Gastien Pt 1 (53 page)

Gastien laughed then. “
Non
. You are not wrong.”

“There is your soul, Gastien. It is in your talent. You will never lose that! Now, do you need a place to sleep for the night?”

“I can go to a hotel. Money is obviously not a problem for me anymore. I don’t want to put you out.”

“Nonsense! As long as you don’t mind the same “nest” that you had once before. I am too old to give up my bed for the floor.”

Gastien laughed again. “I would not expect you to. The floor is fine.”

“Great! Then I can make you breakfast again in the morning. It looks like you could use a few pounds again. Get ready for my famous bacon and eggs!”

Gastien lay awake on the floor, thinking over what Father had said. He had hope for the first time in awhile. Perhaps Father was right. He had made hard choices, and the situation had ended up out of control. He had been powerless over those men. Although his choices were ugly, so was never knowing where your next meal would come from. The nightmare was gone. So far, he was not having nightmares about the men. He thought about it when he was awake. If he could sort through it and forgive himself, perhaps he would be ok again. Closing his eyes, he fell asleep. The next thing Gastien knew, there was the smell of bacon frying.

Gastien was a normal young man, so if someone cooked, he could really eat. Father Fournier smiled as he watched Gastien put away three times more food than he himself could.
Mon Dieu
that boy could eat! Father still thought of Gastien as a boy and probably always would.

After saying farewell, Gastien waved down a
cabriolet
. He still had some time before the train left. At the last minute, he went to the art supply store he had frequented before. There he bought a travel set of watercolours, smaller size watercolour papers, a sketching pad, and pencils. He just could not see himself going a month without painting. After all, he was an artist! He would wait until he had forced himself to come to grips with things he had done, what he needed to do moving forward, but surely there would be time to paint and draw. Plus, it would be therapeutic.

Gastien then had the driver drop him at the train station. Soon he was on his way to L’Estiaque. He had never ridden a train before. It was quite fun! He spent most of the time looking out of the window at the countryside, and various towns they went through. Thankfully no one sat by him, as the train was not very crowded. Gastien did not want conversation. He wanted to be alone.

Finally, Gastien arrived at L’Estaque. He saw there was a store there, so he stocked up on fruits, cheeses, breads, and fruit juice. He did not buy any
vin
. He wanted to clean his body out of all toxins. He had indulged in more than his share of alcohol in the last several months. It was almost a sacrilege to not drink
vin
if you were French, but he didn’t care. He figured it was not the first sin he had committed, and likely would not be the last. Gastien would be playing by his rules from now on.

When he paid for the items, he inquired about getting a ride to his cottage. The owner pointed him to a driver after welcoming him to the village. He told Gastien to stop in any time for help or conversation. Gastien thanked him, saying that while he did not wish to be rude, he badly needed solitude and would likely be pretty scarce around the area. The owner nodded. Many others came for the same reason.

The driver politely refrained from conversation, allowing Gastien to take in the scenery. Very quickly, he was at the cottage. It was only about one mile from the village. There was the bicycle that had been promised, by the front door! It had a good size basket on it for hauling items back from town. Gastien smiled. It had been a long, long time since he had ridden a bicycle. He would have to take a few practice spins around the yard before heading to town, or he would likely end up lying in a ditch with a broken arm! After paying the driver, he unloaded his things. Gastien felt like a giddy child as he opened the door.

It was just right for him! There was nothing fancy about it. In fact, it was quite austere. He noticed right away that it was very clean. Furnishings consisted of a simple bed, dresser, sofa, table and two chairs. There was a counter for cutting up foods. He checked the bed, reassuring himself that the bedding was clean. There was a nice, thick blanket in case the nights got chilly. He doubted that would happen in August. In the corner was a stand holding towels, washing cloths, and a well worn, faded blanket that Gastien figured was for spreading out on the sand. There was also a large sun umbrella. He knew that once a week he was to put his dirty laundry on the front steps by noon on Friday. Someone came to bring clean linens and take away the dirty ones for washing.

There were huge windows. He stood for a moment staring out at the water. It was the most brilliant blue he had ever seen. He had heard the Mediterranean Sea was a breathtaking azure color in this part of France, but had no idea how beautiful it would actually be. He was glad he had bought some art supplies! His fingers twitched to get after the paints already. There will be time, he told himself. You need to take inventory first. And, before that, you need to just let yourself be present, enjoy, and rest – starting now! Laughing out loud, Gastien opened a large sliding glass door, racing to the beach.

It was wonderful here! He had his own, very private little beach. L’Estaque was located on a more protected part of the sea, anyway, and this cottage had beachfront on a small cove. Because it was more protected, he would not have much wind or rough waters. There was a peaceful lapping of waves on the shore.
Oui
, the water looked quite serene. He was even happier, because now he would be able to swim. Gastien knew how to swim because there was a river on the farm. However, that lazy river was far different than an ocean or this sea would be, had he not been on a cove. He would not trust himself to swim in any strong currents or rough waters. Here, he would be able to swim to his heart’s content.

Glancing around, he could tell that there were no other cottages within sight. It was a very private little piece of paradise. Suddenly, Gastien giggled. He quickly pulled off his clothes and ran into the water. Walking out until he was chest high, he cavorted in the sea. As he played, he stepped off a ledge and started to swim. It felt wonderful to swim in the nude! He felt so free. Finally, he came back to where it was shallow and floated on his back. The hot sun felt healing on his face and chest.

After about thirty minutes, he decided he better get back on the beach to put some trousers on. He did not imagine it would feel good to sunburn his
bite.
He had not made a habit of exposing it to the sun in the past! Gastien went to the cabin to grab the old blanket and a beach towel. He grabbed the umbrella, too. It would probably not be needed today, but he figured he would just keep it out there during his stay. After laying out the blanket, Gastien sprawled out on his stomach. The chances of being burned were not great since it was late afternoon, even if he did fall asleep. Soon, he did sleep. He slept deeply and dreamlessly. The sun on his back kept him warm, making him feel safe.

He at last woke up at dusk, a bit cold. Quickly brushing off the sand, Gastien put on his clothes.
Mon Dieu
he had to pee! He had forgotten to che
ck
out the privy. Hopefully it would be as clean as the cottage. To his relief, it was. His contentment about the place was complete.

He went about cutting up cheese and fruit. His meal was eaten while he sat on the sand, watching darkness fall over the water. Gastien was still tired even though it was only about nine o’clock. Things were really catching up to him now that he was away from the city. Early or not, he went to bed. He put on the thick blanket, curling up in the nice, soft bed. During the night the blanket would be kicked off, but for now, it was comforting.

This started a set of days that were largely the same. Gastien found he liked not having many clothes on, because it was so hot. The bathing suit he bought had too long of legs. Why in the world do they make bathing trunks so ridiculously long, he wondered. Taking a knife, he hacked them off at mid thigh. He would live in those trunks the rest of his days there, only taking them off to swim and sleep nude. There was no one around anyway, to see the crazy long haired man with nothing on but a skimpy pair of cut off trunks. He felt truly free.

He started fencing moves after about three days, finding that he had to be very careful because his gut still hurt. He knew as the days passed his center strength would return. He kept at it. The challenge was making sure he did not to push too fast and reinjure himself. That would set him back even further in building up strength and endurance again. Not to mention keeping muscle tone.

The first several days he just allowed himself to rest mentally without thinking deeply. Finally, one morning, it was time. He felt rested and strong. Gastien spent hours laying on the blanket in the sun, thinking about who he had become. He wondered how he could find a way to move forward. He contemplated how to come to terms not only with being raped, but with how he had treated his body, and women over the last several months.

He knew that he had become quite heartless, almost brutal at times, in bed with women. It was probably because he wanted to convince himself that he was very manly. He had not set out in life hoping to treat women poorly. It was one thing if they indicated that they wanted to be dominated. He would gladly do whatever a woman desired in bed. But, lately, he had not cared what they wanted.

That had to stop right now! He did not want to be like his father. He wanted women to find sex with him to be fulfilling and rewarding, not harsh. He also knew that he needed to allow himself to say
non
. Just because someone wanted him did not mean he had to comply. He was constantly forcing his body to perform. If that kept up, he would soon despise sex. Doing it all the time, just because he could, did not mean it was good for him. He found that he had lost a good deal of respect for himself, simply because he gave himself away to every woman who asked. This was aside from the men using him. Forget that for the time being, he thought. Just think right now about how you treat yourself when you do have a choice. Is there some reason you feel that your body is a public utility?

Gastien promised himself two things. First, he would go back to giving women what they wanted, not just use them. Second, he would think before he agreed to pull out his
bite
and use it. While he knew he would still use it a great deal more than most, there was no reason to use it so often that it almost hurt to have someone touch it! Just because a woman was the wife of someone wealthy did not mean he had to perform upon command. If everyone could have him, what value did he have to them? What value did he have to himself?

 In addition, what was wrong with considering someone not wealthy, if she was not a whore or a sleep around? Syphilis could be gotten anywhere. While he did take precautions by not sleeping with whores and artist models, who knew what lovers the wealthy had previously?

He walked into the cottage, took off his cutoffs, and took inventory of himself. Physically, he was very nice looking. It was just a fact that he could see, looking in the mirror. He truly was beautiful. It was time to start treating his body that way, even if he did not feel it yet inside. Maybe that would come, once he treated himself better. Make no mistake, sex would be frequent. But, not everybody got him.
Non
. Not everybody anymore.

He walked back outside. Since he was naked, Gastien put up the umbrella to shade himself. He lay back down, forcing himself to think about the sex he had with men. His mind started to panic immediately. Patiently, he forced himself to get back to calmness. Then he began talking to himself mentally. Slow down and breathe. You did some things you knew were ugly. You are not the first person to do that, and won’t be the last. Just accept it for what it is. His breathing sped up.
Non
! Stop panicking. You are not a homosexual. If you were, this would not be making you so emotionally ill. You would be planning your next encounter with a man. He sat up quickly. Gastien forced himself to lie back down. Non! Again, stop panicking. Learn this: men will no longer abuse you, because there is no reason to let them. It is over now. You are safe! You are safe.

He took some deep breaths. Think first about what you did with Jean Luc. Did you make a good decision when you agreed to service him? Can it be so black and white?
Non
, it is probably somewhere in between. You hurt yourself when you said
oui
, because sex, even just oral, with a man is not something you find remotely enjoyable. In that regard, it was not a good decision. Yet, you also had a horrible fear of living on the streets again. You were having nightmares that were increasing in intensity and frequency. They were affecting your health. Could you have found a way to stay off of the streets and still paint full time? Who knows? There was a slight chance, but probably not.

Think clearly. You lived on the streets for almost three months. You had rats crawling on you, lice all over. You were so hungry when homeless, that at times you fell down. You ate dirty food from trash bins, food that strangers had chewed on. You forced yourself to eat your own vomit. If you had not done these things you would have not survived. These are ugly things, too. Even so, they were things you had to do. Do you remember what it felt like to have a knife pulled on you? How it felt to be afraid to go to sleep, even with your own knife in your hand? Those things were also ugly, but you did them to survive.

You knew from the time you were a little boy, that in order to live, you had to be an artist. It is not a choice for you. It is a drive, an obsession. You had to do whatever it took to get out of the alleys, and into a studio. Could you have lived with other artists in filth and still painted?
Oui
. But you had done your turn at poverty. No one can do that long and stay sane. Many of those artists have parents to go home to when it gets too tough.