Friday, July 18, 2008

The beginning, a very good place to start

I'm not sure where to write or how to do it.

It's been so long.

I've been wanting to write, and to do so freely, lately. But every time I had some free time, I couldn't find the way or the words or the worlds to describe.

I turned off a light in the room to hope that would help. I finally poured some wine. I feel free and can sleep in until 10am tomorrow and still, where are the words?

What? Who? The things I've tried to remember and my memory serves no good.

I fell in love with the Butcher and his whiskey and his attention. I didn't want to see anyone else. I was squeezing in friends and finals and fucking. The last year - where has it gone? To cock and whipping with his homemade leather ropes that were not good because they made me bleed, to ass licking and spanking and jubilation when we saw each other. And then I moved. I packed it all up and pretended I didn't and wouldn't live at the Paris apartment. I realized I had too much and threw a lot out. I put a lot into a bag and tried to give it away. I stuffed boxes into cupboards. I lifted boxes and marked them "special" and "good times." I packed and then re-packed to be able to come across the border with a backpack and a luggage on wheels. They only check the black people at this border between France and Switzerland and then, I learned that this country is even more backward.

I love my flat with ghosts of suicide. A jeweler lived up here, with his wife. He dealt in diamonds and watches. There is such an immense history in this neighborhood - it was originally the place where beheadings and hangings and burnings took place (the merchants would arrive to the city, the gates were locked, and they'd know when they'd be allowed in to sell once the body was tossed over the wall of the city). And then just up the road the street of prostitutes and the street of Voltaire and the street of Rosseau and it's Calvin territory. Such an overlapping in one small square mile. So the jeweler, supposedly - as told by others living the building who are all related (except my outcast flatmate) - lost his sight and got depressed and then, just outside the apartment, on the same floor, in a small cupboard room next door, they killed themselves. My colleague questioned - suicide or murder-suicide? I don't know, all I know is that it is utterly polite of them to do it outside the apartment. And yet the cat is still afraid and I still feel things, which I choose to ignore.

I bought an old 1950s bike from an incredible Scottish man with one blue eye and one black eye (non-functioning I think). He repaired the wheels, the chain, the brakes, the seat with second-hand parts. The bike was a survivor of a fire. I knew she was for me - needed to ride again. I love this bike now.

I love the hiking I will do tomorrow for 20km. I love the biking I will do on Sunday. I love that I walk to the UN. I love that my flatmate read my tarot cards. I love that I shower with the showerhead in my hand instead of standing under pouring water for 20 minutes. I love that things are not easy.

But I also hate these things.

So, I moved here for an internship and am getting life lessons - as we all do.

The first weekend I was here I went back to Paris to see the Butcher and to travel up to Brittany and Normandy. I met his people, slept in the main hall of the cabin complex. Slept on a boat. Tried to fuck in the fields only to have our knees bitten by vicious red ants.

The next weekend I biked 50km on a heavy rental bike to another town on the huge lake (to go around it would take days).

The next weekend I returned to Paris and then went to Brittany again for the 50th anniversary of the Butcher's unkle's marriage. A castle renovated, a chapel renovated, so much eating so much drinking so much singing and polka and waltzing! (And then we mixed the holes and I got an infection, which I am now fighting with antibiotics and homeophathic drugs).

And in between, there was the Spaniard. I had been working on photos one week night and drinking wine and went out to the plaza for a smoke. I paced the plaza and saw no seating. This neighborhood is too rich for my taste, for any normal person. So, the last time I was here was after the big bike ride of 50km and I needed a whiskey and a smoke. I sat down and reveled in my accomplishment. This time, there was no open space for me. So I spotted a guy sitting and with smokes on the table. Could I have one? Yes. Here have two. I walked away wishing for a place and fake SMSing on my phone as if I had friends. Then, I turned back, fuck it. And asked him to sit at his table. I ordered a Red Label whiskey as that's all they have. We talked. I thought he was gay.

Oh, my gadar. In Europe men are so much more fluid than men in the USA. There's much more acceptance of the macho and feminine combined. A man could

[["A Perfect Day" by Lou Reed on the French radio]]

freely feel fluid and flouncing and it wouldn't dictate a sexual preference at all. There's such cross-over here. Men are bi and switches and fluid. Whereas I prefer my men to be USA men, as bold and macho as they come. So, my gaydar is off entirely. And women I would peg as dykes are just tough farm wives. So confused.

Alas, he invited me back to his place for better whiskey. And we went. And talked and he gave me a jar of honey grown from his own bees. And gave me great head and couldn't get his up. Too much liquor. And I showed him biting of my nipples. And he's 40 and I didn't have to explain why.

Then, again, I saw him. And I was nervous. I was working all day and got his SMS on the lawn, wondered if I should or shouldn't. We had an intern cocktail hour after work.. oh but wait.

I had my bike then. Oh, my, the bike shop owner. He reminds me of all the bikers of Madison combined together. Grease on his hands. ... So, I was looking for a cheap bike and online could only find the places of normal bikes - aka a type of Walmart. But an intern told me of this special place where a guy works on bikes and makes them to order essentially. She told me he was Scottish but failed to mention so much. And that's good - I was able to find out for myself. And oh did I find out. As is acknowledged, I ooze sexuality and couldn't help but explain myself in a way that wanted him and he wanted me.

So, I biked to the intern cocktail and kept watch of the time, a short window to see the Spaniard. I biked up to our plaza and I was nervous, sober and he is too good looking for me. He is an economist by trade and grown in Geneva and lives in my neighborhood and, while I know he is more nervous than I am, he's wild. After a drink he invited me back to his place as the sun set. We talked, listened to music, drank whiskey on the rocks, and finally touched. He invited me to take coke and I did - after a few hesitations (I'm too old for this, I don't want to be wrecked, etc). And then, the touching was like electric eels. His cock head rubbing up and down on my cunnie. It wasn't hard and he didn't enter, but the sensation was enough - the teasing, the touching, the concentration in his eyes when I caught a look. And then a finger in my ass. I have heard that I am healed from others who have touched me there. I do not feel whole yet - even since the surgery last year. But I have been able to feel total excited pleasure with a small smidgen of an entry. And then a bit more of a finger and then a whole finger and then a twisting finger and then a tongue and a couple fingers and then .... I'm ahead of the story.

After our hours of music and touching and kissing and semi-fucking and me trying to suck his semi-soft, it was plenty and we were tired and before that sets in, I know it's time to leave.

Back to Butcher man. He has had my pee. As a summer refreshing drink after I have tried and pushed and finally let go. He has asked me to push with his tongue against my ass. He has inserted fingers and tongue and finally, cock. Finally, a cock in my ass again. (Only to shrink out at the sight of a bit of blood. I'll never be the same, but I'll always be different thank god.) And down by the river in the middle of Brittany nowhere farm and castle land. His fingers in me, his hands on me, his tongue in me, his eyes watching. And me, looking at dirt, ants (not red!), leaves, bugs, my own feelings.

And a train ride again. Two or three in a day. Across France. Across land that reflects the land I came from, the land I want, the land of semi-peace. Back to asking the bike man about a few adjustments and his flirtations. His "I hope you do come back - soon." "What do I do in my free time? Well, I'm here all the time so when I'm not, I sleep. Do you want to sleep with me?" His buffing the bike body from fire residue. Changing the seat joints for free. Removing the plastic protector of the chain since it was broken. Him, squatting, wiping grease off my shin and pretending to shine it up with his breath. Sarcastic and hungry at the same time.

And then, when it rains, it pours. Again. My life is like this. If ever I want a man, I forget I want them and they come (take heed, desperate women). The temporary infection from mixing bummie and cunnie. Right now, before the Spaniard goes on vacation next week and while I'm flirting with the bike man, and when I just want the Butcher's lips all over me.

So, I take it as a rest. As an interpretation that I have to write. Have to focus on photos. Have to hike and bike and be well. Get back to me and remember my body's rules. No mixing. No tainting. No hurt.

Yes. That's it.

For now.


Not in detail, not in depth, not in poetry. Just told. Not like girls gossiping at the table over drinks. But a navigation, a map of memory for future reference.

1 comment:

noman said...

I wish I would run across women like you in my line of work. They are probably there but I just need to decode the secret password, the surreptitious wink, the knowing nod. I guess for the bike man, the secret code is "Do you want to sleep with me?"