Serge the Beauty
& Rendezvous
by Guillaume Dustan
translated by Brad Rumph
We met him at the Queen fairly late, at an hour when there's practically nobody
left but fanatic clubbers. Going bald. Six-one, one hundred and seventy-five pounds. Body
a knockout. White even-spaced teeth in a perpetual smile. Sufficiently young. Nice face.
Visibly blitzed on some high-quality stuff. First we looked at each other. Then I was
dancing, clinging to Stéphane, to turn him on. He moved in. We were putting on a show on
the dance floor, making like we were humping one another. This got a rise out of him. I
felt quantity there. Then we got unglued and exchanged a few words through the din of the
music. I sent Stéphane to get us something to drink. To the other one I said Man do I
ever want to blow you. He said No problem. He led me off to the toilets. I said to myself
Cool, he knows what he wants. I followed with no resistance. There was a traffic jam at
the toilets, a whole line to get in. I said All right what do we do? He dragged me over to
a blind spot just by the doorway.
He turned his back to the dance floor. I let myself
slide to my knees. He brought out his mega-beautiful dick and I took it in my face and
jerked off for five minutes or so. This was hot. Then I said Look my boyfriend is waiting
for us, we gotta go over to him, OK? He said OK. Stéphane was waiting at the bar with the
drinks, very cool as always.
We rather rapidly agreed as to the next steps. First,
we stop by his place to do a new American drug I haven't heard of that's supposed to be
great for fucking, and after we go home because we have toys at our place and he doesn't
at his. By now I'm fairly convinced that this is going to be more trouble than it's worth
because of this final detail, but he is such a specimen I cannot imagine one single second
not getting him when I can.
His apartment is tiptop. Loft space. TV and speakers
in the bathroom. Classy furniture. An envelope addressed to him from a TV network is lying
on the extra-large counter of his eat-in American kitchen. He puts on Trance very loud.
The sound is the best. We taste his powder. In ten minutes we are wiped out. Lights camera
action. Our clothes peel off. He is sublime. Great dick, very large and long, big balls
with lots of skin. I suck him. I lick his balls. He smacks my back, my ass. He plays macho
man. I like. He's like, You're a real slut, a true one. You get me all hot and bothered. I
check. He exaggerates. I'm sure he's not going to bang me but too bad. In the bathroom
there was an old box of Prophyltex, full, and Prophyltex is much too tight for a cock like
his. If he was using condoms inside an ass with any frequency he'd have Manix large.
What's weird also is a pair of very classy women's high heels on the floor by the mirror
in his bedroom. But it's the only trace of woman in the whole space. Maybe he's bi, the
pretentious prick. He looks me in the eye. I do the same. We smile. He tells me Don't you
look at me like that if you don't want me marrying you. I tell him It's not my fault,
that's the way it is. He's like, wow wow wow!, clapping his hands while I paddle his ass
with my hands to make for a sexier ambience. And then the darling is too stoned, and falls
asleep on the parquet with his leather pants down to his ankles. I like this Serge, that's
for sure, it's like being in love. The problem is, of course, he's not fucking me. Just a
bump or two of the cock, no condom, like that, in the kitchen, the windows open, after
he's snapped his cordless telephone antenna trying to insert it up my ass. This guy is not
used to fucking, it shows. True you can't have everything in life. He tells me several
times how sorry he is he's so wasted. I tell him no big deal.
He falls asleep on the sofa while I'm sucking him. The
stereo plays opera now, this must be what he usually listens to. I'm left alone. I go into
his bedroom, I scope out a few books, a method for a perfect body and how to train it,
under the table by the bed, the cassettes under the TV in front of the bed, no porn or
else they're well hidden, a dresser with jockey shorts, boxer shorts, socks,
handkerchiefs. I try on a pair of blue jockey shorts, not bad, then a jockstrap, not nice
(I used to have the same one almost), then an old pair of Nikos, ultra-hot cut that look
great on me. I put them in my jacket, then I search for a container for the powder. I find
an empty film container on his desk. I extract my little present. I wolf down a slice of
all-bran bread. There's nothing else in the fridge. The opera's still on. I wake
Stéphane. You all right? He's OK. I leave Serge the beauty a note with our telephone
number. It's nice outside. I put on my shades. The streets are already coming to life. We
go home. Stéphane drives. Parking lot. Pains au chocolat. Croissants. The baker's son is
still our fan. It's good to be home. So we smoke a joint. And I fuck Stéphane.
He calls around seven, eight in the evening. Hi, it's
Sergio. That's what I called him in my note. He's going to dinner, but we can meet up
later. He is weird. He says I'll call back at midnight. All right, this is normal, with
three it's always a little complicated. But for once there's someone who interests me.
Makes an impression, the Fuck. I'm sure he's not even going to call me back.
He calls back, only it's one-thirty. This looks bad.
He apologises. I cut him short. His dinner's not over, can we meet at the Folies at three,
no better make it three-thirty? I say OK. I hang up. I tell Stéphane Look, I want this
fuck so bad just this once for real. I've got to go. Stéphane says it's not a problem.
I'm at the Folies Pigalle. There's a very
beautiful girl in a hot pink ultra-tight T-shirt, with Babie written in silver. She dances
great. She's as flashy as a faggot or a black. It's three o'clock. I did a quarter hit of
acid, three lines of coke, smoked two joints and drank a beer at home before going out.
High, but not too high. I chat with a cab driver. On the door of the Folies there's a guy
Quentin and I had a threesome with ages ago. He says hi to me. Are you with somebody? A
wave of paranoia, I don't understand what he wants to say, I tell him no I'm by myself;
can I come in? He looks at me a little surprised but he's got to see I'm stoned. Once I'm
in I tell myself obviously he's not going to turn away somebody he knows. And I think Wow,
it's cool, I know the doorman at the Folies. This sort of stuff impresses me. I know it's
stupid. Then there's a Chinese guy at the entrance, one of the organisers, he's real real
tall and thin, he makes come-fuck-me T-shirts as a sideline. I ran into him at a fashion
show my friend Georges took me to. He bends over nearly in two and gives me this lifeless
kiss. Hi! I buy myself a beer. I smoke. I dance.
Tonight I know absolutely not a soul in here. No
buddy, no pick-up, nobody I've ever exchanged more than two words with before. This
stresses me a little. Plus, the acid's strong. It gives me these pains in the back and it
pulls on the cheekbones and I'm speeding, zooming, and from time to time I'm a little
short of breath and I have hot rushes. I calm down, tell myself it's always like this on
acid. There are the positive sides too, the light and the colours are ten times more real
than in reality. Since I'm having a good trip I can't think about anything disagreeable
for more than two seconds. My one and only preoccupation has to do with what I'm feeling
and this absolute necessity of mine to move, to discharge the really excessive energy the
acid gives me.
Only three o'clock. I decided to be here at two-thirty
to be sure not to miss him. I get off on playing the ditz. The music is good, the sound is
better than before and makes me dance. When I take acid dancing relaxes my back. First I
warm up, and then when I'm really cooking I get up on the stage, I take off my T-shirt, I
dance with no shirt, my braces trailing down my thighs on top of my combat boots. It's
best to have on big shoes when you have a tendency to fall around.
And then the music turns not as good, too hardcore. I
come off the stage. I'm dripping sweat. I go to the toilet to freshen up. Long pink
corridor. There are Some North African girls getting a rise out of some North African
guys. One girl's saying she can piss like a guy, in the urinal. I wasn't able to piss
anyhow, so I move away for her to show us. She comes up, unzips, and then she chickens
out. They jabber a little aggressively, that's North Africa cruising. I go to empty my
bladder in a closed stall that opens just then. The ambience is bizarre tonight.
The evening is a mega-success I think. There are only
beautiful people who dance so well everybody looks filled with wonder, totally trashed or
else very new to the club scene, or even both. Nothing to cruise. Too trendy. Whatever.
Acid makes it OK.
I don't care so much for acid, I think it's too
strong, but all right, let's face it, acid does give you zip. As Soon as the music is a
little less hardcore Trance, I go back and dance all the way down. Hard-hitting DJ chains
together deep disco shake-that-ass, Trance pumped up to where it is almost too much
reality, the dance floor begins to lay down its arms when UP! it begins all over again.
Guys cry out in pain when the DJ breaks the rhythm on purpose in the middle of a mix. I
take a break. Stairways.
Gallery. Bar. I'm covered in sweat, looking a little
too hardcore for a place like this, I'm not served right away, but in the end it's OK, the
gin and peppermint is good.
Ten to four and he's a no-show. I go out alone. I walk
around Place Pigalle. I'm in a rage. When I get to the Transfert the doorman smiles at me.
Stéphane is there, with his big gentle eyes, a slutty tank top plunging to his tits. A
kiss of the tongue and then I say What's up, cutie? He says Nothing, I was getting a
little bored. The fucking fuck bar. The anniversary of the Transfert. Nothing is worse
than a festive occasion in an S & M venue. Cake is being passed around on paper
plates. Nobody wants any, but to be polite the guys closest to the bar force themselves.
The bartender has his little tantrum: No cake gentlemen? Well let me remind you there are
plenty of people out there who would.
I go around the back of the backroom, suck a little
the skinhead boy hanging out naked in the big sink everybody uses for pissing. What he
wants in fact is my piss, but I don't want to piss. I split. I get a few kisses, two guys
tweak my nipples. I do the same to them. The guy in front of me sticks two fingers up my
ass. I pull up my pants. I turn around. There's a guy in front of me I know but haven't
got around to yet. He goes out all the time but I don't think he does a lot of fucking. He
looks at my cock. I stroke it a little in front of him for fun. I have a discussion with a
little skinhead who looks like a mouse. He's extra sweet. I tell him You make me want to
do bad things. He's
like, I do?, full of hope. But I'm not that convinced,
I don't think he's slutty enough. He senses this as well, and we let things go at that. I
go back to Stéphane at the bar. We get champagne squirted all over our faces. This is
beginning to weigh down on me. We decide to leave.
In the car I'm wiped. Stéphane tells me five or six
times he wants sex. I don't answer. When we peel off our clothing at home, the carpet
around the bed gets covered with confetti. I say to Stéphane If you want to get fucked I
can do it. He doesn't look like he believes. I ask Is your ass clean? He says Yes. I take
out an Olla, we don't have any Manix large, but I really like Olla. They're the ones we
used in the Quentin days. They are kind of thick, but very supple and soft. I bang him
first standing in front of the toilet. I make him put his head in and I fuck him. Then I
bring him back to the bedroom and I fuck him on the bed, from the front, then from behind.
It lasts a long time, and it's really not bad, I enter and I exit, his ass is like slurp,
slurp slurp, very loud, he groans and moans, bunched up under me. I begin to lose my
hard-on, his ass is too wide. I continue though. And then we have to stop because I've
gone too soft. We go wash our hands. I propose he fuck me. He says he wants to piss. I
flop into the tub and he pisses on me and I don't wash it off and we return to the bed.
The fucking is great. Deep. Long. I let myself get fucked like never before. I find he's
getting better and better. And then it becomes obvious we're too stoned to come. I search
around for my watch. It's ten o'clock, we've been fucking four hours. We finish off the
easy way, he licks my balls, I come, and then I offer to work over his ass with my left
hand because my right hand's got cum all over it. He explodes. We cuddle. I roll one last
joint. He falls asleep. I smoke half and then I realise I'm losing consciousness so I put
the joint down and fall asleep.
I awake livid because of the no-show last night. We
watch TV. I try to resist and then give in and call Serge around seven in the evening.
Machine. I speak in case he's screening. He picks up.
'Yes?'
'Hi, it's Guillaume.'
'Hi, you all right?'
'No.'
‘ Ahh…I have people over right now, my
mother.'
'That's nice.'
'How was it last night?'
I think this over.
'It was disappointing. I mean I didn't know you
weren't going to come.'
'Me neither. I didn't know I wasn't going to come.'
Silence.
'Well,' I go on, 'you're with people and anyway I
don't have a whole lot else to tell you. It's up to you.'
'I'll call you back.'
'OK.'
I hang up. This guy makes me sick. Do you realise he
stands me up and I call him back, I say to Stéphane? But this is what's good about it
too. Being impressed. Showing it. Like a slut. But not too much. I was happy that it had
been disappointing. I was hoping he'd understand I meant to say both that he was a
disappointment and that I was disappointed. I wanted to rattle his cage a little. But at
the same time I still wanted him. His ultra-soft skin. His perfect muscles, not too big,
not too small. Beautiful.
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Fiction