Cui bono? (Latin). What good would that do me?
The pompous scoundrel (and yet, how sexy he is!) goes on and on about himself which after a while becomes really boring subject. I start feeling sick almost to the point of gagging and desperately look for Paul with my eyes. I don't know if my interlocutor has noticed my indifference. His chin is virilly protruding as he speaks, his aquiline nose fishes in the air as if afraid of smelling ugly scents. Paul remains engulfed in the party, nowhere to be seen, I am stuck. Abruptly, Jacques asks me very personal question: am I serious? do I really find it useful to live with such an old relic? I assume the old relic is Paul and am displeased with the epithet. Weakly reply that yes, there's nothing wrong with the guy, he has done me loads of good and I love him a lot. Jacques attempts at providing unsolicited advice and at psychoanalyzing my situation (which I don't need). I'm fed up with his boorish act; before I realize what I'm saying, my lips release words of disdain, telling him to mind his own business, that I don't need a boring asshole with an attitude problem and ask him to leave me alone, please. This seems to disturb his self-image greatly.
After a moment of dead silence, he comes back to life, in a more pleasant tone apologizes for his rude ways and proffers some sort of excuse to the effect that he always has to guard himself from people who always expect him to be on his balls and act like a celebrity. Fail to sympathize with his disadventure and lie that I understand. He can undoubtedly see I don't, but starts praising me for my honesty, which he obviously lacks, and convincingly pets my ego (yes, I have one too). Somehow we leave party (from which I have lost all hopes of ever extracting a very drunk Paul) and end up on Quai de Conti.
Jacques acts like a real gentleman and helps me to sit on the little wall on the border of Seine, famous cathedral behind my back. We're not talking. I feel dizzy thanks to martinis and good champagne, brisk night and confused vibrations that emanate from my companion. Rationally I'm not drawn toward him, as if that mattered, but his physical attributes, the aura of adventure that surrounds him, or the particularly pleasant manners of impenitent playboy, all have a rather disturbing effect on my femininity. He looks at me like a man looks at a woman when he wants her. Yes, he wants me and I cannot deny I want him too, despite my low opinion of him. My mind would like to shut my conscience which manages to wake up my body and urges him to say no, but my body is far gone and in a matter of seconds we are lusciously kissing each other. He's gentle but determined.
I'm like a toy in his hands, which explore remotest corners of my limbs. The whore in me is once again awaken. My feelings are split between disgust and desire, which finally prevails. Absurd interior conflict bleeds through my skin, prevents me from acting as I should, realize I'm spoiling his fun. He stops. "What's wrong with you?" "I don't know. I like you, I like you a lot (i.e., 'want, lust over')." "Then why are you so nervous?" A second of hesitation. "It's because of Paul." A shot of evil laughter breaks his straight face. "Do you expect me to believe that, hein?" He's right, I don't. "Let's get out of here." I agree, but feel guilty for letting him down, I shouldn't. "I didn't mean to spoil the fun, I'm not a party-pooper, usually. I'm sorry." "What fun? You're like a piece of ice. There's no fun with a frigid!" Should I feel offended? I feel even more confused than before. Maybe I should have stressed my drunkenness, not Paul in my mind. On second thoughts, we all know that it's bogus, nothing has ever stopped me from sleeping with half Paris, why should it now? Marcel's pale face obtrudes in my mind and wish I could rinse myself of these perturbations in his arms. "Come, we'll go some place where we can stay in peace, alone." I consent without feeling. My will is gone. After all, isn't he the lover-master I have always felt obsessed with? That's what I want, isn't it?
We go to this place, an apartment in a very elegant area, but it's dark and I don't recognize the whereabouts. It turns out to be his place. Very nice, very modern, lots of cushions and fiberglass. Very cold. He thinks we need a drink. Fine with me, the trashier I get, all the better in bed. I tell him that and he exempts me from drinking, if I don't want to. No, no, I want to. He pours out green/white nectar in nice large glasses and we consume them on comfortable couch-looking piece of red and blue furniture. Soft music is on. He becomes agreeable again, whispers sweet words, unties my long hair and toys with it. I am getting looser. Am now stone-rock determined to prove I'm a real woman, task easy for his being irresistible and exciting now too. I look at him, beyond myself.
"It's ok, it's ok." Does he think I'm blocked? He tries to soothe me. I don't have any objections to that. I caress his black curls, I dive into his green deep eyes. Will I ever reemerge from them? I'm possessed. "I'm sorry about before, I don't know what came over me." "What before?" "Saying you're of ice. Sorry." My ego is satisfied, I purr with pleasure. I kiss him on the lips gently. That seems to arouse him. He kisses me with violent passion. "Take off your dress." Obedient, I slip out of every piece of upper- and underwear. I'm naked in front of his clothed body. He caresses my body and lust kisses it and eats whipped cream. In the heat of lascivious ardor I frantically take off his clothes. We both reach ultimate pleasure and lay on the floor spacing forever in silence.
After endless sleepless night, ferocious headache salutes me; to such an alarm clock I have subscribed after every sexual sarrabande, but have not yet got accustomed to. I'm in his bed. He's still asleep. I'm left to myself to ponder and regret last night affairs. What will Paul have to say about this? Millions of answers come up to my mind, all very disturbing. Should I run out and wonder through holiday Paris? Should I run out and go to Paul kneeling? Should I go in the kitchen and make coffee? Should I go into living room and get myself a drink? What have I done? Boy, my head hurts! Look at clock on other side of bed: it's 12. My stomach has decided to join my head in the hurt department. I look at Jacques. No, he's still quite handsome, now that he's asleep and harmless, he has gained a certain innocent hue. I would like to wake him up. I'd like to melt my pain and confusion in his arms. I touch him lightly; he jerks around in bed. Not appealing.
Go to the bathroom. On my way back to the bedroom change my mind and perlustrate flat. It's really a nice place, but a bit too modern, cold, artificial, kind of place that you keep up for visitors. Find liquor cabinet in living room and feel very tempted to pour some magic fluid for me. Am afraid he might not like that, but I don't care; he brought me here. Change my mind. In kitchen find stale coffee, heat it up and gulp it down fast, burn my tongue. Smoke a cigarette, then another one, sit and wait. How long should I wait? Should I wake him up? No. After an hour of sitting and waiting, make up my mind to wash up. Always better wash yourself if you feel dirty inside. It won't wash out your sins, but it'll improve the mood considerably. In bathroom shower tempts me and I proceed in that direction.
Come out of shower feeling not any different than when I got in, very hot and steamy. Slide back in bed. He immediately wakes up and smells my heat. He recognizes me and flings his arm around my waist. "Hi, pussy. You were great last night!" Am I supposed to say same for him? In movies and soaps, after sex, woman salutes man with a "Hi, tiger." This is not a movie and I don't feel too good at the moment. Somehow, even though he sounds nice, he seems distant and I feel cold. "Listen, I think I better go." "Going back to your puppy, hein? Will I see you again?" I really wish I could say "no", but I'm not used to deny myself and do not wish to prolong unpleasant dialogue, hear myself say "yes." As a result of this response, he starts making love to me. I'm not in mood and stay stiff. This does not hinder his intentions at all and he goes through with it. Disgusting his movements. I think better not interrupt him and let him do what he wants, it'll end soon. Instead, he pushes his way through, forceably gets what he wants, it hurts, I try to escape his grip, he's stronger, I strive for survival, he ignores my feelings. He comes, at last, in a tempest of pain, and lays on my stomach for an eternity.
At last I'm back in the street and recognize the area. Wasn't it here that Proust walked that day that he...? Walk back to hotel, Paul's not there.
At first I'm relieved at being able to recompose my features in time for his return. For the first time I feel guilty toward him, inesplicably abused feeling of having betrayed his expectations. Would not like to face him under these conditions. Restlessness doesn't disappear, keeps growing up to such an unbearable point I abruptly have to leave to avoid meeting him. In search for Marcel (lost). He's just got up and is sipping his coffee half naked from a plexiglass green cup. A sense of pudor for his nudity prevents me from looking at him, at his skinny limbs. Everything is so clean, in all its healthy mess, clothes spread everywhere, coffee cups left on empty surfaces, scribbled pieces of paper scattered around the floor or lying in piles on the secretaire. A mixture of smells assails my nostrils: stuffy smell of old wood, insence Marcel is used to burn at night when he's composing, fresh breeze of spring air splurting from open window; it's so cozy and homey... I sit down on his undone bed, comfortable, I'm finding myself again.
"You look in distress, maiden.”