29 Days of August

AUGUST 30, Author's Note:

Tue, 30 Aug 2011 14:43:26 -0400

http://29daysofaugust.com/august-30-authors-note/

AUGUST 29, Barcelona Airport: Black night. Your hands in my...

Mon, 29 Aug 2011 11:07:06 -0400

AUGUST 29, Barcelona Airport:

Black night. Your hands in my hair, running across my chest. We entangle, blind. Our bodies slick with sweat, with come.

These are the last times. Primordial. Sightless. Before language. Like we are creating the world.

I am in you, awash in pleasure.

The alarm rings. I grope for it, hurl it across the cabin. It doesn’t stop. We continue, as well.

— - - —

We take a taxi to the airport. My innards in knots.

Me: This is the first time we’ve been in the back of a car together.

You: What about Montpellier?

Me, remembering: Right. Montpellier.

You, grinning, changing topic: Monaco.

Me: Mirmande.

You, searching: Moulin de la Pipe!

Me: I’m out of M’s. Do you have an N?

You: No, but I’ve got an O.

Me, scanning: Hmm, what is it?
You: Your boyfriend, Oscar Wilde.

- - -

The driver produces our bags from the trunk. I pay him while you go in for your ticket. A plane howls above. You are leaving.

I follow you in.

Me, handing you your origami boat: I added an address. When you’re ready.

You, pulling an envelope from your purse: Here’s something for you, too.

You: Kiss me now. Better for you to disappear.

We kiss. Fierce, tender, passionate as ever.

Then you turn away.

From afar, I watch you queue for security. The guard matches your passport to your face. You say something, share a laugh.

The poster tube goes into the x-ray while you walk through the metal detector. For me, a moment of panic at your potential discovery.

But you both pass to the other side, are reunited, and disappear into the rest of the world.

I sit on a bench and open your envelope. Inside, a simple card without motif, colored in the hue of the setting sun of Moreau’s painting.

Me, opening, whispering your inscription: Your love covers me with gold.

I fold the card and find its cover smudged with my fingerprints. My hands are aglow in golden dust.

I almost feel guilty for what I’ve done, even if it was only for your safety.

Whenever you get where you’re going, whenever you open the poster tube and search beneath the enigmatic smile of Mona Lisa for Salome.

Whenever you find the linen sheet from Le Chateau that has taken her place, I know you’ll be angry.

I can hear you now, from the future, from across the globe, cursing me with the only insult that is ours alone.

You: Botanist.

THE END

AUGUST 28, Barcelona: Yesterday, when we disembarked in...

Sun, 28 Aug 2011 14:06:05 -0400

AUGUST 28, Barcelona:

Yesterday, when we disembarked in Barcelona, I hid in my confidence, obscured the pleasure I felt at being anonymous again, forgotten.

Our story, which seemed like the only story, hadn’t made the papers, wasn’t on everyone’s lips. I was no longer Salome. I was me.

Leaving the Estació de França, I bought us a bouquet of lilies, and we cut them short and arranged them in a plastic bucket on the boat.

Mr. V. had provided us with this address—dock and slip numbers and the four digits of a combination—a final shelter before our separation.

Its simplicity pleased us: a fiberglass sailboat, less than 30-feet long. Moving about the cabin, we had to stoop.

This morning I lay listening to bird calls and yachts’ stays clanking against metal masts. The air had the heavy density of the sea.

You slumbered in the birth. I climbed up through the companionway and onto the deck.

There was a slight breeze, and I briefly imagined raising sail, casting off the lines, and allowing you to wake only to the Mediterranean.

————

We walked up through the pedestrian streets of the old city. There was a cloud burst, and the rain came down in big warm drops.

A passageway provided shelter, and we watched as the water beaded on the cobbles then turned to rivulets in search of their level.

You said airily: “The season is passing.”

I didn’t have a response, so I took your hand and pulled you running into the downpour. “Let’s eat!”

Splashing up the street, we came to a stand at the opening to a covered arcade. We sat on a pair of stools and ordered.

My hair and shoulders were drenched, a line of water descended my spine. “For the first time in weeks,” I said, smiling, “I’m cold!”

Spanish omelets in thick wedges arrived accompanied by thin slices of baguette smothered beneath a tapenade.

I tasted, and the potato hidden inside burned my tongue. In desperation, I swallowed, and the food descended like a cinder into my stomach.

Dropping my forehead to the counter, I breathed with my mouth open until the pain subsided.

“Whenever you’re ready,” you said.

I raised my head. You were turned toward me, blowing on a thin sliver of omelet, offering me another bite.

——-

“Before you leave, I want to do one last thing.”

“What’s that?” I asked.

“I want to bathe you.”

At the boat, you heated water in a pot on the kerosene stove and pulled the table aside, leaving a space to wash at the cabin’s center.

Lying on cushions, watching your preparations, I asked, “So, is this going to be a baptism?”

“No,” you responded, looking back at me and pausing for a moment, “this is just a bath.”

You brought a warm washcloth across me, starting between my fingers, across my palms, pausing at times as if to memorize my body.

“You’re going to miss me, aren’t you?” you asked, dipping the washcloth in the pot, then ringing it out.

I didn’t respond immediately, listened to gravity returning the water to the water.

The poster tube sat across from us. I thought with some ambivalence: I got what I came for.

AUGUST 27, Trains to Barcelona: The manservant wakes us before...

Sat, 27 Aug 2011 14:06:05 -0400

AUGUST 27, Trains to Barcelona:

The manservant wakes us before five and shares the morning’s newspaper. I am desperately hung over and still well more than half-drunk.

A sketch of my face accompanies your photo, along with the jeering title: Salome and her ‘John’.

We dress quickly, urgently, and flee. The groundskeeper drives us to the train in Montpellier.

Our possessions: Two bags. And this poster tube, a testament to our mutual commitment and seemingly inevitable conflagration.

He leaves us huddled in the car, and goes to buy our tickets. We lean into each other, sweating in the stale air and our reek of alcohol.

Your temple is feverish against my forehead. I draw my palm across your shorn hair, hovering then compressing its myriad ends.

The groundskeeper opens your door. You get out and I slide across. He hands me the tickets and indicates the quai.

I shake his hand, nod once, and turn into the station.

Our faces are plastered across half the publications of the Tabac-Presse.

They are calling us other names: The White Queen and her King. Bonnie & Clyde.

My pulse rises, I wretch, taste the acidic bile surge through my throat and wash over my tongue. Your hand at my elbow, draws me on.

You, attempting at reassurance, murmuring: In plain sight. In plain sight.

Then you let out the signal whistle. It’s shrill descending notes fill the hall, drawing all eyes to us. I remember: this is our story.

Me, shifting my posture, matching your gate, proud, repeating the mantra: In plain sight.

We find our wagon, push through the pneumatic doors into air-conditioned comfort. We fall into our seats and sleep undisturbed.

——-

A light jostle from the conductor wakes us in Perpignan. We change trains and are reminded, again, that our reputation precedes us.

You, out on the concourse, pointing toward a news kiosk: Should we ask someone to take a picture of us with all these pictures of us?

Me, shaking my head, feeling less awful but still awful: How can you be so relaxed, so confident?

You, drawing your eyes up to mine and bringing a thumb across my lips: Because it’s almost over. Come on.

We board the next train to Barcelona, take the stairs to the upper deck. A bathroom between the seating and luggage rack.

You, looking back at me: It’s been awhile since we’ve made proper use of public transportation. One more time?

Me, incapable of saying no: Now, you’re making me nostalgic.

We slip through the door, bring the lock in place. Over the loudspeaker, station stops and travel times are announced in multiple languages.

In a sing-song voice, you mimic the varied bubblings of Catalan of German of French while I work on getting my pants down to my ankles.

Your back is turned to me. I admire the crease of your ass, the way your thighs fall away.

We watch each other in the mirror, relaxing in this miniature realm of privacy. We are laughing, kissing, as I glide in and out.

The train embarks, and our wagon jumps as the couplings tighten. I am driven off-balance, deeper into you.

You, cross-eyed with pleasure: What a way to leave France.

AUGUST 26, Le Chateau: We make decisions. You will leave from...

Fri, 26 Aug 2011 19:43:09 -0400

AUGUST 26, Le Chateau:

We make decisions. You will leave from Barcelona on the 29^th as you stated on the day we met.

I go out to the Porsche, pull off the tarp. Sit in the driver’s seat, engage the clutch and run the shift through the gears for a last time.

The white queen hangs from the rear view mirror. I weigh her in my palm for a moment, then leave her be.

Our origami boat sits on the dash, and I reach across and pull it into my pocket.

I open the trunk and drop in everything that isn’t immediately necessary. ‘Against the Grain,’ pokes up, and I lift it out.

Searching for Salome, I leaf through passages describing her transcendent beauty and am stopped short by Des Esseintes’ final impression.

She is “the monstrous beast: indifferent, irresponsible, insensitive, poisonous.” I exhale and lock her away.

————-

Tonight, we’ll stay for the party, but we pack our bags, nonetheless. We lay out clothes for the evening, then walk to the river to swim.

The trail is a thin line of hardened earth leading downhill, bordered by brambles, shaded by pines.

I stand in the shallows, concentrate on the current at my ankles. You sit half-submerged watching dragonflies graze the water’s surface.

We lie by the river. My head, on your stomach, rises and falls with your breath. Others arrive. We close our eyes, ignore their chatter.

Me, absently: For such a great big chateau, it sure is hard to get a private moment.

—————

It is time. Cocktails are served on the terrace before the ballroom. We cross the threshold arm-in-arm.

Me, wearing your sunglasses, holding back: We are not alone.

You, pausing for my benefit: No, we are not.

A cellist plays Bach, her back framed by the ochre wall of Le Chateau. I have heard but cannot name the piece.

You: Let’s listen.

I lean against the balcony and draw my arms around your waist.

The cellist frowns, bows her face toward the fingerboard. I hold her music as I hold you: harmonic, precious, unbearably ephemeral.

The piece ends, a sprinkle of applause. The manservant arrives, carrying a tray of champagne flutes. I take one for each of us.

Other guests approach, ask our names. We talk of our month sailing around Sardinia, our plans for the coming weeks.

Easy lies leavened by others’ stories of human things: a return to work, memories of the last month’s passions.

Conversations multiply and, in turn, divide us. We both orbit individual spheres in the garden, distributing our fabrications.

The champagne rises in my head, calls for replenishment. Laughs turn shrill. Connections deepen as meanings turn increasingly indistinct.

For a moment, I lose you, imaging you as a you were yesterday—turning for me, naked before the window, your hair across your shoulders.

Then I see you glowing, animated in conversation with another couple, your hair so close-cropped that you could be someone’s brother.

Me, touching a wrist as I join you: Hello, lovely.

You, grinning: Listen to this—these people think I look like the girl who stole Salome. Isn’t that funny?

Me, no choice but to smile, roused by the very impossibility of the truth: I thought the same thing! Remember? We even saved a clipping.

Dinner is served in the ballroom. We are already tight. Our feet slip out of their shoes and caress under the table.

Your hand strokes at my cock as you nonchalantly elaborate on a point. The desire becomes too much.

Me, to our neighbors: Please excuse us for a moment.

I lead you out. The sun has set, and lanterns are arrayed around the garden. I pull one off its stand, and we run barefoot to the river.

We splash up to our knees in the cool of the water.

You, grasping at an overhanging bough: Here!

I drop the lantern, hear its wick fizzle as the light is extinguished. Your hands wrap around the branch as I pull at your dress.

Your pussy and belly are exposed in a star-tinted grey. You pull your legs out of the water and wrap them around my ass.

Party sounds clatter and bounce down toward us as if from some psychotic jukebox. We accompany them with our own animal music.

When it is over, we lie on the bank together, wet and dirty, cooing, touching. No longer suitable for company.

You, asking: Are you ready to dance?

AUGUST 25, Le Chateau: Mr. V. told us, “go anywhere...

Thu, 25 Aug 2011 14:06:05 -0400

AUGUST 25, Le Chateau:

Mr. V. told us, “go anywhere unlocked.” We were free to explore. “And,” he added, “everything is unlocked.”

We strolled along the retaining wall to its end and looked out at a semi-circular waterfall that lay further up the river.

Behind us, the water wheel beat its laconic tempo.

“Want to look around inside?” you asked.

We walked up through the LeNotre garden. The topiary stood at waist level, and you hummed while skimming your hand along its top.

We pushed through French doors into the ballroom. It was cavernous and bare save for a swing with a pink settee hanging at its center.

I ran for the swing, and taking its two lines, twisted myself clockwise into a knot. “Come push me!”

But you had turned back toward the garden and were lost in the thunderheads building on the skyline.

“I’m waiting,” I said, lifting my feet. The ropes twisted back toward equilibrium and whipped me around in dizzying circles.

When I came to rest, you were down on one knee before me. You grasped both my ankles and asked, “Ready?”

I nodded and you pulled me back toward you, then up in an arc over your head. A moment of weightless joy ambushed by gravity.

You remained stationary as I receded from you, pumping my legs to gather momentum. “Wheeeeeee!”

You stood in the line of my trajectory, dodging at the last moment. “You don’t need me,” you called, “you can do it on your own.”

“But,” I said, craning my neck to keep you in sight, “it’s no fun alone.”

The manservant arrived, utterly breaking the mood. His timing remained impeccably poor.

“Mr. V. wishes to see you,” he stated dryly.

I descended, and we followed him to the kitchen. Mr. V. was stooped before an open oven, fishing out a platter with a mitt.

A pair of cooks kneaded dough at a long work table. Mr. V. motioned for us to sit on stools at the far end.

He placed porcelain dishes before us and offered each of us a desert spoon.

Inside each bowl sat a single caramelized fig, dissected lengthwise into two equal halves, its flesh and seeds steaming and exposed.

Leaning on the edge of the table, he stated candidly, “I wanted to share this taste of summer with you, before it disappears.”

I brought the edge of my spoon against the fig and effortless separated a segment from the whole. I paused, then brought it to my mouth.

The taste was lush, explosive, tender. The fig melted across my tongue, overwhelming everything else.

You seemed equally transported. “Rode vloed,” you stated, mouth half-full.

Mr. V. glanced at you quizzically then spoke, “Today, I need to clarify a few items. Despite your guilt, you remain safe here.”

“Unfortunately,” he continued, “this safety is but a fragile by-product of my wealth and isolation. Tomorrow morning, company will arrive.”

Looking to me, “Salome,” he stated, “it is your head that everyone craves—every paper and magazine. My guests will be no different.”

“Right now, you are more luminous, more recognizable than the painting you have stolen. You must change.”

Then Mr. V. turned to you, and declared flatly, “I will keep the car.”

You glanced at me. We both remained silent. I was rubbing my spoon’s handle, wishing I had a knife to excise every word Mr. V. had uttered.

“She is too iconic, too dangerous for you. At some later date,” he continued, “when the world has moved on, you may take her back.”

“And, after all,” he chuckled, “you already travel with two women who are unique in this world. Best not to be greedy.”

————-

We returned to the room, and sat together on the windowsill. I wrapped my legs around your waist while you dangled your feet out the window.

The sun was at its zenith, bleaching the landscape. We sat there entwined in silence.

“Can you do something for me?” I asked, bring my nose then my lips to your cheek. “Can you cut my hair?”

You drew my head away with both your hands and looked at me, held me with your eyes. “Let me get the knife,” you whispered.

I slid a leg aside, and let you jump down to rummage through your bag. Hearing the blade snap in place, I looked back at you.

You were sitting on the edge of the bed, rolling the knife across your palm. “Undress,” you murmured.

I disrobed, turning slowly for you, allowing the layers to fall away until I was naked. Suddenly shy, I crouched and turned my head.

You came next to me and asked: “How do you want it?”

“Like a boy.”

The blade was too dull and pulled at my hair. Without my speaking a word, you knew and returned to your bag for scissors.

When you were done, you brought my hands to my scalp. Then you lifted me off the ground and brought me to the bed.

We lay there, kissing tenderly. When you came inside me, tears ran down my cheeks onto the pillow.

For once, the manservant let us be.

AUGUST 24, Le Chateau, Saint Laurent-le-Minier: We wake beneath...

Wed, 24 Aug 2011 14:05:06 -0400

AUGUST 24, Le Chateau, Saint Laurent-le-Minier:

We wake beneath crisp linen, sheltered from the heat by 500-year-old stone walls. Our room’s ceiling is at least 20 feet high.

I lie on my back, sheets at my nose. My eyes migrate from one corner of the ceiling to the next. You stretch and yawn, and I pull you to me.

Me, reviewing yesterday, knowing that everything has changed: How are you?

You, reflecting, squeezing me as you murmur: Good.

I go to the window and push open the shutters. Sun floods the room, heats my chest. The white noise of water enters.

You, from across the room: I’ve said some unkind things about rich people, but this place is making me have second thoughts.

Me, turning to look at you, but sun-blinded, only seeing darkness: Why is that?

You: Not sure.

Me, rubbing my eyes, bringing you into focus: You want to know the key difference?

Me, returning to you: Here, we’re dealing with old wealth.

You: Har har.

I flop down next to you and nuzzle at your neck. Your hand lies delicately on my belly. I look to your face. You stare at the ceiling.

You, turning your gaze to me: You know, for the first time, I feel like I am in a room with the appropriate proportions for my appetites.

Me: Yeah? So what does that mean?

You, bringing a hand up and slapping me hard on the ass: It means I’m hungry!

Wrestling, you pull me over, entangle me in the sheets. I let you pin me, admire your body just above and the ceiling floating far overhead.

There is a knock at the door which does little for the ambiance. You release me. I rise, cover myself and go to answer.

Manservant: Mr. V. wishes to speak with you. At your convenience. I will wait in the hall.

Me: One moment.

Me, turning back to you, wrestling into pants and shirt: Hold that emotion. I promise I’ll be right back.

The manservant leads me down the hall and out to a balcony. Mr. V., back turned, stands before the water wheel.

Mr. V., hearing my approach across the gravel, turns to me, enthusiastic: Hello, then!

Me, ill-at-ease: Hello.

Mr. V. taking my hand: So did you finish the book?

Me, puzzled: The book?

Mr. V.: Yes, ‘Against the Grain.’

Me, reviewing the last three weeks, our meeting in The Netherlands: Yes. It took a fall, but I did read it all the way to the end.

Mr. V., with far too much passion: I thought you would! And I understand you did not come alone.

Mr. V., pausing, taking my hand again, leaning in and whispering: Did you do like the book? Did you bring your own Salome?

Me, bending Des Esseintes fictions into my own, driven to the truth: Yes.

Mr. V., arms in the air, a snort: Then, bring her here! I must see her.

Me, returning to the room, finding you seated on the windowsill: Mr. V. wants to see Salome.

You: Can we trust him?

Me, not knowing the answer: I think it is the only choice.

I carry her out and unroll her before Mr. V. He studies the painting. I watch his eyes, listen to the wheel creak in its perpetual circle.

Mr. V.: Beautiful. Worth millions, they say.

Mr. V., rising up: But you were not listening. I want to see your Salome!

Me, understanding: Let me see if she’s dressed.

I return to you, the poster tube under my arm.

Me, motioning toward the tube: A little confusion. Wrong Salome. Mr. V. wants to meet you.

AUGUST 23, Calanque de Sormiou to Saint Laurent-le-Minier: We...

Tue, 23 Aug 2011 11:06:05 -0400

AUGUST 23, Calanque de Sormiou to Saint Laurent-le-Minier:

We fuck all night. Even through the trailer is up on blocks, it creaks and rocks with us.

Each moment of detumescence is just a pause before a return to passion. We are scratched, bitten, beaten, exhilarated.

At dawn, I throw open the trailer door and walk barefoot down to the Mediterranean to bathe.

In the water, the stench of sex of sweat on my body dissipates, but my cock throbs and your scratches sting in the salt water.

I float on my back, ears submerged, a stupid grin exposed to sky. The only thing I am thinking is that I want more.

I walk to the little store, buy a baguette and a small bottle of orange juice.

As I turn to pay, I see you in the car, eyes hidden behind wayfairers, on the front page of the paper.

I take a breath then feel the adrenaline course through my body, my heart pounding.

Me, nodding to the proprietor, scooping up the paper and proffering a five Euro note: Bonjour.

He responds in kind, places my change in an acetate tray. I pocket it and turn for the door.

The walk to the trailer is nauseatingly long. There is no place to run. I am concentrating my energy, preparing for what will come next.

Me, opening the trailer door, then panic spilling over: We have to leave, now.

The puzzle is far from done. But you are placing the final piece in the chest of a ghostly woman suspended on the blank canvas of the table.

You, confused: Aren’t we were going to finish the puzzle?

Me, grabbing at clothes on the floor, brandishing the paper: They’ve found us. Now. We have to leave now.

Me: You—not Salome—you made the cover of the paper. You, your sun glasses and the Porsche.

You, in shock: But the puzzle…

Me, ballistic, stuffing everything into a bag, knocking over the chair, dragging you to the door: Fuck the puzzle! Now! We have to go now!

I can hear you sobbing as I push you into the car, but there is another thing I know: I am not going to let us get caught.

I draw the gear shift to the front left, release the clutch and back into the lane. There is no one in sight. It is barely 7 AM.

Me, kissing your hand: Ok. It’s going to be ok. Just, whatever you do, don’t put on your sun glasses.

You, cracking a muted smile: Ok.

We roll past the store, turn up the road out of the Calanque. In the mirror, I see the attendant come to the landing and wave as we leave.

Me, watching him turn into the store and reach for the phone: Fuck.

Discretion abandoned, I gun the Porsche. There is no time. We are miles from the nearest cross-road.

Me, pointing to the glove box: Get the map! We’ve got to disappear.

In my chest, I feel the police cars drawn to us like metal filaments to a magnet. They are out there.

You, anxious: Where are we going?

Me: Anywhere off this road. Anyplace empty. At least, until nightfall.

I burn up through the switch backs and hit the straight away, push the car down this endless corridor.

There is no pleasure in this velocity. Five minutes of purgatory and dust and we hit the next street. Beyond the engine, silence.

Newly composed, you point right, and I follow your lead.

We drive on, too fast, away from the coast, skirt the center of Marseilles, into suburbs of stiff compressed townhouses.

Me, glimpsing a sign for the municipal prison, urgent: Still too many people. Get us away from this.

You, squinting at the map, controlled: Working on it. You have to trust me. Next right.

I see the intersection, ignore the stop light, and turn hard. Another block of houses, then empty road, bordered by vineyards.

We pull over, out of view, behind a copse of trees. Weigh the paper’s news, the radiating capillaries of the map. Search for an escape.

You, gently: We could abandon the car.

Me, not ready for the sacrifice, drawing a line with my finger: No.

You: What, then?

Me, finding the destination, Saint Laurent-le-Minier: Remember that party I mentioned on the 26^th? We’re going to show up early.

Suffering below the sun’s incremental transit, we subsist on the pine trees’ shade, the baguette and orange juice.

——-

It is very late, driving. Beyond anxiety and dehydration, cicada call through open car windows, night smells of sage of bergamote.

We see Le Chateau lit-up across the river like some Mississippi paddle boat stranded on the wrong continent.

A massive retaining wall runs along its edge. A formal garden laid out at its bow, and a hundred-foot tall water wheel spins at its side.

Me, nodding as we turn up the drive: This is it.

We idle at the gate, and the groundskeeper comes down the hill to meet us, holding a gas-flamed lantern by a pole.

Me, presenting him with Mr. V.’s card, seemingly unnecessarily: Good evening.

Groundskeeper, knowingly: The 914. Mr. V. told me we might be seeing it again for the party. As it turns out, you’re a little early. But no matter.

He walks up the gravel driveway, lit by our headlights, then waves us into the stables.

Groundskeeper, ambiguously discreet: Collect your bags. If you don’t mind, I’ll put the 914 under a tarp to keep the dust off.

AUGUST 22, Calanque de Sormiou: Today, there were only two...

Mon, 22 Aug 2011 14:05:05 -0400

AUGUST 22, Calanque de Sormiou:

Today, there were only two things I wanted to do: work on the puzzle and fuck you.

We spent the morning like hunter gatherers, sifting through pieces looking for colors to match a hub-cap, the board walk, the sky.

You sat naked in the heat, sweat beading on your chest, making neat mounds on the bedspread while I filled in the puzzle’s edges.

When I slotted the final piece of the frame in place, I let out a little squeal of glee and clapped my hands together.

You looked over, mildly bewildered.

“What team work!” I exclaimed and jumped up. My head crashed against the ceiling, and I dropped to my knees.

“Ouch,” you said and pulled me onto your lap. I nestled my forehead against your chest, feeling somewhat wounded but mostly stupid.

“Where does it hurt?” you asked.

I pointed to the crown of my head, and you kissed me there gently.

“Anywhere else?”

I pointed to my elbow.

“Really?” you asked. Then you drew my arm up to your mouth and kissed me there while looking me in the eye.

“Is that all?”

I pointed to my collar bone.

“There, too? Am I going to have to kiss you all over?”

I nodded mutely. You unbuttoned my blouse, and drew it off me one arm at a time.

Then, you lay me on the bed and stated, “I’m just going to start from the bottom and move up from there. Any place that really hurts?”

I brought an arm behind my neck and propped myself up. “Everywhere,” I stated, drawing my free hand around in a circle.

Your lips were at my feet, kissing my toes, then drawing them apart and tickling me with your tongue.

I watched your meticulous work, felt the brush of your caress. I brought my free hand to your side and rubbed my knuckles against your ribs.

I thought that I didn’t deserve you and that this thing we were living felt like the right kind of thing to be living.

Your penis started to rise. I stroked you gently and admired the tight quadrangles of your abs while you kissed a shin.

I wanted to taste you. I came up on my elbow and pulled you closer to me.

Your knees upset piles of pieces, undoing most of the morning’s work. “The puzzle!” you implored.

“Fuck the puzzle,” I retorted, taking the smooth rounded head of your cock in my mouth.

I pushed you toward the trailer’s side wall. Your ass was compressed against the window’s screen, your head bowed beneath the ceiling.

My knees and shins dug into the dull, hard edges of puzzle pieces while your hands traveled the length of my body.

After we walked down the dirt lane to the restaurant.

We had made the most limited efforts at being presentable. I could smell you on me, my blouse was misbuttoned. We were turning feral.

We both ordered oysters, and you asked for a mignonette. I chose to eat them as they were.

I slid one off its shell and into my mouth, registering the liquid of the sea and the limp weight of the offering of its body.

I swallowed it whole, and felt as it cleared a path down my throat and into my stomach.

“My god,” I said.

“Uh, huh,” you responded, chewing in a kind-of bovine rapture.

As if on cue, we leaned toward each other. Your hand came to the nape of my neck and our tongues were in each other’s mouths.

“Wait,” you said, pulling back and laughing. Holding your hand up, you showed me a puzzle piece that was caught in my hair.

“We’re really letting ourselves go, aren’t we?” I asked.

“It’s exactly as it should be,” you responded, drawing the piece’s edge in a line down my forearm.

AUGUST 21, Monaco to Calanque de Sormiou: Before sunrise, we are...

Sun, 21 Aug 2011 14:05:05 -0400

AUGUST 21, Monaco to Calanque de Sormiou:

Before sunrise, we are back in the car. The air is cool and moist. The smell of the sea follows us inland and west.

You: I think I’ve had enough of rich people.

Me: I think I’ve had enough of people.

You: Can we do what I said? Can we go and make the puzzle together and not leave until its done?

Me: I’d like that. Although, there’s a party on the 26^th that I’d like to go to.

You: Then we’ll need to be focused.

Me, pausing, asking the question I’ve been resisting: And the 29^th…are you still planning on leaving?

You, looking away: I don’t know.

We drive through the early morning, past signs for Nice for Cannes for Frejus and Toulon.

You, brushing at the hair behind my neck: Do you think we’ll get caught?

Me, glancing through the rear view mirror at Salome rolled in her tube behind us: We’ve made it this far.

We drive several miles on a pot-holed, one lane road, through an arid landscape of maquis and bleached limestone.

Me, cresting a rise, pointing: Look.

The road winds down between two fingers of rock that jut into the Mediterranean.

Fog lays on the horizon. The sea and sky are joined, indistinguishable.

You, gesturing toward boats at anchor: It’s as if they’re floating in the sky.

Me, smiling: They’re levitating.

We wind down to the water and rent a small trailer, parked 50 meters from the beach. The car is half-hidden in a slot behind.

You, unpacking: Salome goes in the trunk. I want to share this place with just you.

Inside, we have to stoop. There is just enough room for a double bed, a table, a single chair.

You, clearing the table and emptying the puzzle onto the bed: Ok, time to get to work.

——-

We are naked on the beach. My toes digging moats in the sand. Sharing a ratty beach towel.

Little waves of the Mediterranean lick the shore. A horizon of clouds.

Your leg straddles mine. Your index finger counts down my spine, pausing at the hollows between each vertebra then rests on my coccyx.

I shift my legs, hoping your hand will continue.

You, detecting my intention: Oh, no no no.

Your index finger executes a u-turn. You call out rising notes as you draw a line away from my groin.

Me, turning my head: What am I? Your Glockenspiel?

You, suddenly up on your knees, banging out imagined chords on my back, humming along: more like my piano.

Me: Just no Willie Nelson, ok?

It goes on like this. Steel drum, cello, acoustic guitar. I close my eyes and hum to your rhythms. Together, we are total dorks.

You, relenting, bringing your two hands to rest one on either butt cheek: How about if I play your other instrument?

Me, shifting my legs again: Rhetorical question?

Your hand pulls at my thigh bringing my legs wider apart, squeezes my testicles.

You: One sec.

The snap of a tube of sun screen. A line of cold from the top of my butt crack down across the underside of my rising cock.

A hand rubs me and I murmur my appreciation. Abruptly, your finger presses at my sphincter. My body tenses.

You, next to me: Shhh.

You, bringing your tongue into my mouth and guiding your finger into my ass: Don’t mind me. Just plugging in the amplifier.

Your finger burns, then my brain crackles with the pleasure of fullness.

I find myself involuntarily rising to my knees, pushing against the rough terrycloth of the towel, forcing you in further.

AUGUST 20, Monaco: We stay at Le Meridien. The room’s balcony...

Sat, 20 Aug 2011 14:04:55 -0400

AUGUST 20, Monaco:

We stay at Le Meridien. The room’s balcony overlooks the Mediterranean, its horizon line of blue.

Everything is neat, clean, overly manicured.

We go down to the hotel beach, lie on deck chairs, in the hazy surroundings of wealth.

You are topless. I notice but ignore the glances of other men.

We leaf through magazines.

Me, impressed: Salome is making news. Cover after cover after cover.

You, smiling: And the thieves are nowhere to be found.

Me, a figure catching my attention: She’s worth twelve million Euros.

You: Only?

Me, overheated, oversaturated with images of our act: Go for a swim?
You, dropping your magazine to the side table: Absolutely!

Hand-in-hand, we run to the water, sand burning the soles of our feet.

We splash in, submerge, come up and float on our backs.

You, turning onto your stomach: Race you to the breakwater!

Me: Wait.

But you’ve already started. Your stroke, controlled, powerful, determined. I will never catch you.

At the harbor’s mouth, we tread water. The Mediterranean is vertiginously clear, its bottom seemingly just below our feet.

A helicopter drifts overhead and out to a yacht. Rotor blades thwap like a luffing sail.

We come up on the beach, flop wet down on the deck chairs. I order us two Lillet.

Me: After this drink, I think I’d like to have a closer look at your tan line.

You: Oh, really?

Me: Really. I’d like to do a bit of the eunuch inspection.

You: Jesus, we already have our old jokes.

Me, smiling: We do. We do.

The drinks are cool, cloyingly sweet. I feel the alcohol sitting in the bottom of my belly, churning up my desire.

Back in the room, you drop your bathrobe to the floor as I close the door.

We lock hands and I walk you backwards until you fall onto the bed.

Me, hooking fingers into your bikini and pulling it down to your ankles: Now, about that tan line.

Me, admiring the contrast of dark and light on your flesh, brushing a hand against your pubis: Nice work!

You: Do you have anything to give beyond complements.

Me, bringing the bridge of my nose to your clit and drawing it upward: Perhaps.

I bring my tongue gently to the tip of your clit then apply pressure. Hold it there, breathe on you. I taste sea salt and you.

I start to roll my tongue in big lazy circles. You move your hips with me. My knees, chafing against the carpet. My cock swells.

You: More. Like that.

I bring a thumb into your cunt, pull downward with my fingers cupping your ass. My tongue slides in behind.

A surge arrives. You are pulling at my hair, digging at my back with your feet, moaning.

I won’t let this end. I keep my tongue where it is, make you come twice more so that you’re dazed, catatonic, lost.

I lick you lightly, blow on your lips. Draw my hands up and across your breasts. Our breathing matched.

You, staring out to sea: I love you. I love you.

AUGUST 19: Mirmande to Monaco: I close the house while you pack...

Fri, 19 Aug 2011 14:05:06 -0400

AUGUST 19: Mirmande to Monaco:

I close the house while you pack up the car.

I find the candelabra on the patio. Its three candlesticks have melted together into a braid of flaccid penises.

Me, motioning to you: Any interest in keeping this?

You, tilting your head, inspecting the forms: Not so much. Your penis is enough.

——-

We drive on back roads.

You: Are you always taking these small roads to elude the police?

Me, telling the truth: No, they just have better places to fuck.

We stop in Die at a rummage sale. Bric-a-brac overruns the streets.

Bins of postcards, magazines. A wooden table with a marble base, each leg a sphinx. A lime green ashtray with an advertisement for fresh jam.

Me, ready to go: I’m pretty confident that there’s nothing here for us.

You, taking my hand: Come on. Let’s poke around a bit more.

A jigsaw puzzle box catches my eye. A woman walks into the wind on a boardwalk, behind her a car and the sea.

Me, suddenly excited: Look. Rolls Royce, Silver Ghost. That was Gatsby’s car.

You, mildly interested in the automotive details: It has 3000 pieces. Let’s get it. We’ll find a quiet place to put it together.

You: We can pretend we’re old. We’ll just sit there, doing the puzzle. We won’t leave until we’re done.

——-

We drive on. The white queen twists below the mirror. You are bent over the puzzle box, sifting through the pieces, searching for corners.

You, holding out your hand, genuinely excited: Look, I found all four!

Me, not providing the respect you deserve: Wow, only 2996 pieces to go!

We park on a rise and walk into a field with a blanket, cheese, a tomato, a peach, my knife.

Standing, we see the cars rush by. Seated, our heads are just visible above the seed stalks. Lying down, we disappear.

The tomato looks as if it might burst. I puncture it with a neat X and suck.

Me: Try it.

You, sucking it dry, nonchalantly throwing the skin behind you: Yum! I feel like a spider eating my liquefied prey.

I lie back, close my eyes, sigh. Moments later, something is tickling my nose. I brush with my hand. It returns.

I look up and see you with two long stalks of grass in your mouth.

Me: What are you doing, hillbilly?

You, through clenched teeth: I’m a spider, dummy. I am looking for a soft spot where I can inject my venom.

Me: Don’t you need to catch me in your web first?

You: Oh, I’ve already done that.

You, authoritatively: Now, stop moving. Resistance will only increase your suffering.

I acquiesce, feel your fingers unbuttoning my shirt. Strands of grass brush against my collar bone, across my chest.

My nipples become erect, goose bumps rise. My cock pushes against my shorts. I feel its head peek below the bottom seam.

You, caressing its tip with the grass: This looks like a tender bit.

Reaching down, you tug at my shorts, bring them to my knees. My cock flops onto my stomach.

You, straddling me, your clit pressing, rubbing against my shaft: Just warming up for the lethal bite.

Reaching back, you pull me slightly inside. My mouth is open. I let out a little moan, attempt to push further.

You, admonishing, pulling away: Hey, no resistance!

Taking a long strand of grass, you tie it around the base of my cock, bring it between my legs, behind a thigh.

The blades radiate out from the stock. You tug from below the seed head and my cock rises in response.

You: Now, my little marionette, where were we?

Your hand tugs hard against the grass, drawing the blade against my testicles, as your cunt swallows me whole.

AUGUST 18, Mirmande: I woke at some intermediate moment, far...

Thu, 18 Aug 2011 14:04:22 -0400

AUGUST 18, Mirmande:

I woke at some intermediate moment, far after midnight, well before dawn.

The waning moon flooded the room, rendering a shadow play of grey, of black and white.

I disentangled my leg from yours and left you to sleep.

Salome was propped in the corner in her tube. I lit three candles in a candelabra, and brought her outside.

The breeze rose and fell, rustling the leaves in the trees, sending the candle’s flames flickering.

I rolled her out across the rough stones of the patio and set a pebble at each corner.

Then, I sat on the ground, cradling my head on my knees, and watched her dance between the candlelight and the moon.

I blew out the candles, catching the brief whisper of each flame’s death as it met my breath.

I recognized my melancholy. But I wouldn’t allow myself to identify why.

You lay sleeping when I returned, the contour of your penis below the sheet, the rise and fall of your breast.

I slipped in next to you, briefly took you in my hand, squeezed, then left you to your dreams.

——-

This morning, we had the courage to return to the car.

You drove us up toward the Vercors. We parked at a small hotel, Moulin de la Pipe, and you went inside and asked about diversions.

When you returned, you suggested a walk to a waterfall. It seemed like a good idea.

You backed the Porsche out and then turned onto a dirt track that cut through fields of sunflowers standing at attention.

“The concierge mentioned that the hotel’s original owner was Jean de la Pipe,” you said. “Apparently, he smoked a lot.”

“If we owned the place,” I responded, “they’d have called it Moulin de la Sex.”

You smiled, then added: “He mentioned something else on the subject.”

“What’s that?” I asked.

“‘Une pipe’ in French means ‘a blow job.’”

“Did he ask you to give him one?”

“No,” you said, “just a simple vocabulary lesson.”

“Well,” I responded, “you, for one, will be highly cultivated the day you return from Europe.”

We parked and switched-back down a steep trail to a broad shallow stream with low brush at its banks.

We held hands as we walked up the stream bed toward its source.

The water’s contour led us into a slot canyon, its walls green with moss, and we could hear the roar of the waterfall somewhere ahead.

Then, we were before it, a thin hard exclamation point of white descending from above. We waded up to our knees in the pool at its base.

“I feel like an ant,” you shouted. I smiled in response, closed my eyes, and let the mist wash across my face.

——-

Later, we returned to the Moulin for dinner and found the patio overrun with banquet tables. The annual fête du village was this evening.

In a far corner, we found a pair of seats, and you went to order us a bottle of crémant.

We sat and drank, gradually emptying the bottle as the restaurant filled. A band started playing a waltz, and you asked, “Shall we?”

You led me out to the open expanse of the floor. We wove between old couples and parents with children to find an open slot.

“We could come to this party every year for the rest of our lives,” you said, “and we’d never feel out of place.”

AUGUST 17, Miramande: I wake early, mouth parched, bladder...

Wed, 17 Aug 2011 11:11:05 -0400

AUGUST 17, Miramande:

I wake early, mouth parched, bladder full. Tromp to the bathroom, lift the toilet seat to pee.

You, surprising me from behind, bringing your hand around my cock: Now watch that aim. Want to keep this place clean!

I grunt in affirmation, relax, start to urinate.

You, directing my stream in wide arcs around the edge of the bowl: Woah. Woah. Pay attention. Pay attention.

Suddenly, you’ve got me peeing on the floor.

Me, clenching my bladder: Stop!

You, grinning: Ok. Ok. Let’s try again.

This time you let me finish in peace, give me a little shake at the end, push me out of the way.

You, bringing down the toilet seat: So what’s the plan?

Me: I was thinking we could sit in a very hot car and reread ‘Against the Grain’.

You: Quite the inventive thinker, aren’t you?

Me, ripping you a piece of toilet paper: Without parallel.

Me: How about a swim?

You: Oh, now that I like.

Me, pointing at the ground then turning to the door: I leave you to clean up—the pee—k?

——-

We walk barefooted down to the river. Delicate movement across rough edges of chalk pebbles, underbrush scratching at our calves.

We lay a blanket on a limestone shelf in the sun. The river is drawn into a channel and runs fast and deep.

Me: Going in?

You, reclining: Not yet.

I sit with my feet submerged, and skip stones downstream. A catfish’s whiskers poke out from below a rock on the river bottom.

I holler and slip in. The current draws me downstream. I release myself to buoyancy and momentum.

You are lying on your back. I stand dripping above your legs and shake like a dog.

You, pulling up your knees: Hey, you’re getting me wet.

Me, working the bad pun: That’s not something you usually complain about.

Your leg comes up to kick me, but I grab it at your calf and drop on top.

You, hitting at me but pinned: Asshole! Botanist!

Wrestling, I pull you off the blanket and roll you into the water. You let out a gasp and attempt to pull away, but I draw you in close.

Submerged rumble of water punctuated by a mutual breath as we rise to the surface.

You, smiling, not resisting anymore but just because: Fucker!

I draw you across me and we float downstream on our backs. My hand slips beneath your bathing suit.

Me, marveling at the change in surface tension as I bring a finger inside you: My lovely, your wetness is not that of the river.

You: Poetic. Then, closing your eyes: Just don’t stop.

My feet find purchase on the river bottom, and I hold you suspended in the liquid flow.

Your arms above your head bend with the current.

There is no effort. This is a gift that you are giving me, that I am giving you.

You arch your head back, submerge your face as you come. Then reemerge, gasping for air.

You, reaching: Hold me.

AUGUST 16, South to Mirmande: We are driving again. You at the...

Tue, 16 Aug 2011 14:05:39 -0400

AUGUST 16, South to Mirmande:

We are driving again. You at the wheel. If anything, today is even hotter.

I have keys to a house on the other side of the Rhone. We just have to get there.

I continue to read ‘Against the Grain’. Des Esseintes is now collecting carnivorous plants. They are gradually driving him—and me—mad.

Me, closing the book: Fuck this!

You, a little cross: No, keep going.

Me: I can’t. No more. This guy is too weird. He’s becoming a bad influence.

You: Come on. Keep going.

Me: No, seriously, I can’t. It’s unhealthy.

Me, emphasizing: Allow me to remind you, we stole Salome because of this book. I’m not going to let it turn us into…into botanists.

You, not understanding my commitment, half-laughing: Botanist. That’s our new epithet.

Me, bringing the book to the open window, releasing: Oops!

Des Esseintes and his crazed obsessions bounces and spins on the pavement behind us.

You, breaking hard, pulling to the shoulder, truly angry: That was a gift!

Me, taking a breath: This is our first argument, isn’t it?

You, repeating: That was a gift!

Me, a dark whisper: fine.

Rising from the seat, swinging the door open, I return to ‘Against the Grain’.

The book is splayed on the pavement, it’s cover ripped, spine dented. I sweep it up, find it opened to the last page we read.

I return to you, and take up where we left off, reading to the bitter end.

———-

Both of us BURNT from the road.

We dip down out of the mountains of the Ardeche, cross the Rhone river, drive up switch-backs to the hill town of Mirmande.

I leave you at the house and search for dinner.

You are out in the garden, drawing beneath the fig tree.

The fruit is unripe. Clumps of green orbs tight to the branch. I feel a pang of sadness that we will not share this taste.

Half-naked in the heat of the kitchen, I cook a chicken and bring it to you.

We share a plate, pulling the flesh from the bone with our fingers.

I return inside, and pull a habanero pepper out of the pot from the meal. I place it in a dish and bathe it with olive oil.

Me, dipping a piece of baguette into the oil, passing it to you: Here.

I tear a piece of bread for myself and taste.

The olive oil coats my tongue. The pepper’s burn rises on the spine of the bread’s crust, settles in my throat.

The heat radiates subtly outward to the chest, forehead, finger tips. I float thankfully above the furnace of my body.

Me, tearing you another piece of bread: Sorry about the book.

You: No. You were right. It ends poorly. I like his taste in art, but Des Esseintes can’t be our role model.

Me, grabbing your hand as you reach to dip a finger in the oil: No! It burns too hot. Use the bread.

You: Okay.

You, grazing my nipples with an index finger: And does it burn too hot here?

I bring my lips to yours, brush them lightly. Pull back. Look you in the eye. Caress your ear lobe. Don’t speak.

We go inside, lie down. You drizzle the oil across my chest then lick me, bite me. The pepper’s burn remains on my flesh.

I bring you on top of me, bring your breasts to mine. The opening pressure of penetration, your gasp, as I bring myself inside you.

You are in the fetal position rocking against me. My finger tips graze your back.

The wind comes up, blows at the curtains at the French doors, cools our bodies.

We rock like this. Tender. Delicate. We are overlapping, joined, one.

Me: Are you happy to be with me?

You: It’s all I want.

After, I get up and walk outside and watch the clouds coming up the valley, the hard grey line of rain progresses across the fields.

I turn back to look at you.

Your arms are stretched behind you grasping the bed-frame. Eyes closed, your lips slightly parted. The rise of your pubis.

You, not looking: Come back here. We need to do that again.

Rain clatters on the red tile of the roof, sweeps beneath the lintel onto the room’s stone floor, and we start all over.

AUGUST 15, Chartres, South: I wake, stretch. I see you in...

Mon, 15 Aug 2011 11:05:05 -0400

AUGUST 15, Chartres, South:

I wake, stretch. I see you in profile, straddling the hotel balcony’s railing, the flying buttresses of the cathedral your backdrop.

On top, you are wearing my shirt, beneath you are naked, studying the map.

I watch you bend your knee, bring your big toe up to grasp the railing behind you. Your heel and buttock, opposing curves, almost touching.

Me: Hey, you.

You, looking, then feigning confusion, pointing at yourself: Me?

Me, grinning: You.

Me: Come over here. I need a kiss.

You swing your leg over the railing. My eyes drift down, between your legs.

You, pulling at the hem of the shirt: Perv.

Your hand sweeps my hair back, brushes sleep from my eyes. You kiss me on either eyelid then on the lips.

You: Good morning.

You, pulling the map aside: We made the papers.

The front page: A photo of Salome’s empty frame. The title: Vol Osé au Musée Gustave Moreau.

Me, sitting up, anxious, returning to the reality of the last days: Shit! Do they have any leads?

You, straight face: Nothing much, just something about the getaway car—a Green Porsche 914.

Me, blanching: What!?

You, kissing me again: Just kidding.

Me, taking a breath, turning toward the half-open closet, and the Louvre tube: Did you hear that Salome? We made the papers. Front page.

You, extending: Salome! Time to call your mom. She’ll be sooo proud.

———

We return to Departmental roads heading south. Two lanes, harvested wheat fields on either side. A moment of living in another time.

The heat is oppressive. Sun directly overhead. Sweat soaks through my shirt.

You read ‘Against the Grain.’ Something about a liquor organ. I barely listen.

You, closing the book: You know, I’m a little disappointed you’re not wearing your driving gloves.

Me, just a smirk of recognition. We are both wilting.

Rows of plane trees, their canopies providing an amalgam of shade and the blinding serrated edge of the sun. A fan’s whir with each one we pass.

We traverse towns, shuttered, silent, seemingly abandoned.

You, pointing to a fountain in a central square, emphatically: S-T-O-P.

Together, half-obsessed: Water.

I dunk my head into the cool, pull up and splash a loose pattern of spray across the fountain’s base. Let out a whoop.

You, no inhibitions, jumping in: I’m going for the full baptism.

Me, admiring the curve of your breasts, your nipples erect: More like a wet t-shirt contest.

Turning your back to me, you raise your skirt, pulling your panties aside, presenting your submerged cunt.

You, looking up at me: So. Are you coming in?

AUGUST 14, South to Chartres: Last night, I had bound you to the...

Sun, 14 Aug 2011 11:06:05 -0400

AUGUST 14, South to Chartres:

Last night, I had bound you to the bed frame, when the cops knocked at the door.

Your wrists were crossed above your head, immobilized by the rope, while I ground against you, digging my finger nails into your chest.

You looked at me in a panic. I gave you a little smile, closed my eyes and kept twisting, feeling you fill me.

They banged again, and I got up naked and swung the door open. “On baise,” I stated in my best French.

The officers were blinded.

I held them like that with my body, revealed our innocence, let them know that they would never possess what we possess.

Shifting to the side, I exposed you powerless on the bed. “Perhaps you’re looking for him,” I asked?

They both shook their heads, muttered apologies.

“You get back to your work and we’ll get back to ours.” I turned my back and returned to you, leaving them to close the door.

———

This morning, you dressed me in the stockings.

You were down on your knees, gingerly rolling the silk up my calves to my thighs, attaching the suspender clasps from the garter belt.

I quietly watched you in this small act of devotion. “Do you still love me?” I asked.

“Do I have a choice?”

“Nope.”

———

The police remained on the street as we exited the building. You had seen them from the apartment.

“Don’t worry,” I said, “the best place to hide is always in plain sight.”

In a minor token to anonymity, I was wearing a pair of Wayfarers. Salome was safe in the crook of my arm.

She was rolled in a poster tube from the Louvre between cheap prints of da Vinci’s ‘Mona Lisa’ and David’s ‘Coronation of Napoleon’.

You opened the door to the Porsche for me, and I slipped her behind the head rests.

You walked around the car and let out the signal whistle. I reached across the seat and unlocked your door.

You pulled the white queen from your pocket, a lanyard around her neck, and hanged her from the rear view mirror.

We coasted down hill, past the museum, its entry symbolically blocked by red & white police tape.

You turned right onto the Rue Saint Lazare, and it felt like we were entering an entirely new chapter.

“Where to next?” I asked.

“I want to take you to Chartres,” you replied. “To the Cathedral!”

“Is that your way of asking me to marry you?” I teased.

“No, no, no,” you scolded. “Not that.”

“Chartres. It’s like a great big book, carved in stone and etched in glass,” you said. “When it was built barely anyone could read.”

You described it lovingly, starting with it’s stained glass windows. Their details and symbolism, their narratives of biblical passion.

Then you added me in.

“I want to see you there,” you said, “want to see the color of those stories bathed on your face, want to kiss you beneath their light.”

Your talk was cheese-ball romantic, but it was making me horny. Heat was rising from between my legs.

I reached a hand beneath my skirt, pressed my knees together and drew a finger between my lips and onto my clit. “Go on.”

You spoke of the labyrinth, inlaid in black and white stone in the floor below the cathedral’s nave.

I brought a finger inside, felt my vagina clench involuntarily around it and electricity radiate outward across my body.

“I want you to stand at the labyrinth’s center,” you said, “enclosed by the six petals of a rose.”

“I will walk from the entry the winding path 800 paces until we are reunited.”

“Count them.”

You looked over at me, down toward my hand.

I was making small circles on the tip of my clit then dipping back into my vagina. “Go on. Count the paces.”

“One.” You paused.

“Go on.” I was begging.

“Two.”

By three, I had already come.

AUGUST 13, Paris: Four PM, and we are getting ready. The car is...

Sat, 13 Aug 2011 11:06:06 -0400

AUGUST 13, Paris:

Four PM, and we are getting ready. The car is packed and parked a few doors up.

I sit at the table, smoking one of your cigarettes. I unwrap your two new pairs of stockings.

Me: I want to see you in these.

You, kissing me: After I get my wish.

Me, pocketing one, passing you the others: Alright then. But I get to put them on.

I stand up and we move toward the door together.

You: Ready?

Me: Ready.

You pull the door shut behind us, and we stand on the landing listening to the click of the elevator as it rises.

We squeeze inside, press for the ground floor, lurch downward. I brush your bangs to the side.

Me: Here we go.

You smile.

On the street, we are all business. I relax, hold my hand to your back, guide you back into the Musée Gustave Moreau, pay for our tickets.

We walk up the stairs to the second floor. A couple points and stage whispers at the artifacts on display in Moreau’s office.

We hold back, wait for them to move on. I pull on my new kid gloves. There is not a guard in sight.

You, scanning: Now.

I jump the barrier and enter Moreau’s study. In three steps, I am behind his desk.

I pull out the chair, crouch down, and disappear.

———

Five hours later, the sun sets. The museum is silent. My legs are an agony of cramps.

Beyond the wooden back of the office chair, I have studied a bronze bull on a marble plinth for an eternity.

I push back the chair and emerge from below the desk. A motorcycle on the street. Then calm.

I pull your stocking from my pocket. Bring it over my head. Then slip over the barrier and back into the museum.

My heart roars. I must trust what you’ve told me—that the museum is empty, without alarm.

I race up the stairs, three at a time. Plunge across the first gallery and up to the top floor.

Salome is there. Hovering, naked before Herod.

I open my knife. Watch the brushed steel bee on the head of its handle welcome the spine of the blade. Then I cut.

In less than a minute, Salome collapses before me on the floor, her frame displaying remnant canvas threads and the pink of the wall behind.

I close my knife, roll her up, turn to the window. My mouth is desiccated and I doubt I will ever manage the signal whistle.

The handle turns effortlessly. I push to open and the alarm SCREAMS.

No time. I step onto the cornice. Look at the gap between the museum and the roof of the next building and jump.

I hit and roll. Salome remains in my hand. The alarm squelch is deafening.

In a moment, I am back up and running to the base of the ladder that leads to our roof. Climbing. Ignoring the acrophobia.

At the final rung, I find your rope.

You, just above, face obscured by a stocking, reaching down to me, hissing: Hand me Salome. Hand me Salome.

I pause, shift my weight and bring the canvas up to you. You take it, disappear over the edge.

For a moment, I stand there suspended, immobilized. Police sirens mix with the alarm.

You, reappearing at the lip, urgency: Come on!

I tug on the rope and release the last rung of the ladder. Hoist myself up hand-over-hand. You pull at my clothes, drag me onto the roof.

I lie on my back, breathing hard. Then we drop through the skylight into the apartment.

Me, parting the blind, police cars out front, utterly trapped: What do we do? We can’t leave now.

You, authoritatively: We can leave in the morning.

You, pulling away the stockings covering our faces: Until then, let’s fuck.

AUGUST 12, Paris: We visit the BHV department store to buy...

Fri, 12 Aug 2011 11:05:06 -0400

AUGUST 12, Paris:

We visit the BHV department store to buy each other little presents.

You, pointing to a pair of kid gloves, inky black, asking the sales girl: Could we see those, please?

You, turning to me: Right hand.

I hold out my hand. The glove slips on like a second skin.

You: Left hand.

You, admiring: Aren’t you dapper. Now, you’re ready to drive again. If we can just find you a monocle…

We purchase a folding Laguiole knife for future picnics. Its juniper handle glows from within.

I bring you to the rayon lingerie where we discover other items…

——-

Outside, the heat rises.

Me: Could I buy you an ice cream?

You: Absolutely.

I pull you close and we stroll down to the Ile Saint Louis. Midway across the Seine, we lean against the railing, watch the boats.

You: Remind me of the signal, again?

Me: Like this.

I exhale and whistle three descending notes. You repeat.

Me: Perfect.

We come to Berthillon. A placard out front announces several dozen flavors of sorbet and ice cream.

Me, underlining ‘caramel au beurre salé’ with a finger, remembering our first meeting: Look. This is the place for us.

You, complicitous: Hmmm. Let’s taste something new.

We share a black currant sorbet. We find a bench, and you drape your legs over mine.

I hold the cone, and we bring our heads in close, licking from opposite sides.

Me, noting it’s dark pink, whispering: The same color as the walls at the museum.

You: I guess we should take that as a good omen.

My tongue contracts from the sorbet’s tart flavor, then the after-impression of cold remains on my pallet.

The ice cream starts to melt and a thin stream runs down my hand. You bring your tongue further down, delicately lick my fingers.

———

Squeezing through the skylight up on the roof. We have our first picnic.

Paris arrayed below us. Cardinal points of Sacré Coeur and the Eiffel Tower.

Victuals hobo’d together in a blanket. I pull out the Laguiole knife, cut a thick slice of sausage, peel away the skin with the blade.

I pour two glasses of warm rosé and drop ice in, listen to it crack. Watch microscopic bubbles froth.

The sausage is hearty, simple. I rub my lips together, register the meat’s fatty residue then cut it with the wine.

We stand and you pull me to the roof’s edge. We lean against the single metal band of the railing. I breath and ignore the void.

The rungs of a ladder, set in concrete, recede in a line down the wall below our feet.

There is a gap of six feet between the top rung and where we stand.

Across a roof top and forty feet below stands the Musee Gustave Moreau.

You, pointing to the museum: Salome is right in there.

Me, thinking of your wish: Yes.

You, looking down: And this is where I’ll hang the rope.

Me: Yes.

Then we sit, our legs dangling over the edge, like kids at the pool ready to slip in.

The Eiffel Tower lights up in white. I lie back and stare at the sky of sunset, streaked with color, thinking of tomorrow.

I feel your hand against my thigh, then moving up and pulling at my zipper, bringing me out. I am too anxious now, only mildly aroused.

You: I’d like another ice cream cone.

Me: I think the shop is closed.

You pull at my shirt, and your hair cascades across my bare stomach. Your tongue runs against the head of my cock.

You: Mmm. Maybe I’ll settle for this lollipop.

You: Remind me of the signal again?

I whistle the three descending notes as I feel the head of my cock immersed in the warmth of your mouth.

Me, releasing to pleasure: Let’s hear you now.

You, pausing for a moment, pulling away: Let me finish my desert first.

I whistle the notes again, concentrate on the sweep of your hair against my skin, the heat of metal on my back.

My feet dangling, heels pressed against the wall. I rotate my hips upward, but you hold me in place with a palm to my balls.

You, bringing your tongue in lazy circles around the tip of my cock: Lollipops are said to be a choking hazard.

Your nails dig into my side, distract me momentarily, make me gasp in pain. Then you slide my cock down your throat and squeeze.

My head swings back and forth, eyes squinting, registering blur of trees, ochre of chimneys, some cloud somewhere.

When I come, I have half-blacked out. Your lips are at mine, moist. The salt of your tongue mixes with the pepper of my sperm.

AUGUST 11, Paris: Yesterday, I didn’t exactly apologize, but I...

Thu, 11 Aug 2011 11:05:05 -0400

AUGUST 11, Paris:

Yesterday, I didn’t exactly apologize, but I told you where I’d been, what I’d done, what I wanted to do.

I gave you a small gift, the white queen from Moreau’s chess board.

Pilfered from the museum apartment without consequence by simply leaning in and taking it.

You said you’d grant me any wish. I told you my wish. Today, you’ve worried this wish, knocked it around in your head, rubbed at its edges.

I brought you to the Eiffel Tower. The cobblestones at its base inlaid with tourists and vendors.

We wound between blankets arrayed with miniature, LED-lit Eiffel Towers.

Tops shot into the air and hung suspended fifty feet above our heads.

I looked up through the steel girders toward the summit and executed a Sound of Music pirouette.

I turned to you, smiling. But you were elsewhere.

“Hollow,” you said. I could hear a kind of wind in your voice, like you were slowly deflating.

I took you by the waist, brought your nose to mine, looked you in the eye. “What’s hollow?”

Your gaze shifted toward the throng surrounding us and for a moment I saw what you saw.

An icon’s infinite repetition, consumable for 10 Euros, an endless cycle of human transaction, distribution and false mythology.

Banal, vulgar, meaningless. You had taken Des Esseintes’s rejection of humanity in ‘Against the Grain’ to heart.

“The bottom obviously isn’t working, so how about the top?”

I pulled at your hand. You were clutching at the white queen. I cradled her in our two hands, and we brought her up together.

Out on the observation deck, we gazed down at the Seine and the long straight line of progress from the Louvre to the Arc de Triomphe.

I closed my eyes and leaned my head against the thin metal grill, focused on the feel of the breeze, the distant bubbling of city.

“You know,” you said in the most matter-of-fact voices, “I think I’m falling in love with you.”

I smiled, kissed you once and pulled back. Your mood had shifted.

“Hang on,” I said, “this deserves a celebration.”

I pulled a plastic bag of confetti from my purse, purchased especially for this kind of occasion.

You shuttled the queen into your pocket and cupped your hands together.

When they were filled, you let out a whoop! and sent a cloud of geometric forms into the air.

They caressed us, caught in our hair, as they drifted down with gravity.

We stood in their dappled pool and watched as the remaining confetti showered down on Paris.