The Pleasure of M (22 page)

It
  is
  years
  before
  I
  finally
  gain
  an
  understanding
  of
  this
  part
  of
  my
  body
  and
  an
 
appreciation
  for
  its
  luscious
  juices.
  And
  I
  look
  forward
  to
  the
  day
  when
  you,
  my
 
prince,
 will
 be
 able
 to
 see
 and
 feel
 and
 taste
 these
 delights.
 

Yours
 always,
 
 
Catherine”
 

Michel
  was
  very
  moved
  by
  this
  insight
  into
  a
  young
  woman’s
  life.
  He
  had
  always
 
been
  fond
  of
  adolescence
  and
  its
  byproduct:
  teenagers.
  He’d
  been
  an
  educator
  for
 
many
 years,
 teaching
 music
 to
 kids
 of
 many
 ages
 but
 always
 drawn
 to
 that
 window
 
of
 time
 when
 children
 turn
 to
 adults.
 He
 looked
 back
 very
 fondly
 upon
 the
 mixture
 
of
 magic
 and
 emotional
 pain
 (some
 self-‐inflicted)
 that
 his
 own
 adolescence
 had
 been
 
rife
  with
  and
  could
  feel
  a
  great
  deal
  of
  elation
  in
  being
  part
  of
  that
  moment
  of
 
growth
 where
 all
 seems
 possible
 and
 passions
 can
 arise
 from
 thin
 air
 with
 just
 that
 
slightest
  nudge
  from
  what
  Dolto
  had
  called
  the
  ‘adult
  on
  the
  side’,
  and
  that
  had
 
drawn
  him
  to
  some
  involvement
  in
  neighborhood
  after-‐school
  programs
  for
  a
 
couple
 of
 years
 before
 he
 had
 a
 son.
 And
 through
 his
 exchanges
 with
 Catherine
 he
 
was
 recapturing
 a
 bit
 of
 the
 emotions
 he
 felt
 during
 these
 male
 rites
 of
 passage.
 But
 
he
 had
 generally
 hung
 out
 with
 boys
 and
 in
 the
 end
 knew
 very
 little
 about
 girls
 and
 
their
  initiation
  rites.
  This
  was
  the
  first
  time
  that
  a
  woman
  shared
  with
  him
  such
 
intimate
 memories
 and
 the
 wave
 of
 empathy
 he
 felt
 as
 he
 read
 her
 lines
 was
 an
 eye-‐
opening
  experience.
  He
  realized
  that
  for
  boys,
  things
  are
  not
  quite
  as
  universal
  as
 
they
 are
 for
 girls,
 as
 his
 own
 experience
 and
 development
 testified
 to.
 Manhood
 was
 
clearly
 defined
 in
 terms
 of
 ejaculation
 in
 his
 corner
 of
 the
 universe
 growing
 up,
 but
 
that
  could
  come
  in
  many
  different
  guises,
  a
  lesson
  that
  he
  had
  clearly
  learned
 
growing
  up
  and
  one
  area
  where
  his
  relative
  precociousness
  would
  be
  of
  great
 
advantage.
 

I
 will
 skip
 a
 couple
 of
 years
 in
 the
 narrative
 of
 my
 sexual
 apprenticeship
 to
 when
 I
 
was
 eleven.
 I
 don’t
 believe
 that
 much
 happened
 during
 those
 two
 years.
 By
 now
 I
 am
 
starting
 the
 French
 equivalent
 of
 Junior
 High
 and
 some
 kids
 in
 the
 bunch
 are
 a
 lot
 
more
  advanced
  than
  others.
  The
  awareness
  level
  is
  clearly
  higher
  by
  that
  point
 
through
 schoolyard
 bantering
 and
 such.
 But
 this
 happens
 at
 home.
 My
 parents
 are
 
not
 here
 for
 a
 few
 hours
 and
 my
 brother
 is
 not
 there
 either,
 which
 means
 that
 I
 have
 
the
 house
 to
 myself,
 and
 I
 am
 going
 into
 my
 parent’s
 bedroom
 to
 snoop
 around.
 This
 
is
 pure
 ‘innocent’
 curiosity
 on
 my
 part.
 I
 just
 wonder
 what
 my
 parents
 have
 in
 their
 
room.
 I
 open
 some
 drawers,
 look
 around
 in
 a
 closet.
 And
 then,
 I
 open
 the
 door
 to
 my
 
father’s
 nightstand…
 A
 new
 world
 is
 revealed
 to
 me.
 There
 are
 two
 magazines,
 there,
 
both
  British(!).
  One
  was
  called
  ‘Mayfair’
  and
  the
  other
  I
  forget
  (‘Club’,
  was
  it…?).
 
Three
  models
  per
  issue,
  full
  female
  nudity,
  in
  retrospect
  some
  reasonably
  classy
 
pictures
 of
 the
 Playboy
 variety
 back
 when
 Playboy
 was
 reasonably
 classy
 (I’m
 sure
 
that
  doesn’t
  sound
  to
  your
  ears
  quite
  the
  way
  I
  intend
  it
  to…).
  I
  have
  never
  seen
 
anything
  like
  this.
  I
  have
  never
  seen
  the
  female
  anatomy
  so
  clearly
  and
 
photographically
  displayed.
  I
  am
  entranced:
  this
  is
  great!
  And
  my
  father
  has
  this!
 
And
 these
 women
 are
 beautiful
 and…
 

And
 it
 turns
 out
 that
 I
 have
 been
 stroking
 my
 erection
 and
 suddenly
 my
 hand
 is
 wet.
 
I
  have
  no
  idea
  what
  is
  going
  on.
  I
  look,
  I
  smell,
  I
  taste…
  New,
  interesting…
  but
 
potentially
  embarrassing.
  I
  don’t
  have
  much
  time:
  my
  parents
  will
  be
  returning
 
soon.
 I
 must
 clean
 up,
 put
 everything
 back
 the
 way
 it
 was.
 I
 realize
 with
 relief
 that
 
only
 my
 underwear
 is
 affected.
 And
 I
 also
 realize
 how
 good
 this
 was,
 how
 amazing
 it
 
felt.
 Something
 beautiful
 just
 happened
 and
 I
 have
 no
 idea
 what.
 But
 it
 was
 beautiful.
 

For
 the
 next
 few
 weeks,
 I
 will
 try
 to
 reproduce
 this
 in
 vain.
 I
 don’t
 know
 what
 I
 did,
 
so
 trying
 to
 do
 it
 again
 is
 not
 simple.
 The
 only
 way
 I
 know
 to
 get
 an
 erection
 is
 to
 
think
 about
 the
 magazines,
 and
 that
 works
 well,
 but
 after,
 I
 don’t
 have
 a
 clue.
 It
 took
 
me
  about
  two
  months
  to
  figure
  it
  out.
  It
  was
  during
  the
  Christmas
  break,
  in
  the
 
country
 estate
 where
 we
 always
 spent
 two
 weeks
 that
 time
 of
 year.
 My
 brother,
 for
 
the
 first
 time,
 is
 not
 with
 us,
 and
 I
 have
 been
 granted
 the
 permission
 to
 sleep
 in
 the
 
main
 living
 room
 where
 the
 evening
 fire
 dies
 down
 over
 the
 wee
 hours
 and
 the
 tree
 
was
  decked
  out.
  There,
  on
  a
  cot,
  late
  one
  December
  evening,
  I
  reinvented
 
masturbation.
 

But
  at
  this
  point,
  I
  should
  mention
  that
  my
  own
  experience
  does
  become
  a
  little
 
atypical
  though
  it
  occurs
  in
  a
  fairly
  common
  narrative.
  By
  that
  time
  I
  am
  with
  an
 
American
 boy
 scout
 troop
 stationed
 in
 Paris,
 at
 the
 embassy.
 We
 go
 on
 camping
 trips
 
one
 weekend
 a
 month,
 in
 the
 famed
 Bellau
 Woods,
 east
 of
 Paris.
 And
 very
 soon
 after
 
I
 have
 joined
 the
 troop
 together
 with
 a
 couple
 other
 new
 recruits,
 the
 pecking
 order
 
must
 be
 redrawn:
 the
 younglings
 must
 be
 separated
 from
 the
 real
 men,
 as
 it
 were.
 
Conversations
 turn
 to
 the
 topic
 of
 ejaculation
 but
 without
 explicit
 mention
 of
 certain
 
things,
 a
 charade
 of
 sorts
 where
 each
 participant
 is
 invited
 to
 add
 a
 level
 of
 detail
 to
 
the
  description
  of
  a
  mystery
  activity,
  and
  it
  quickly
  becomes
  apparent
  which
 
participants
  are
  completely
  befuddled.
  When
  done
  right,
  there
  is
  no
  way
  to
  sneak
 
your
  way
  into
  this
  big
  boys
  club.
  And
  I
  got
  in
  with
  flying
  colors.
  It
  made
  me
  very
 
proud,
 to
 say
 the
 least,
 and
 earned
 me
 quite
 a
 bit
 of
 respect
 from
 my
 peers.
 

The
  club
  had
  four
  members,
  all
  older
  than
  me
  by
  at
  least
  a
  year,
  and
  its
  main
 
purpose
  was
  one
  of
  scientific
  research.
  We
  exchanged
  notes.
  Needless
  to
  say
  that
 
within
  a
  couple
  of
  months,
  all
  notes
  of
  relevance
  had
  been
  exchanged
  and
  out
 
interests
 shifted,
 but
 I
 did
 at
 that
 point
 learn
 that
 for
 some
 ejaculation
 did
 not
 enter
 
life
  provoked,
  and
  this
  is
  where
  I
  would
  in
  the
  end
  differ
  most
  from
  my
  brother
 
scouts:
 I’ve
 never
 had
 a
 wet
 dream.
 I
 suspect
 that
 I
 masturbated
 enough
 those
 first
 
few
  years
  that
  my
  body
  never
  felt
  the
  need
  to
  express
  itself
  outside
  of
  business
 
hours.
 I
 can’t
 say
 that
 I
 have
 any
 regrets!
 

Yours
 truly,
 
Michel”
 
Unbeknownst
 to
 each
 other,
 Catherine
 and
 Michel
 both
 held
 a
 passionate
 aesthetic
 

love
  for
  the
  glimmering
  plays
  of
  light
  with
  water,
  and
  yet
  the
  difference
  in
  their
 
preference
  in
  the
  midst
  of
  such
  a
  strong
  affinity
  between
  them
  mirrored
  an
 
important
  emotional
  difference
  which
  typically
  expressed
  itself
  in
  her
  reaction
  to
 
his
 story
 of
 discovery
 as
 waves
 of
 competing
 congruent
 and
 contradictory
 thoughts
 
layering
  into
  a
  minuet
  of
  feelings
  washing
  over
  her
  in
  succession.
  She
  loved
  the
 
glimmering
 reflection
 of
 moonlight
 on
 the
 silky
 surface
 of
 a
 lake
 at
 night,
 the
 gentle
 
dance
  of
  shimmering
  sunlight
  on
  the
  smooth
  ocean
  surface
  at
  dawn.
  He
  was
 
hypnotized
 by
 the
 twirls
 of
 dancing
 light
 that
 define
 for
 our
 eyes
 the
 many
 sheets
 of
 
water
 in
 the
 sheath
 that
 is
 a
 stream,
 the
 fantastic
 fury
 of
 sparkling
 diamonds
 on
 the
 
chaotic
  yet
  geometric
  patterns
  in
  converging
  waves
  breaking
  on
  the
  sand.
  Upon
 
reading
 his
 intimate
 memories
 of
 childhood
 she
 felt
 closer
 to
 him
 still,
 moved
 to
 be
 
glimpsing
 at
 the
 child
 that
 would
 one
 day
 become
 her
 lover.
 The
 thought
 then
 came
 
to
 her
 that
 she
 knew
 no
 such
 stories
 from
 her
 husband’s
 childhood,
 and
 wondering
 
why
  took
  her
  to
  barren
  places
  she
  knew
  all
  to
  well,
  where
  some
  things
  are
  not
 
talked
 about,
 some
 questions
 never
 asked,
 not
 because
 they
 would
 cause
 harm
 but
 
because
 they
 are
 in
 essence
 taboo,
 even
 between
 man
 and
 wife.
 A
 prim
 and
 proper
 
catholic
  mother
  of
  two
  does
  not
  ask
  her
  husband
  about
  the
  first
  time
  he
 
masturbated
  or
  had
  a
  wet
  dream,
  and
  of
  course
  the
  nice
  husband
  of
  a
  prim
  and
 
proper
  catholic
  mother
  of
  two
  would
  never
  think
  of
  offering
  up
  such
  information
 
unbidden.
  That
  would
  be
  wrong,
  though
  admittedly
  not
  as
  wrong
  as
  having
  your
 
lover
 tell
 you
 about
 such
 things.
 Yet,
 try
 as
 she
 might,
 she
 did
 not
 feel
 that
 her
 affair
 
with
  Michel
  was
  wrong.
  She
  knew
  it
  was
  in
  the
  canon
  that
  had
  been
  passed
  on
  to
 
her,
 but
 she
 just
 couldn’t
 feel
 it.
 As
 she
 reread
 his
 last
 message,
 the
 simplicity
 of
 it
 
struck
 her.
 That
 of
 the
 setting,
 that
 of
 the
 story,
 and
 how
 simple
 it
 seemed
 for
 him
 to
 
tell
 the
 story,
 with
 its
 cute
 masturbating
 boy
 scouts
 with
 no
 bible-‐thumping
 nuns
 to
 
beat
 some
 sense
 into
 them,
 no
 born-‐again
 scoutmaster
 to
 instill
 fear
 in
 their
 hearts.
 
Was
  it
  so
  for
  all
  boys,
  she
  wondered,
  and
  as
  often
  reread
  several
  of
  his
  latest
 
messages
 to
 find
 that
 he
 had
 in
 essence
 already
 answered
 her
 question.
 If
 she
 was
 
any
  indication,
  things
  were
  much
  more
  complicated
  for
  girls
  indeed.
  Girls
  do
  not
 
become
 women
 by
 orgasm.
 The
 deck
 is
 stacked
 against
 you
 when
 coming
 of
 age
 is
 
shedding
 of
 blood.
 She
 knew
 there
 was
 a
 tinge
 of
 anger
 there
 which
 surely
 should
 
not
 be
 directed
 at
 Michel.
 He
 was
 free
 to
 share
 these
 tales
 with
 her
 because
 he
 too
 
repudiated
 the
 cultural
 chains
 that
 we
 are
 made
 to
 wear
 and
 the
 simplicity
 was
 in
 
part
 a
 façade,
 a
 gift
 to
 her
 in
 the
 form
 of
 a
 rebellion
 against
 stereotypes
 that
 perhaps
 
she
 too
 harbored,
 for
 no
 gift
 comes
 for
 free.
 She
 was
 grateful
 for
 his
 honesty,
 despite
 
his
  arrogant
  sincerity.
  “Mirrors
  don’t
  lie
  yet
  we
  love
  them.”
  The
  thought
  made
  her
 
smile.
 Being
 in
 love
 was
 obviously
 out
 of
 bounds
 and
 would
 have
 been
 completely
 
inappropriate,
  and
  while
  she
  couldn’t
  quite
  remember
  how
  it
  had
  occurred,
  it
  had
 
clearly
  been
  established
  early
  in
  their
  relationship
  that
  their
  affair
  would
  be
  an
 
addition
 to
 their
 lives,
 lives
 which
 would
 in
 all
 other
 ways
 remain
 unaffected
 by
 said
 
affair
  except
  perhaps
  for
  an
  elevated
  mood.
  They
  were
  consenting
  adults
  with
 
productive
 lives
 in
 need
 of
 added
 depth,
 not
 idiots
 in
 a
 midlife
 crisis.
 They
 were
 both
 
married
 with
 children
 and
 intended
 it
 to
 stay
 that
 way.
 As
 a
 result,
 they
 had
 never
 
used
  the
  word
  love
  with
  each
  other
  as
  if
  it
  had
  been
  excised
  form
  their
  common
 
vocabulary
 as
 a
 useless
 appendix:
 nothing
 intangible
 exists
 unless
 it
 has
 a
 name.
 She
 
felt
 that
 she
 had
 found
 in
 Michel
 a
 soulmate,
 and
 the
 word
 now
 held
 a
 full
 meaning
 
for
 her
 as
 she
 realized
 it
 had
 not
 before
 because
 she
 had
 always
 assumed
 that
 such
 
things
 could
 not
 happen
 to
 people
 such
 as
 herself:
 sinners.
 She
 took
 to
 calling
 him
 
that
 in
 her
 messages,
 “Dear
 Soulmate,”
 and
 he
 responded
 in
 kind.
 She
 found
 no
 other
 
way
  to
  evoke
  the
  connection
  that
  she
  felt
  between
  them,
  though
  what
  she
  would
 
have
 preferred
 would
 have
 conveyed
 the
 sense
 she
 had
 that
 she
 had
 found
 a
 brother
 
without
  the
  incestuous
  implications,
  a
  sense
  of
  kinship
  of
  spirit
  that
  had
  the
  right
 
and
  privilege
  to
  carry
  a
  passionate
  desire
  for
  this
  mirror
  image
  of
  herself,
  a
 
complete
 opposite
 of
 her
 in
 what
 they
 knew
 and
 yet
 completely
 like
 her
 in
 what
 they
 
loved
 and
 craved.
 She
 had
 a
 thought
 and
 decided
 to
 ask,
 and
 in
 a
 seemingly
 carefree
 
way
  inserted
  this
  into
  a
  long
  email:
  “(and
  by
  the
  way,
  what
  are
  the
  French
  words
 
that
 approximate
 'soulmate'?).”