Authors: Emma Becker
Monsieur (4 page)
MONSIEUR
I'm often startled when I read your mails . . . as if you were a wonderful creation conjured up by my subconscious and my memory.
Peter Pan
. . . my very first unforgettable conscious erotic memory . . .
Yesterday I read every line of your blog while watching the photos on your Facebook profile. It was later reflected in my dreams. I'm eager for you to wake up properly . . . not that I have any objection to imagining you sleeping, alone and lasciviously clad in some unknown garb, the thought of which gives me shameful and delicious ideas . . .
I'm slowly waking up . . . My room is all red. Lascivious . . . I like your choice of words, Monsieur. I am lascivious and barely awake, waiting for the boiler repairman to arrive.
This is where I regret spending fourteen years studying surgery while a boiler repairman's certificate would have sufficed today . . .
You have no sense of poetry! There is nothing more beautiful than your job. Anyway, maybe I need medical attention. You see, I've just twisted my wrist. I need you to call on me. To look after it, of course.
Of course . . . to look after you . . . but are you alone?
My father is working in his study. Why? Did you want to come round?
How could I resist? My mind's all scrambled . . . Tuesday seems so far away still . . .
Doesn't patience feel like a row of teeth biting into your stomach?
Beautiful . . . Toothmarks exploring your flesh . . . your skin shimmering with impatience . . . and me behind my desk sitting awkwardly in an attempt to conceal the incongruous rise beneath my trousers from the gaze of all eyes in the waiting room.
Enough! You almost make me want to break my wrist!
Can't have your wrist out of action. You wouldn't be able to free the stranglehold of my belt . . . your light-coloured eyes wantonly seeking mine.
My dear, I'm in a meeting with some journalist friends. You'll make my cheeks go all red.
(The truth: I'm burrowed inside my bed like a helpless cock-teaser running out of ideas, unable to come up with the right response to his provocation, even incapable of imagining myself looking into his eyes while I open the flies of his suit trousers.)
I like making your cheeks go red . . . You have also . . . affected me . . . a lot. Is it a bad thing? Is all this wrong? And if so, would it change anything? Can I call you?
This man, on the other side of Paris, at the other end of the line, light years away from me, showed such old-fashioned delicacy as soon as he guessed I was taken aback by his masculine banter. Now that I've revealed myself to him in words that vibrate from his mobile, he wants to hear my voice. And I'm absolutely terrified to listen to compliments about my body or my mouth â which he has never even seen. I can't imagine his voice; can't imagine the way he might chuckle at my possible wit or because he knows I'm going red in the face. But I'm sure his voice will be the voice of the devil, whether it's deep and dark or clear and precise. And because I can't confront the devil with any form of assurance, I can only contemplate this call with the guilt of a kid who fucks guys around in Internet chatrooms.
Later that afternoon, as I had little else to do, I went to avenue Daumesnil to get waxed in a salon more used to older women. At least, that was what I assumed when I asked for a full Brazilian and the beautician gave me a puzzled look. In my handbag, my mobile was buzzing. Unknown caller. Unknown caller. Unknown caller.
Once I was hairless, I found the nerve to answer.
âEllie?'
I knew it was him. It could have been anyone, but the voice had had a first name. Standing alone in a puddle of sunshine, my Wayfarers perched on my nose, I answered: â
Bonjour, Monsieur
.'
Did I mention how nice the city smelled that day? A lingering sun turning all the buildings slightly orange. Standing motionless in the middle of rue Dugommier, I bit my fingers while I weighed up the sound of his voice, the depth of his laughter. All around me, people moved in the slow motion that only belongs to summer, unaware of the story that was about to begin right there under their gaze. In spite of the muted heat of the waxing, a strange buzz was spreading under my skirt and, fearful that Monsieur might notice â God knew how â I moved the conversation into inconsequential areas. He answered, slowly, politely, complacently even, but somehow it was better than talking about sex. This man knew. This man had read my words. Maybe he was being gallant, pretending to believe my innocent-student spiel. Was that the impression I was giving? Was it really me?
And then, out of the blue, anything but spontaneous, I had to say something else: âYour voice sounds so young!'
He burst out laughing, and I did too. Then, embarrassed by my gaucheness, I floundered in a sea of clumsy explanations.
âNot that you're old! It's just that your voice sounds young in comparison to . . . I mean, I was expecting . . .'
âAn old geezer!' Monsieur was still laughing.
âNo, just a
deeper
voice!'
Under my silk blouse, my back was wet with sweat.
I miss your voice already . . .
When I said you had a young voice, it was meant as a compliment. You have a lovely voice, clear and serious. Young, which you also happen to be. Well, not as young as me, I'm just a baby, even more so after what the beautician just did to me.
Hmm. I love it . . . My lips are already quivering at the thought of assaulting you there . . .
Stop saying things like that! You almost made me swallow my cigarette!
Things like what?
When you referred to my depilation.
I can't stop imagining the likely crimson hue of your mound following the recent treatment.
You're the devil incarnate. I just confessed I was now smooth and vulnerable, and you're already taking advantage of it by text. I just hope that in the flesh you'd do the same.
I will . . . totally . . . You'll find out how much by feeling how hard I would be against you . . . rock hard . . . against your smooth baby skin . . .
What shocking sort of perfume might you wear?
Habit Rouge by Guerlain. My sort of smell.
Do you talk? I mean, during.
I speak, I listen.
Cool.
(When you are five years old, the advent-calendar chocolate is the equivalent of a morning erection, peacefully waiting to be unsealed. Fifteen years later, Monsieur's mails are like the onset of a heart-attack.)
I've just arrived in Holland . . . My thoughts are full of your wisps of blonde hair, your cheeky smiles and adolescent sex . . . I am obsessed with you, Mademoiselle . . . I'm counting the hours . . . I'll be silent . . . I'll undress . . . and my tongue will move towards you and lick your drowsy stomach . . . My inquisitive hands will invade you . . . My sex will feverishly seek you out . . . You will pretend you're asleep . . . but once my tongue has begun exploring you and I've tasted the dew dripping between your thighs . . . felt your breath rise in your chest . . . your hands grip the sheets . . . I will bite your neck and almost trigger a scream that will linger in your throat until the moment my hard cock dives deep into your little pussy . . . while my fingers delve into your shuddering little arsehole . . . my cock plunging even deeper . . . making you beg ever more indecently for things I cannot write down here but which I promise to do to you . . . You try and hold back the pleasure and it's oh so terribly painful . . . but the expectation of an even more intense explosion helps you hold on longer . . . You shamelessly growl . . . impaled . . . restless . . . sweating profusely . . . eyes wild . . . the tip of your little pink tongue emerging between your half-open lips . . .
Did you get the text messages I sent last night? Was I too crude?
No . . . not at all. Crude, most definitely, but enjoyable. I'm working, can't answer you right now. Can you wait a bit longer?
It's not easy to wait, Mademoiselle. I'm under your spell. May I call you?
I'm in my father's car. You mustn't make me blush!
I feel it's my duty to make you blush.
Tell me how you will be on Tuesday when I enter the room â and tell me about your breasts . . . I've just had a walk in the cold outside so my jeans won't betray me.
I have small breasts. Round. My nipples get hard terribly fast. Because they're small, men tend to neglect them, and small breasts are more sensitive.
I promise I will not neglect your breasts. I will worship them, kiss them, caress them, crush them, lick them . . . and maybe you'll help me come between them.
Between my breasts. Not just over my face.
A bite of sandwich has just gone down the wrong way.
See what happens when you become too perverse! Although I should take full responsibility for that.
Tell me about your arse.
My back arches a lot so my bum looks big, but it's my favourite bit of me. Big maybe, but hard and round.
I'd like to spread your arse cheeks open . . . while you're on all fours and watch my tongue slowly insinuate itself inside your small door . . . opening for me like a shimmering flower, sucking me in like a divine leech . . .
âHow do you reply to a message like that?'
I handed my mobile to Alice, who was smoking by the bathroom window.
âHe's so FILTHY!' she cried, almost throwing the phone into the washbasin.
âWhat should I do? How should I answer?' I asked, as I spread the soap across my skin.
âMaybe you should just wash your divine leech. Make sure it's clean.'
Let me call you.
I'm in my bath.
I'd love to be there, pushing your stomach against the bathroom's cold floor, your face squashed against the tiles, entering you . . .
Now you've made me truly wet. I'm quite curious about what we might get up to. Loads of possibilities. Unless you die first, choking.
Not a chance. My whole body is drawn to you, as is my soul . . .
ELLIE
As I said, but I'll say it again: an endless day. From eight in the morning to eight at night (twelve hours later) I've been wrapping pots of lily-of-the-valley and almost cut myself every time a new text arrived. 1 May's balance-sheet: my legs are painful and right now, slipping into my pyjamas (my girlfriends are deep in conversation in the next room), I can't even look at myself in the mirror. I don't know how you've achieved it but you seem to have taken possession of my eyes â every time I peer down at my body I burn up inside. Give me back to myself.
I'm so totally amazed by the fact that we did once come across each other before. I just keep on thinking about it. It means that a year or so ago while you were operating on some wide-open stomach I was watching you, and you could feel my eyes on you, but neither of us knew anything about it at the time. No doubt you already had the same eyes, the same mouth, the same hands, the same body, the same voice, and there I was so close to you, hidden under a uniform that probably suited me no better than crotchless pants would Golda Meir . . . We still didn't exist for each other, I was only the vaguely inconsequential niece of Dr Cantrel and I made no impression on you whatsoever . . . no more than a baby.
Prediction: in approximately two days you will be deeply embedded inside me.
Notions of good and evil: what we are doing is indeed evil. I don't think anyone could truly justify our course of action. Even worse to think that it's so exciting because it's evil. (At any rate, and I'm firmly closing the book on him here, by de Sade's standards we're still choristers clutching our crucifixes.)
It irritates me to remember that my ex-boyfriend thought me wanton. Maybe it was a joke. But I don't think so. I'm sure he believed I was something of a whore. And he was far from wrong. I freeze when I think of everything I got up to with him. I provoked him into saying awful things and, in the throes of lust, I surprised myself by coming out with words I couldn't record here.
So, I have been filthy and depraved and still, now, manage to be shocked when I read your texts.
You're invading my territory.
Usually I'm the one who takes innocent words and plays around with them to come up with . . . I don't know . . . âSend me any message you wish, promise me everything, and Tuesday I will hold you so tight and captive within me, I will be warm and incandescent and melting around you, my little-girl hands so tight around your cock that you'll find it tough to hold on even a couple of minutes more.'
Or âI might sound naïve on the phone, but I know that in the flesh I'll hold on to you with total abandon.' Not so explicit.
Or I could be quite vile. Example: âWere it not utterly wicked, I would tell you I'd like to crawl under the table where you're sitting and suck you off without letting you come in my mouth.'
Why not quote Calaferte? âThinking of it. Nothing else. Strongly. My cunt and your cock.'
I want to be both a whore and a little girl and I will be what you want me to be.
Tuesday is at the same time too near and too far. And I'm already in such a state on D-Day-minus-two that I can't even bear to think of how I'll survive Monday night. I don't want to touch myself anywhere. I cherish the sensation that I've been on fire for a thousand years.
Listen to Velvet Underground. It'll be a delight for me to explain why I find their music extraordinary. Though I doubt you're aware of it. There's one song in particular, â
Heroin
', so full of sexual electricity. My favourite, by far. And then there's â
Venus In Furs
' (whose sounds make love inside my ears every time I listen to it on my iPod),
âI'm Waiting For The Man' and âAfter Hours'.
I've only had a single glass to drink so far and I'm not doing too badly, am I? Anyway I'm off to meet up with the girls. They're probably wondering who I'm talking to.
Fortunately God created mobile phones. I'd go mad without mine, and without those texts of yours that keep my heart fluttering wildly.