The Day I Became a Guy
Men and women aren’t born equal. I don’t give a damn about our theoretical potential. To this day, we’re not armed the same way in the arena of sex. We’re already maturing ahead of our time, we’re procreating on fixed-term contracts, we’re earning less, even on temporary contracts, our eggs have an expiry date and our vaginal secretions don’t make babies. That’s how they calculate our entitlements at God our Father’s family allowance fund. What’s more, we do not come as often, or as quickly, and we’re less likely to ignore feelings when there’s sex going on. I mean, we’ve spent thousands of years waiting for these sons of bitches, so obviously that has had an impact on a gene or two. No. No. Don’t get the wrong idea. We’re not their equals, Loluche.
The Dominatrix from Cergy
I nod mechanically. I’m Harry Potter facing Hagrid Rubeus. I have magic in my brains. She’s big and strong. We take a seat. She orders a pint of blackcurrant for me and a Coke Zero for herself, which she drinks in one go. I gulp down a whiskey neat. We exchange small talk and anecdotes, then soon enter the characterless lobby of a thirty-storey tower block. Small guy gangs are smoking hash and staring at us. One says: “Little faggot”. Aicha, unperturbed, big, fat, her breasts like an army ready to defend me, tells them to shut up. I’m shaking in my boots as her gaze lines them up one after the other like pieces of meat on a skewer. The guys just laugh, but quietly. The laughter fades. Until it disappears. We climb the stairs. Four at a time. Once the door is closed, she leaves me no time to think. Slaps come in all directions. I undress, she undresses me, I undress her, she undresses herself. She grabs me by the hips, wedges my head between her tits. My head disappears, slapped from one breast then by the other.
You like it, slut, don’t you? You like it when I fuck you.
The Cheat
Every morning, Antoine enters the kitchen, kisses my cheek, and recites to our daughter Elsa a poem or a multiplication table that she has to learn by heart for school. He exhales a woody fragrance, his mouth tastes of honey, his loose linen shirt reveals the little twisted hairs, his curly hair falls over his cat-like eyes, his mischievous eyes follow our daughter’s determined lips. I look at him, admire him, enjoy the picture of a man I loved, of a child I adore, but in my heart, in my pussy, there’s nothing left. Coffee is a lure; it no longer warms my heart. The caress is like warm earth covering a corpse.
A Conversation
Most of the time, just after I’ve said I already have someone, I also say: I don’t have sex, ever. I don’t have sex. I do all the other things. I look pretty, I make conversation, I keep company, I eat dinner, have lunch, drink and smoke. But I don’t make love.
Never.
I don’t make love.
What happens during is all, absolutely all, all that can happen, except the sexual act. When I say I already have someone, most of the time it isn’t too embarrassing. They continue to say. To talk. To hope. But it is when I say I don’t make love, particularly when I say I do everything but not love, that I get the response So you do nothing? So I say they can try it with me if they want to, and if they don’t want to, that’s fine. And sometimes they reply: Try what?