The Pleasure of M (5 page)

The
 climax
 unfolds,
 in
 exquisite
 detail,
 my
 consciousness
 dissolving
 into
 every
 pulse
 of
 
my
 body,
 every
 contraction
 of
 my
 muscles,
 and
 if
 for
 a
 moment
 only,
 I
 am
 with
 you,
 I
 
am
 in
 you,
 and
 we
 share
 this
 ecstasy
 as
 we
 share
 our
 words……….”
 

The
 fact
 is
 that
 by
 the
 time
 she
 saw
 his
 message
 sitting
 in
 her
 inbox
 at
 work
 she
 was
 
full
  of
  regret
  for
  having
  sent
  hers.
  Too
  bold,
  too
  raw,
  too
  crazy.
  So
  unlike
  her.
  She
 
was
  afraid
  she
  was
  pushing
  it,
  that
  would
  be
  scared,
  that
  he
  would
  run
  away.
  She
 
barely
  managed
  to
  finish
  reading
  his
  response
  in
  one
  sitting.
  Trembling,
  dizzy,
 
perspiring,
  she
  found
  herself
  out
  of
  breath,
  quite
  literally,
  gasping
  for
  air
  in
  short
 
breaths.
 It
 would
 be
 hours
 before
 she
 could
 type
 a
 reply,
 and
 needless
 to
 say
 that
 no
 
other
 work
 got
 done
 that
 day.
 

“This
 might
 sound
 trite,
 but
 my
 reaction
 was...............WOW!
 The
 content
 of
 your
 reply
 
was
 totally
 unexpected
 and
 therefore
 packed
 an
 even
 bigger
 punch
 than
 you
 might
 
have
 expected.
 I
 have
 read
 it
 several
 times
 and
 it
 continues
 to
 arouse
 me.
 You
 have
 
evoked
 some
 very
 powerful
 images
 and
 the
 conversational
 style
 makes
 me
 feel
 that
 
you
 are
 with
 me
 in
 a
 very
 physical
 sense.
 Almost
 like
 an
 out-‐of-‐body
 experience.”
 

“What
 sort
 of
 man…”
 she
 began
 thinking,
 but
 no,
 such
 a
 question
 had
 now
 become
 
meaningless.
  This
  was
  Michel,
  she
  thought,
  and
  she
  repeated
  the
  name,
  over
  and
 
over,
 in
 her
 head,
 realizing
 only
 after
 a
 minute
 or
 two
 that
 she
 was
 saying
 the
 name
 
out
 loud.
 Music,
 laughter,
 a
 prayer,
 she
 was
 as
 giddy
 as
 Tony
 in
 West
 Side
 Story,
 as
 
smitten
 as
 Maria.
 Michel.
 Her
 French
 lover.
 Unlike
 anyone
 she
 had
 ever
 met
 before.
 
His
  every
  word
  a
  poem
  to
  her
  ears,
  his
  every
  sentence
  another
  silky
  strand
  in
  the
 
web
 he
 was
 weaving
 around
 her
 to
 her
 delight.
 There
 were
 the
 occasional
 moments
 
of
 fear,
 but
 it
 was
 not
 him
 she
 was
 afraid
 of,
 but
 of
 herself.
 Never
 had
 she
 so
 willingly
 
given
  up
  control
  to
  anyone,
  and
  this
  was
  “so
  unlike
  her”.
  Naturally,
  she
  reveled
  in
 
doing
 things
 that
 were
 unlike
 her
 as
 after
 all
 that
 is
 the
 point
 of
 a
 prim
 and
 proper
 
façade,
  but
  only
  when
  it
  was
  by
  design.
  Whenever
  Michel
  asked
  for
  something,
 
Catherine,
 as
 she
 now
 should
 be
 called
 since
 it
 was
 around
 then
 that
 Michel
 noticed
 
the
 unpleasant
 imbalance
 at
 the
 pleasure
 she
 had
 in
 saying
 his
 name,
 said
 yes
 before
 
even
  realizing
  the
  word
  had
  come
  out
  of
  her
  mouth,
  and
  this
  too
  was
  very
  much
 
unlike
 her.
 For
 the
 name
 also
 she
 said
 yes
 without
 thinking,
 and
 within
 seconds
 she
 
was
  flooded
  with
  a
  wave
  of
  conflicting
  thoughts.
  “What’s
  wrong
  with
  Cathy?”
  “Of
 
course
  he
  can
  call
  me
  Catherine:
  that’s
  my
  name!”
  “Nobody
  calls
  me
  Catherine!”
 
“Good
 lord!
 It’s
 not
 my
 name
 anymore,
 it’s
 his
 name
 for
 me!”
 “Why
 am
 I
 panicking
 
like
 a
 little
 girl?”
 But
 then
 she
 listened
 as
 he
 said
 her
 name
 and
 the
 instant
 pleasure
 
she
 derived
 from
 it
 erased
 any
 doubt
 in
 a
 flash.
 Soon
 enough
 she
 would
 find
 it
 pure
 
magic
  when
  he
  would
  answer
  the
  phone
  with
  her
  standard
  issue
  “Community
 
Relations,
  this
  is
  Cathy,
  how
  may
  I
  help
  you
  today?”
  only
  to
  be
  met
  with
  a
  pause
 
followed
 with
 a
 suave
 “Hello,
 Catherine”,
 the
 prelude
 to
 often
 over
 an
 hour
 of
 sheer
 
conversational
  bliss.
  And
  every
  conversation
  gave
  rise
  to
  renewed
  ardor
  in
  their
 
messages,
 electronic
 echoes
 of
 their
 melding
 thoughts
 across
 the
 ether.
 

It
 is
 unbelievable
 how
 time
 flies
 when
 I
 am
 talking
 to
 you.
 It
 is
 quite
 paradoxical
 that
 
the
 more
 we
 speak,
 the
 greater
 the
 desire
 I
 have
 to
 continue
 the
 conversation.
 This
 
morning
 was
 lovely,
 and
 how
 near
 you
 felt
 to
 me.
 Almost
 as
 though
 I
 could
 reach
 out
 
and
  touch
  you.
  I
  left
  the
  patio,
  entered
  the
  house
  and
  climbed
  the
  stairs.
  There
  I
 
finally
 removed
 my
 robe
 and
 stood
 before
 the
 mirror.
 Your
 eyes
 taking
 in
 my
 sun-‐
warmed
  body,
  jewelry
  glowing
  at
  my
  neck,
  wrists
  and
  earlobes.
  Reluctantly,
  I
 
donned
 clothing
 and
 made
 ready
 to
 face
 the
 day.
 But
 your
 voice
 remained
 with
 me
 
and
 in
 me.
 

Yours,
 
Catherine”
 
“Dear
 Catherine,
 

Indeed
 time
 ceases
 to
 exist
 when
 we
 are
 together,
 and
 it
 is
 always
 a
 bit
 of
 a
 surprise
 
when
  we
  are
  re-‐immersed
  in
  its
  continuum
  and
  find
  that
  the
  shadow
  on
  the
 
quadrant
 has
 moved
 quite
 a
 bit.
 So
 also
 it
 is
 when
 I
 write
 to
 you.
 I
 have
 just
 put
 on
 
an
  old
  album:
  Kate
  Bush's
  "the
  kick
  inside".
  The
  first
  track
  says
  many
  things
 
resonant
  of
  what
  we
  share.
  You
  move
  me.
  This
  morning,
  you
  stood
  in
  this
  open
 
temple
  of
  the
  sun,
  in
  full
  priestly
  dress
  and
  I
  stood
  behind
  you,
  basking
  in
  your
 
shadow.
 My
 soul
 sensing
 solace,
 my
 serene
 face
 softly
 seeking
 your
 scent
 in
 you
 hair.
 
Then
 you
 came
 up
 so
 that
 I
 could
 see
 you
 in
 full,
 gold
 and
 gems
 gently
 glowing
 on
 
your
 skin,
 your
 breath
 slowly
 wafting
 towards
 me
 like
 the
 breath
 of
 the
 ocean,
 your
 
breasts
 rising
 and
 falling
 with
 each
 wave.
 And
 though
 each
 wave
 brings
 you
 closer
 
to
 me,
 with
 each
 my
 body
 aches.
 You
 move
 me.
 

Yours
 truly,
 
Michel”
 

Far
 from
 conflicting
 thoughts
 of
 any
 kind,
 Michel
 was
 happy.
 Never
 had
 he
 written
 
any
 such
 prose
 and
 the
 words
 flowed
 from
 him,
 gushing
 from
 a
 well
 that
 he
 had
 long
 
known
 was
 in
 him,
 but
 always
 repressed.
 There
 were
 occasional
 moments
 of
 shame,
 
usually
 just
 after
 sending
 a
 message,
 when
 he
 would
 suddenly
 think
 of
 himself
 as
 a
 
silly
 parading
 peacock
 pouring
 out
 pompous
 sesquipedalian
 drivel
 just
 because
 he
 
could,
 or
 one
 of
 those
 dreadfully
 ridiculous
 pigeons
 in
 heat
 puffing
 himself
 up
 while
 
running
  after
  a
  female.
  Her
  next
  message
  would
  erase
  any
  doubt
  and
  plunge
  him
 
back
  to
  his
  newfound
  little
  corner
  of
  bliss,
  and
  soon
  enough,
  shame
  had
  been
 
replaced
 by
 mild
 embarrassment
 brought
 about
 by
 her
 frequent
 reminders
 to
 him
 of
 
how
  different
  their
  backgrounds
  were.
  Undeniably
  her
  upbringing
  in
  rural
  Idaho
 
bore
  little
  resemblance
  to
  his
  passage
  through
  the
  elite
  institutions
  of
  the
  French
 
educational
  system.
  She
  was
  heir
  to
  a
  long
  line
  of
  potato
  farmers.
  He
  was
  a
  direct
 
descendant
  of
  the
  Marquis
  de
  Lafayette.
  But
  he
  knew
  that
  she
  used
  this
  as
  a
  mere
 
pawn
 on
 the
 chessboard
 of
 their
 conversations
 and
 that
 contemplating
 this
 did
 not
 
overwhelm
  her,
  only
  that
  it
  was
  an
  endless
  source
  of
  wonder
  for
  her
  that
  “a
  man
 
such
 as
 he”
 could
 be
 interested
 in
 her.
 In
 fact,
 he
 thought
 of
 her
 as
 one
 of
 the
 most
 
sophisticated
  people
  he
  knew,
  with
  one
  remarkable
  difference:
  her
  total
  lack
  of
 
conceit.
  It
  was
  in
  America
  that
  he
  had
  been
  introduced
  to
  the
  difference
  between
 
absence
 of
 conceit
 and
 naïveté.
 In
 the
 world
 he
 came
 from,
 that
 distinction
 had
 been
 
lost
 long
 ago.
 But
 from
 the
 first
 time
 he
 and
 Catherine
 spoke,
 he
 had
 felt
 a
 form
 of
 
magic
 operate.
 With
 her,
 he
 was
 completely
 open
 and
 honest,
 never
 feeling
 the
 need
 
to
  be
  careful
  when
  he
  spoke
  or
  wrote.
  He
  could
  have
  found
  it
  hard
  to
  believe,
  but
 
there
 were
 too
 many
 signs.
 He
 was
 not
 superstitious
 or
 spiritual
 in
 the
 least,
 but
 he
 
knew
  enough
  to
  not
  argue
  when
  the
  stars
  align.
  To
  him,
  a
  coincidence
  was
  just
  a
 
coincidence,
 but
 serendipity
 was
 key.
 He
 felt
 no
 need
 to
 ponder
 the
 fact
 that
 on
 his
 
mother’s
  side,
  he
  was
  a
  direct
  descendant
  of
  Parmentier,
  the
  nobleman
  credited
 
with
  having
  introduced
  potatoes
  to
  France,
  nor
  the
  fact
  that
  her
  grandfather
  had
 
gone
  to
  France
  as
  a
  mechanic
  with
  the
  Lafayette
  escadrille,
  but
  to
  ignore
  the
 
pleasure
  that
  this
  gave
  him
  would
  have
  gone
  against
  the
  grain
  as
  it
  gave
  him
 
wonderful
 counterarguments
 to
 her
 talk
 of
 different
 worlds:
 “You
 and
 I
 are
 the
 only
 
two
 people
 I
 know
 that
 have
 a
 portrait
 of
 Lafayette
 in
 their
 home.
 Most
 marriages
 
are
  based
  on
  less
  than
  that!”
  To
  him,
  whatever
  she
  claimed
  separated
  them
  only
 
amounted
  to
  the
  lovely
  idea
  that
  whatever
  they
  shared
  of
  each
  other’s
  past
  would
 
feel
  fresh,
  new
  and
  exotic
  to
  the
  other
  so
  that
  it
  would
  be
  a
  very,
  very
  long
  time
 
before
 the
 ever
 bored
 each
 other
 with
 reruns.
 
 He
 made
 her
 laugh
 and
 that
 filled
 him
 
with
 joy,
 but
 more
 importantly
 he
 could
 send
 shivers
 down
 her
 spine,
 quicken
 her
 
pulse,
 shorten
 her
 breath.
 Sometimes
 he
 would
 write
 at
 night,
 knowing
 she
 would
 
read
 in
 the
 morning
 ,
 then
 call
 her
 in
 the
 afternoon
 and
 find
 her
 still
 trembling
 from
 
his
 now
 overtly
 sexual
 fantasies
 with
 her.
 She
 would
 respond
 in
 kind
 only
 adding
 to
 
the
 awe
 she
 inspired
 in
 him.
 He
 had
 never
 met
 a
 woman
 so
 openly
 innocent
 about
 
her
  sexual
  pleasures
  and
  fantasies.
  He
  realized
  slowly
  that
  his
  own
  libido
  was
  a
 
jumbled
  imbroglio
  of
  repressed
  desires
  strangled
  by
  years
  of
  accumulated
 
misperceptions
  and
  that
  he
  was
  a
  crumpled
  mess
  of
  a
  man
  stunned
  into
  disbelief
 
upon
  hearing
  a
  woman
  tell
  him
  that
  she
  found
  pleasure
  in
  pleasing
  a
  man.
  Deep
 
down
 he’d
 always
 known
 such
 a
 woman
 existed
 but
 had
 despaired
 of
 ever
 meeting
 
her.