In the end, what do I have to lose? What else could possibly get between my desires and me?
My thirst for truth? I’ve noticed that every discovery tears me further from it. My loyalty to David? What loyalty? The word seems inappropriate, considering the man betrayed me. I’m beyond that issue. From now on, and especially tonight, my body is in charge. My body is letting itself sway in the back of the limousine. My body is taking me to my latest sexual rendezvous.
The night is unfolding around us, echoing with maritime sounds and brusque gusts of wind. But I’m not paying attention to all that. It does not even surprise me when the car stops in the middle of an industrial zone, just outside of Saint-Malo. The deserted road is flanked with ominous hangars. The area does not look like a place of pleasure. I am starting to think this may be a hoax when Richard the Chauffeur parks in front of a bathroom wholesaler’s spartan window. He opens the partition that separates us and gestures into the rearview mirror. Apparently, I am expected on the opposing sidewalk.
The entrance of the Brigantine, “sauna-hammam-relaxation,” looks like a beach shack grafted onto a sheet metal building. It is identical to all the neighboring rectangular structures. Holding my mask, I step inside. It reminds me of the entrance to a swimming pool. Clean, white, hygienic. A bodybuilder guy, shaved head and pectorals popping through his white T-shirt, addresses me as though we’ve already met:
“You’re Elle. Here’s a robe and your towel. The changing rooms are directly on your right.”
“But don’t I owe you . . . ?”
“Nothing. Everything is already paid for.”
The overwhelming smell of chlorine does not lend itself to lovemaking. Two men as well built as the greeter are sitting on little benches and undressing. I am suddenly filled with uncertainty. The two men aren’t paying any attention to me, even though I’ve started taking off my clothes as well, turning so they see my rounded rump as opposed to my breasts and bush. I have always been embarrassed of the abundance of hair in that precise area. They don’t seem the least bit interested in my backside, and are already stroking each other’s members. Their eyes are curious, hungry. And I can tell their touching will soon grow more explicit, more direct.
When I follow them into another room, my mask covering my eyes, my robe half open over my heavy breasts, my doubts are confirmed: The Brigantine is a place where men, and only men, come to meet. I am the only woman. Perhaps even the first ever to set foot here. This room is reserved for flirtation. A few dozen men with towels around their waists eye each other. Some of their hands probe; others explore more openly. They kiss with varying degrees of ardor. One of them spots me and takes me firmly by the hand:
“Come . . . It gets interesting over here.”
Much like the colossus at the entry, this man seems to have been alerted to my presence. In fact, none of the men appear surprised to see me. They all tolerate me.
He leads me through a dimly lit corridor, lined with tiny red ceiling lamps, to a dark and cramped alcove. After my eyes adjust, there is just enough light to make out the number of people present and their respective postures. There are fifteen men.
A swell of sighs greets me as I step through a set of saloon doors. The air is permeated with noise and smells. A mix of sweat, different colognes—musky, marine, floral—and a more acrid, unmistakable aroma. Most are coupled off, missionary or doggy-style, but some are gathered in groups of three or four, and it is impossible to tell who is sucking whom, who is penetrating whom. Little by little, my embarrassment dissipates, and I decide to take advantage of what’s on offer: I am the only woman, and I can watch without having to participate. I am astonished by the way a beautiful young man sucks his partner’s huge member. It’s more than effort or greed. In fact, he seems to be enjoying it more than the man around whom his fresh lips, now frothy with seminal liquid, are wrapped. When the other man ejaculates in his throat, he lets out a groan that almost sounds like an orgasm, and not at all like he’s being suffocated, as it had appeared to me.
An active body emerges from the masses all of a sudden and faces me. Fine. Muscly. Tight. I can’t take my eyes off him. Something about his shape, the contours of his sculpted chest, is familiar. I do not dare look at his face. I’m so scared I’ll recognize him . . . But Louie’s ghost disappears. The man staring at me is darker—ethnic, I realize, when he happens across a stronger ray of light. I don’t know if I’m relieved or disappointed.
I wonder about the meaning of this new step in our relationship. Why this? I only see one possible answer: he wants me to have a taste of this raw beauty. No taboos, no barriers. These direct and sometimes rough embraces are pure and stripped of all baggage. No one is beautiful, no one ugly; no one rich, no one poor; no good lays, no bad lays. No small dicks, no big dicks. Just desiring, hungry cocks and asses. Erogenous zones colliding into one another, against one another, in perfect anonymity. Nothing but desire.
“Here, this is for you.”
My guide reappears with an alarmingly big dildo. I cannot see myself putting such a monster inside me. Much less in front of them, no matter how occupied they may be. So, instead, with my back against the wall, I widen my legs a little and insert two fingers into my sopping cleft. I have not felt this wet in a long time. My vagina sucks them up like an avid mouth. My pelvis rocks slowly, gently, back and forth, over my digits. My moans accentuate theirs. I am their diva. I am their soloist. And when at last I explode, a long and plaintive note, my eyes glued to their shining cocks, I could swear I hear them applauding me.
I have explored the unknown.
Handwritten note by me, 6/15/2009