Yes.”
One little word and a woman gives herself to a man. Sometimes she knows in advance what she’s getting into. But more often than not, she isn’t sure if these three letters will mean a few moments or the rest of her life. Just a little bit of her time and body or all of her soul. We make decisions based on our present desires. But what do we know about our future wants? Can we know in advance how many “maybes” and “nos” will follow that one simple “yes”?
I haven’t had that many orgasms over the course of my life. A few dozen, max. But I know one thing: at the fateful moment, I am one of those women who scream no instead of yes. I know some women yell, “Oh my God!,” “More,” or simply their lover’s name. What does this say about me? Why am I a “doll who says no, no, no, no, no”? I don’t know and I’m not even sure I want to.
Anonymous handwritten note, 6/6/2009—How does he know???
SO I SAID YES THREE times, as though I were trying to write my own destiny. There I was once again in David’s bedroom nestled at the heart of his mansion on Rue de la Tour-des-Dames. This was number three.
“Come!”
I followed him into his private sitting room, where the decorator had taken care to respect the romantic interiors with appropriately colored upholstery, but had broken with the style’s characteristic clutter, particularly with the clean lines of unadorned, ultramodern furniture.
As soon as we were inside, he pressed himself to my back and buried his nose into my neck. I felt him grow against me as he rubbed my backside. I liked his responsiveness. His majestic rigidity. I liked that he desired me like that. Without preamble or long speeches, and especially without my having to give him permission.
“Take it off.”
My panties, of course. The seams showed through the thin black material of my dress. I couldn’t get them off fast enough for him. He reached up my dress and slipped a hand over my buttocks. His fingers briskly pulled at the lace covering my crotch, trying to rip them off.
“Ouch!” I cried, my hips smarting, a red welt already apparent.
My panties hadn’t budged. Symbolically, I was resisting him. He who got everything—or almost—he ever wanted.
“Sorry, sorry . . .” he breathed into my ear. He sounded more excited and disappointed than sorry.
“It’s okay . . .”
With that, I put one hand on a metallic dresser, arched my back, and used the other hand to push the lacy cotton to one side of my impatient and engorged lips. No more obstacles.
A trembling finger brushed my sex. I wasn’t as wet as I had thought or as he might have hoped. That’s life: I am not one of those girls who turns to liquid at the first kiss. My juices don’t start flowing without some sweet preliminaries. My body is like a diesel engine: it takes time to warm up. David knew it.
But that night, I think he’d hoped that the combination of champagne and his proposal would unleash a waterfall. Instead, what he got was light dew pearling timidly where my lips parted.
“Elle . . . ,” he growled into my neck.
His index finger wandered into my flesh, opening me up wide. Once inside me, it moved in a sweeping circular motion that was a little too zealous to be pleasurable. And it wasn’t deep enough to reach that treasure spot that hides inside some of us.
THAT WASN’T HOW HE WAS going to make me come undone!
NO, DAVID WASN’T GOING TO make me come, and I didn’t need that little voice inside me to point it out.
As if he could hear me, David unzipped his pants, revealing his seriously long cock and its soft, velvety skin that made going down on him such a pleasure. Without warning, he introduced his penis into my recalcitrant vagina. It wasn’t fireworks, but I did feel a responsive shudder in my loins. I liked being filled with the man I loved. His in-and-out movements were a little awkward, though. Something about the angle was curving his member. But then he bent his knees and aligned our genitals in a more pleasing way. Sophia would have freaked to hear me talk about such sacred things in these geometrical terms. But to be fair, now that we were better positioned, his movement inside me was not unpleasant. Even though it wasn’t earth-shattering, I gave in to the sweet sensation, the warm, diffuse feeling. Suddenly he came to a grinding halt.
“What’s wrong?” I sighed.
“Nothing . . . I don’t want to come too fast.”
I had to swallow an incredulous “already?!” Instead I said, in a low, comforting tone:
“Okay . . . Okay, darling, you take your time.”
I’ve heard my friends sometimes complain about their lovers, saying they have too much endurance. “It’s been two days, and it still chafes.” Apparently men like that do exist in the world. I’m more accustomed to the standard model—“three little thrusts and then they’re done”—or the guy who dutifully puts in his ten minutes before giving in. Just one time I would like to know what it feels like to have a man fill me, fully and completely, until I forget what it’s like without him inside me. Can it really be all that painful? Wouldn’t it feel so sexy and powerful to be able to inspire such long-lasting desire? I wonder if a man could ever stay erect inside me for hours without moving?
Anonymous handwritten note, 6/6/2009—What the heck have I gotten myself into?
I HAD JUST DARLING-ED HIM for the first time. I was a little tipsy, and his hands were cupping my shapely ass in what could only be described as a caricatural position of weakness—yet I held the key to his pleasure. I was barely even aware I’d done it. And I don’t know if he noticed. Some part of him must have been excited by it because his pulsing movements suddenly became more urgent. He’d never been so ardent, nor shown such a desire to plumb the deepest hollows of my sex.
As he slammed into my hot flesh, I started to feel a light fluttering in my loins, a kind of contraction. I wasn’t anywhere near orgasm, but my body was beginning to tremble in pleasure.
“Do you like it like that?”
“Yes . . . ,” I moaned, deliberately amplifying my feral cry. “Don’t stop!”
As all women know, myself included, exaggerating the responsiveness of our erogenous zones to a man’s caress is nothing to be ashamed of. I’m not talking about faking orgasm. I simply mean it can be used as a form of encouragement, a way to coax our partner into getting us both where we want to go. It’s about kicking our sometimes lazy, stubborn libido into gear.
Though he had just pulled out of me, I guided his abdomen back toward my body into an achingly slow, penetrating motion. As I could have predicted, he misunderstood my intentions, confusing his sensations for mine:
“You, too . . . You’re coming?”
No. I wasn’t as practiced as Sophia in the erotic, but my favorite part of sex was that moment of uncertainty when the tip of the penis grazed my soaking lips, tickling and trembling against them nervously, before plunging back into the pink folds of flesh, reaching for that irresistible unknown. As if rewarding David for his efforts, my sex released an abundant flux, bathing his excited penis in fluid. His rhythm grew quicker, and I prepared myself for his moan of release.
We had been lovers for almost three months. We’d recently given up condoms, after our STD tests had come out clean. Most couples would take this as good news, an important step in our relationship. But for me . . .
“Oh, no! No!”
. . . it meant sex would be even faster. Sigh.
Everybody knows that direct contact between bodies increases sensations and makes for a shorter time to completion. (Where had I read that? Beats me.)
He had just come. A long, hot, rhythmic set of bursts. One hand gripping my hair like a sailor clutching a rope in a storm. Then he lowered himself onto my curved back and laced his arms around my chest. We stayed still like that for a moment. At last, he straightened and carried me to his improbably large bed, where we collapsed onto his pearly white silk sheets.
I closed my eyes and felt David’s breath against my skin. I, too, was drowsy, though not for the same reason. In vain, I tried to feel other bodily sensations. Except for my stomach, which was happily digesting the evening’s delicious dinner, the rest of my parts were completely unmoved.
WHEN I OPENED MY EYES, I found my man curled up in the comforter, wearing pajamas that matched our sheets. He was fast asleep. I had trouble believing we had just made love. How long had I been dozing?
I was even more surprised to find myself dressed in a nightgown I didn’t recognize and that David had no doubt picked out for me himself. It was hard enough believing someone had changed my clothes while I was half asleep. Never mind trying to imagine David taking care of my intimate places without my permission. I felt between my legs: it was as dry and clean as a freshly powdered baby.
I propped myself up against the white leather headboard and looked at our two piles of neatly folded clothing as well as the piece of furniture against which he’d taken me. Had we really just done it? Nothing about the room suggested it. It didn’t even smell like sex.
“Everything okay?”
The irruption of his voice into the silent room startled me. I jumped. Still, I was the one comforting him. I whispered firmly:
“Yeah. Everything’s fine. Go back to sleep.”
He didn’t argue—proof that he must have been in a deep sleep. I knew it would be impossible for me to get any rest. I got up, put on the pair of Turkish slippers that had been left for me by the bed, and went down to the ground floor.
The main hall had incredibly high ceilings and was flanked on either side by two branches of the same majestic staircase. A graying man was bustling about. It had to be Armand, David Barlet’s butler since forever. Before David, he’d worked for Andre and Hortensia—David’s parents.
“Not able to sleep, Mademoiselle?”
“And neither can you, apparently.”
He was dusting a giant mahogany hourglass that was as big as a rugby player. It was one of David’s most recent acquisitions. David loved antiques and was a regular at the nearby auction houses.
“Oh, you know, at my age . . . You become a light sleeper. In any case, there’s always something to do in this kind of house.”
He spoke without bitterness or reproach. Indeed, the old man seemed extremely affable and even kind. Like his employer—or should I say master?—he looked like a famous actor: the distinguished Michael Caine. I had noticed it on my first visit to Duchesnois House. I remember being so taken with the place and its stunning bow windows that when he’d opened the door, my mouth had dropped. He was a perfect blend of distinction and refinement. I was living in a fairy tale, and Armand did not detract from it.
“Maybe it was the construction next door that woke you?”
Armand had informed me a few days earlier that Mademoiselle Mars’s house had been undergoing a remodel for the past several months. Its owner had undertaken the ambitious project of restoring it to its original state. It would take forever.
“Not at this hour,” he replied.
“I can’t remember, Armand . . . Did this house originally belong to David’s mother or his father?”
The truth is my fiancé hadn’t told me. He had avoided all questions about his parents, who had both died about fifteen years prior.
“To Madame Hortensia,” he replied, visibly afraid David would overhear us. “She was a direct descendant of Mademoiselle Duchesnois.”
“And who was she? Wasn’t it rare at the time for a woman to own her own house?”
“You’re right. But Catherine-Josephine Duchesnois was not just anybody. She was one of the greatest tragedians on the French stage during the First Empire. And the great rival of Mademoiselle George over at the Comédie-Française.”
He seemed to enjoy telling me about this little chapter in history.
I played along:
“Mademoiselle George?”
“Georgina!” he corrected, as though it should have been obvious. “One of Napoleon’s most devoted mistresses.”
So then this had been a house of women and passion. And here I was, humble Annabelle from Nanterre, about to join the history of this place. I imagined the sumptuous balls that must have taken place here, on this very floor as well as in the perfectly restored reception hall.
“By the way, Armand, did David warn you . . . about Felicity?”
“Your cat, right?”
He said it without animosity, but I could tell he was skeptical. He’d have to get used to it. Soon she and I would be part of this household, and not just for a few sleepless nights. Other suitcases would arrive, adding to the overnight bag I left from time to time. As for Felicity, Mom had insisted she come with me: “Take her, take her, she’s your cat . . . And you know I don’t have the energy to look after her. I might forget to feed her, poor thing.”
“Yes, everything is ready: the food dish and the litter box . . .”
I began to take my leave. “Thanks for everything, Armand.”
“You’re welcome, Mademoiselle.”
I was already halfway up the stairs when I heard his muffled voice:
“Oh, Mademoiselle . . .”
I stopped and turned. “Yes?”
“David didn’t tell me . . .”
He called him David, not Monsieur David or Monsieur, but despite the familiar form of address, I could tell he respected my fiancé a great deal.
“ . . . will your mother be moving in with us here after the wedding?”
David’s offer had been generous, but Mom had not been enthusiastic. She could not imagine ever leaving Nanterre. She would miss Madame Chappuis, her neighbor and only friend, as well as all her little routines. The neighborhood was convenient for her, which was essential given her condition. She could still manage to go by herself to the neighborhood bakery or the nearby pharmacy. And there was bus number 167 to take her to Max Fourestier Hospital.
“No, not for now. But thank you for asking.”
He nodded courteously.
I felt guilty leaving her alone, and for taking the cat. But I was also relieved. I could not imagine blending her world with that of my future husband. Her refusal to come live with us seemed natural. That was how big of a difference existed between the two social worlds. In spite of how much he loved me, David would never accept my mother as she was. And despite our mother-daughter bond, she would never agree to live in this moneyed universe of power and artifice.
“Will she be leaving soon?”
David had offered something else that I could not refuse: he was paying for Mom’s treatment in Los Angeles. Twenty-five thousand euros in cash. He and Maude hadn’t even met yet.
“She’s supposed to leave in less than a month. But I’m waiting for the clinic to confirm.”
“Good,” he said with sympathy in his voice.
“Actually, while I’m thinking of it: I need to give you my guest list.”
“Don’t stress over it. Nothing is urgent. Besides, David always has me overestimate the number of guests.”
“Okay . . .”
“Good night, Mademoiselle.”
“Good night, Armand.”
My sleep was deep but disturbed by worry. When I awoke, David was gone. He’d left at dawn to attend to the thousands of obligations that filled his days. A surreal calm had settled over the old building, and morning rays bathed its rooms in light. I slipped into a robe and padded barefoot over the cool floor tiles. It was a daily pleasure. In the hall, the hourglass gleamed, thanks to Armand’s nocturnal dusting.
I noticed that the butler had turned the timepiece. Probably at David’s request. Sand was emptying from the top bulb into the bottom. A small mound had already begun to form. How many minutes or hours did it represent? And how many were left before the last grain fell?
I noticed a series of engraved inscriptions on the surface of the glass: a graduated scale, from one to fifteen. Minutes? Hours? . . . Days? Considering the slow rate at which the sand seemed to be accumulating at the bottom, I decided it must be the last of these three options. Fifteen days. Two weeks, grain by grain, before our wedding day. I had to smile at David’s clever thoughtfulness. I wasn’t the kind of girl who turned soft at the slightest romantic gesture . . . but, still, it was really sweet of him.
Only then did I notice a small robin’s-egg-blue envelope lying on the ebony console table where Armand usually put David’s personal mail. It looked like an announcement. Had Armand sent out the invitations without consulting me first? It was not addressed to anyone. I waited a moment before opening it. I thought about how in the past three months of living together, I had never seen David’s handwriting. Text messages. E-mails. But I had never laid eyes on his penmanship. An absence that could have put him on my list of suspects in the notebook affair. But no! It couldn’t be him!
I couldn’t take it anymore. With racing heart, I caved. I lifted the flap and withdrew a folded piece of paper. A perforated page resembling those I’d been receiving for the past several weeks . . . and yet the first to arrive at my new address. So my nutcase had found me.
The words on the page were familiar. So familiar that I felt the room begin to sway around me:
That’s not how he’s going to make you come undone, miss.