on top. Releasing an orgasm, I dribble a few drops out of habit, and sometimes one of them will pull a face. Not aficionados, just ordinary boys.
And yet when Raymond, now seriously ill, invited me to dinner in his new apartment, I was delighted at the prospect of seeing him again. I didn’t hold him responsible for what had happened, but I wasn’t going to ask him to endorse “The Water Hole”, either. Nor did I plan to mention Joseph. Raymond is my secret garden.