12:48 a.m....2003-12-16
This Gentleman, or That.
As much as I may have wished it, I found it impossible to let go of the memory of Mardi Gras and aye. I had learned too much, you see, and being a progressive, how unchanged can-- could I have been-- by such new knowledge? Combeferre would have understood, and, by God, I longed to share my new knowledge with him.
In fact, I quivered to spread my understanding, like the gospel, among the whole lot of my dear friends, who listened and were moved by my every other passionate idea. I am the sort of man who, when he has been carried away by an idea, likes to share it amid his fellows. There is nothing more inspiring than a tide of like-minded men sharing a voice on a matter of import, growing hot together over some injustice, rallying, as it were, to the cause and the call. Would, oh would that here they would rally too!
But there are dangerous ideas and dangerous ideas, and on some matters, even Grantaire has the wherewithal enough to remain silent. Even through my stewing, I pitied him-- ah, more and more!-- though I did not seek to comfort him, knowing that my motivations in doing so would be neither altruistic, nor, truly, helpful to that dear, sotted soul. But we understood each other, and that helped us both, a little, I think.
I wish I could express, truly, how utterly awful the month that followed was for me. I felt like I wanted to kill. The soft hands and sweet lips of my usual playmates palled, and I put them from me as a boy does wooden dolls and tin soldiers, for other things. I wanted to go to war. I wanted... ah, too much, everything.
Finally, rather than shouting my need from the rooftops, in the daylight, as I might have with a lovely young lady, I took to whispering it in dark corners, wrapped in chiffon and lace. I filled the nighttime streets of Paris with my strange passion, and I did it not alone, not at all, but in the guise and with the company of the effervescent Dominique: the only feminine face, of late, to haunt my dreams so.
We'd go out, of an evening, having discovered certain places in Paris-- salons held by this gentleman or that for the express purpose of satisfying the particular twilight pleasures that gripped me so. We would go, Dominique and I, in dresses I had made for her on my own salary, and later as gifts from, well, let us say, this gentleman or that.
The salons were usually held at someone's townhouse, often while the host's wife was away. There may be one or two such as Dominique and I, those these were usually the sort who were procured, rather than invited. A curious sort of social commentary that-- I, being less expensive (by virtue of not belonging to that gay trade), was nonetheless more dear and quite readily welcome among the ranks of these men. I cannot hardly remember their names, the most of them. But they were gentry, most of them, titled of Bonaparte or friends of the restoration, bourgeois republicans like Enjolras's family. It did not matter. Some places, there is room for one passion and one passion only, and, given the scarcity of outlet for this particular lust, it overwhelmed all others, perhaps especially that of politics.
Nonetheless, the atmosphere was not unlike a brothel. We came and danced and chatted, and ultimately came upstairs with this or that gentleman (as it were). Sometimes it would be the same one as before, sometimes not. I must confessed, I hardly cared. I loved them all. I loved the furtive, haunted need in their eyes, I loved the way they fumbled with Dominique's petticoats to get at and under my linen shorts, I wept with joy beneath their firm, hot hands: upon my sex, applying lubricating oils unto my person, gripping the back of my neck, the backs of my thighs, tearing and pulling open the shell of Dominique to get at the heart of Jean-Baptiste, which, I swear unto Bacchus, they did.
I never ceased to learn, God no. I learned what it was that the women who let themselves be charmed into my bed so often were wanting so badly, and why. This knowledge has aided me often enough of late, and I hope never to lose it. In fact, I mean to ensure as much... but those are other stories, and I am yet late in coming to my ultimate point.
For you see, one fine evening, I left the Musain directly to go a salon I knew of, at a townhouse in the Champs-Elysées, stopping only by my flat for my transformation. By the time I arrived, greeted quite happily by the charming M. Granchat-- surely not his real name-- a man a little older than myself who acted as sort of a liaison between this salon and the next, the party was already in full swing. M. Granchat announced me, and I was greeted by familiar cries and calls from my many indistinguishable friends and lovers, already there. I had become quite well known, and, I think it not unfair to say, well thought of among the circles, and I spotted one or two heated looks, begging for a moment or two in private, quite soon. I laughed prettily and allowed myself to be integrated into the throng, though I rather purposefully made for the piano and the wine-servant, wanting to enjoy the public merriment before giving to the private banquet.
It was at this moment, however, about when I had gained the bench of that old Eunuch we called Madame Gunault, that a hand found my elbow quite suddenly.
It was, of all people, my darling Bahorel, whom I had not seen at the Musain that night.
"Dominique." He said, and I could discover nothing of his mind from his tone.
"Damiano," I responded, with a coy smile. "I had not thought to see you again."
This was, in fact, true. Though I relived the knowledge of that brute in my dreams quite often, I had never seriously entertained the idea of soliciting Bahorel again. We did not speak of the incident on Fat Tuesday, letting it only occasionally pass in a shared smile, the sort that, while not disparaging, does not invite.
"Nor I you," he said, and I felt very much like a fool. There was heat in his voice, and haunting in his eyes. Damiano had ridden him this far as assuredly as Dominique had ridden me. I wanted to throw my arms around him and weep, right there. But Dominique retained our composure.
"We are rather well known here, my dearest Damiano, and I cannot believe that you are a stranger to these little fetes. How is it that our paths have not before this crossed again?"
"As a matter of fact..." And Jacques-Gervais straightened a bit, "I have heard of such affairs as these, by Satan, but I had not yet found the means to attend. This is my first night in such company."
"The first?" I arched an eyebrow at him, and he took my meaning immediately.
"Aye, the first." And I saw his huge, all encompassing smile, and my heart melted. I raised up on my tiptoes and kissed him then, tucking the fingers of both my hands into one of his big fists for balance. He braced me thusly and held me up at the small of my back with the other, and my joy knew no bounds.
"Will you come with me, my darling," I said when I had reclaimed my mouth from his, "Or do you prefer to sample the wares of the house, before humoring your old friend?"
He laughed at that, richly.
"Never, sweet Dominique. I am utterly your slave, and give myself entirely unto your pretty hands." And here he raised them to his mouth and kissed them ardently. "But tell me, may I so monopolize you? For it seems there are others who would claim your attentions tonight." His eyes darted over one or two faces which I knew, and one or two I didn't, all watching Bahorel and I, pressed close as we were by the piano, Madame Gunault's airy soprano making a musical halo about our heads. And I laughed too.
"Well, gentleman this-or-that can wait, I think, tonight." I tapped him on the nose with a fan, produced from my rather ingenious bosoms. "For I have missed you, my dear friend."
I am afraid I let slip there an ardor somewhat unbecoming of a well-bread lady, far more suitable to a young and virile student. But Bahorel forgave me, and whispered in my ear, "Lead the way then, Jean-Baptiste."
A thrill went through my body, and I guided Bahorel quickly to a room which ought, this early in the evening, to be empty. And it was, for which I praised Eros fervently in my soul, and I shut the door behind us-- again, too quickly and eagerly for maidenly decorum.
It hardly mattered. Bahorel hadn't the slightest patience for such niceties, even were I, in fact, inclined to offer them. In a trice, I was flat against the door, skirt about my hips, Bahorel's mouth tearing at mine as his great hands mauled at my bodice. For their size, his hands were markedly dexterous, and they deftly worked at the laces of the garment as we kissed and clung, I leaping to clasp my legs about his waist, and wrapping my arms about the back of his neck. I am slim, but not sylph-slight; nevertheless Bahorel lifted me easily, and thusly maneuvered us, in the course of undressing, to the wide, inviting divan.
The trouble with the sort of men I had become accustomed to is that they are, really, quite unconsciously effeminate, in the main. Their movements are dainty, deft, and delicate; no matter how firmly they might force you to bear your face into the cushions, they cannot manage it roughly. I had come to imagine myself content with their mimickings, the play at passion. Bahorel reminded me readily of what had been maddeningly lacking. His hands were now within the back of my dress, digging into the muscles of my shoulders, and his knees parted my thighs e'er wider, like the Moses of famed story and very seas. I arched against him, his teeth buried in my neck, and aided him with all of the willingness I had ever wished in of a cursedly coy mistress. My lips parted as my legs, my hands clutched and clawed at his back, I gasped, I murmured endearments in my breathiest alto. This only served to inflame my dear companion all the more; his fingers pressed into my skin as if they wanted to press through it, and moving rapidly downward. He growled, and I moaned my pleasure into the pillows, my head tossed back with wild abandon.
Even the fabric of the gown yielded before my friend's unbridled might; he rent the silk and gossamer fluff with his bare hands. Suddenly I was bare-chested-- horridly exposed for what I was, and suddenly shamed. I released him suddenly, falling backwards onto the couch. He stopped then, kneeling over me, his hands lightly between the halves of the dress and my skin. He'd torn the garment to the waist, and I tried not to mourn the twenty Louis that had gone into its creation. I rather imagine I looked quite the picture-- the painted face like a fop's alarmed at some new, personal scandal; panting, leaned back upon his elbows, flushed with desire and fear, and half-shucked, like grapes pulled off of a vine. And what do you think that brute, that damned devourer did to me then?
He chuckled. Deeply, in his throat, the sort of chuckle I had never heard in reference to myself or to any man before. The men I had come to know in these sorts of places were perhaps of a nature far too delicate to dare that brand of lewd noise, though God knows they're not shy enough about some others, I can tell you.
Nonetheless that chuckle re-sparked the fire within me, and, as I stared at him helplessly, his hands smoothed hard over the flatness of my chest, traveled to the back of my neck, and gripped my hair till I cried out. Only then did he release his grip a little, and only to finish his invasion of my skirts and my linens. At this point, however, I felt it urgently necessary to intervene, once more.
"Mon cher, my dearest darling, I am a dainty thing, and require a touch of consideration."
He frowned confused, and frowned more when I removed his hand from the place it occupied so to roll over and search the nearby table. What I sought was all too handy, due, of course, to the purposes of this assembly: a small vial, containing a fragrant oil. As I dripped it onto my dear friend's fingers he suddenly understood what it was for; this brought another chuckle from him, and he did not permit me to roll again onto my back. Really, I had forgotten quite how large Bahorel's fingers are, for the first one reduced me from my twisted, sprawled state to flat upon my belly, cringing in sheer lust into the lace doily which covered the leathern side-table. How I survived that holy night in the darkened alley without those lubricants, the use with which I was now intimately familiar, is yet a mystery to me. But well that I did!
Bahorel wasted little time with that, once he was certain of my quite obvious pleasure. Quick as you like, the devil was inside of me, and he lifted me by the arms so that I wouldn't gash my head open on the edge of the table. Instead, I bit down hard on pillow of satin and velvet, nearly choking on the stuff and, by God, not minding in the slightest. Next I knew, my mouth was free, and I had a moment to splutter threads before my dear, lovely friend's tongue was in my mouth as firmly as his sex in my body. I was as warm and twisted as a loaf of that braided bread you can get at Mere Magout's bake shop of a Friday morning, and I swear that I died twice over before Bahorel was through with me, his own spending as savage as a wreck on the reef, and undoubtedly more fun.
Now while Bahorel lay exhausted upon my back, I recovered my mouth and some few of my wits. Enough to discover two very important things.
The first was that this room was one specially made for such displays as Bahorel and I now put on: there were holes, drilled into the wall and disguised with paintings, and the couch on which Bahorel and I reclined was arranged in such a manner as to be at the best advantage to them. Indeed, I could hear small, muffled noises that were not Bahorel, that were certainly coming from on-lookers in the next parlor.
Let them look! I decided, arrogant abandon and a glimmer of Dominique asserting herself. For the second thing which I had discovered was that this time, I was not finished with Bahorel.
Assisted by the slickness of our sweat, I slithered out from under Bahorel and stood, pushing out of the tattered remnants of my gown. I had never completely defrocked when with one of my gentleman friends before, in spite of being occasionally asked to do so. So let them see that, which they had not before! Nor Bahorel either, and he watched me with an interest as naked as I was. I grinned and knelt beside the couch, bestowing a kiss upon his mouth, fondly returned, upon the skin apparent through the neck of his shirt-- not yet removed-- and then upon that organ which had known me so intimately of late, sprouting from within the trousers he had likewise not bothered to remove. I say again, the brute! The blessed, wondrous brute!
I do not know if he expected that from me or not, but I do know that his hips jerked as if in spasm, and that was all needed to drive him into my mouth-- mine, mind, not Dommi's, but Jean-Baptiste's-- and for me to drive him, I think, completely mad. His hands made a wreck of my hair and he cried out incoherently, though I think I did hear a cheri and a je t'adore though the growling and the cursing and aye. I delighted in these sounds, in the slightest movement of his hips, in the obvious appreciation of the skills I had acquired in delivering pleasure in this fashion lately. Mind, that generally, I gave over to Dominique at that point in any given evening. For she had quite the taste for a healthy male sex down her gullet, while I, delighted enough to receive such favors, had not become quite accustomed to the administration of same. With Gervais, however, it seemed far too... personal an act to leave it to the lady, nay, he had accepted my body free of its disguise, I owed it to him to persevere free of it. Thusly, it was not terribly long before I brought my charming, smouldering Satan to his next crisis, and I was very pleased with myself, that I managed to consume the ensuing torrents with minimal mess, and a good deal less choking than I was wont to expect. I can only assume that Gervais appreciated my aptitude as well, for he wasted no time in pulling me atop him and kissing me, feverishly, his hands wandering the breadth of my skin and catching here and there. And here and there I caught too, and groped him back with like passion, till he pulled away to grin at me, full of fondness and love.
"I have to admit," he said, "I did not expect to meet you here, my pigeon. But it was you I was looking for."
I could not even begin to explain how well I understood! I swallowed and nodded, my face flushed, my grin so broad that I knew my makeup must be cracked or completely gone, by now. I think that I said, "Yes," to him then, but I do not entirely recall. I remember instead lying in his arms, entwined upon the wonderful, wide divan, wanting to let myself drift into sleep but hardly daring. I listened instead to Jacques-Gervais's breathing, to the disappointed sounds from behind the peep-holes as the voyeurs moved off to find better sport elsewhere, and to the pounding of my own heart as I knew, sooner or later, we would have to move from this place, and the spell would be broken. There is a fairy-story I knew as a child that goes similarly, and seemed to have become the story of my life. The stroke of midnight, or the midnight stroking: and the ball ends, and all the splendor and finery are reduced to so many mice and pumpkins. After some time I sighed and shifted, so to wake my warm friend from whatever, I hoped, magnificent dreams he might have been enjoying.
He had not, however, been asleep.
"Jean-Baptiste?" He said, and his voice sounded terribly hoarse. I could not resist, I turned and kissed it.
"Come home with me." He said.
I looked up then into his eyes, and that time I am very sure that I said, "Yes."
<< agé >>