The Elementary Particles (9 page)

2

A THIRTEEN-HOUR FLIGHT

The Lieu du Changement rapidly ran into the problem of aging. In the eighties young people found its ideals dated. There were theater workshops and massage therapy, but it basically was a campsite; the accommodations and facilities were not up to resort standards. Apart from that, the anarchic spirit of the place made it difficult to control access and collect payments; its finances, which had always been precarious, became even more problematic.

Their first response—a decision passed unanimously by the founding members—was to establish preferential rates for the young, but this did not prove sufficient. At the annual board meeting in the beginning of the 1984 fiscal year, Frédéric Le Dantec made a proposal that turned out to be the Lieu’s salvation. He suggested that business was the leisure industry of the 1980s. Each of them had acquired valuable experience in humanist therapy (Gestalt, rebirth, walking on hot coals, transactional analysis, Zen meditation, communication skills . . .). Why not invest that experience in developing a series of residential courses aimed at businesses? After fierce debate, the proposal was adopted. Once it was accepted, work began on building the pyramid, together with fifty bungalows—basic but comfortable—where visitors could stay. At the same time, the founders organized an extensive mailing, targeting human resources directors in multinational companies. Some of the more left-wing of the founders found this transition difficult to accept. After a brief internal power struggle, the Lieu ceased to be an association under the act of 1901 and became a publicly traded corporation in which Frédéric Le Dantec was principal shareholder. After all, it was his parents’ land, and Crédit Mutuel in Charente-Maritime seemed willing to back the project.

Five years later, the Lieu du Changement had an excellent client list (the National Bank of Paris, IBM, the Ministry of Finance, the Paris transit authority, Bouygues telecommunications). Inter- and intracompany courses were offered year-round and the campsite—maintained principally for reasons of nostalgia—accounted for less than five percent of the company’s annual turnover.

Bruno woke with a crippling headache and no illusions. He had heard about the place from a secretary who had been on a “Personal Development—Positive Thinking” course at five thousand francs a day. He had asked her for the brochure. Friendly, open-minded, liberal; he got the picture. But one statistic at the bottom of the page attracted his attention: in July–August of the previous year, sixty-three percent of visitors to the Lieu du Changement were female. That was almost two women to every man: an excellent ratio. He decided to check it out, and booked a week there in July; especially as camping would be cheaper than going to a Club Med. Of course, he could guess what sort of women went there: deranged old lefties who were probably all HIV-positive. But still, with two women to every man, he stood a chance; if he worked it properly, he might even bag two.

The year had started well from a sexual point of view. The influx of girls from Eastern Europe had meant prices had dropped. For two hundred francs you could get a little personal relaxation, down from four hundred francs some months earlier. Unfortunately, he crashed his car in April and the repairs were expensive; worse still, it had been his fault. The bank started to squeeze him and he had to economize.

He lifted himself on his elbow and poured himself his first whiskey. The copy of
Swing
was still open at the same page. A guy who kept his socks on—his name was Hervé—was thrusting his cock toward the camera with visible effort.

Not my thing, thought Bruno, not at all. He put on a pair of boxer shorts and walked toward the shower block. After all, he thought hopefully, the squaw from last night was more or less fuckable. In fact her big, sagging breasts were perfect for a tit-job; it had been three years since his last time. Bruno had always liked jerking off between a girl’s tits, but whores didn’t really go for it. Was it the fact that you came in their faces that turned them off? Did it require more time and personal investment than a blow-job? Whatever, a tit-job wasn’t generally on the menu, so it was difficult to get girls to do it. They seemed to think of it as personal. Often, when he requested one, Bruno had to make do with a hand-job or maybe a blow-job. He sometimes managed to coax a tit-job out of a girl, but as far as Bruno was concerned there were not nearly enough to go around.

He arrived at the shower block, Body Space 8. He had more or less resigned himself to the women being old and decrepit and was taken aback to see teenagers. There were four of them near the showers, all between fifteen and seventeen, opposite the sinks. Two of them wore bikini bottoms and waited as the other two played under the shower like otters, chatting and laughing and splashing each other: they were completely naked. The scene was indescribably graceful and erotic. He did not deserve such a thing. His cock was hard in his boxer shorts; with one hand, he took it out and pressed himself against the sink as he cleaned between his teeth with a toothpick. He stabbed himself in the gum, removed the bloody toothpick. The head of his penis tingled unbearably; it was hot and swollen, a drop forming at the tip.

One of the girls, graceful and dark-haired, stepped out of the shower, grabbed a towel and began to contentedly pat her young breasts dry. A little redhead slipped off her swimsuit and took her place under the shower—her pussy hair was golden blonde. Bruno moaned a little, and was beginning to feel dizzy. In his head, he could imagine walking over, taking his shorts off and waiting by the showers. He had every right to go and wait to take a shower. He imagined himself beside them, his cock hard, saying something like “Is the water hot?” The showers were fifty centimeters apart; if he took a shower next to the redheaded girl she might accidentally brush against his prick. At this thought he felt increasingly dizzy and had to hold on to the porcelain sink. At the same instant two boys arrived, laughing a little too loudly; they were wearing black shorts with fluorescent stripes. Suddenly Bruno’s hard-on was gone; he put his penis back into his shorts and returned to picking at his teeth.

Later, still in a state of shock, he went down to the breakfast tables. He sat apart from the others and spoke to no one. As he chewed his vitamin-enriched cereal, he thought about the Faustian nature of sexual pursuit, its vampirism. For example, Bruno thought, people are wrong to talk about homosexuals. He had never—or very rarely—met a homosexual; on the other hand, he knew a great many
pederasts
. Some pederasts—thankfully, very few—prefer little boys; they wind up in prison for a long stretch and no one ever talks about them again. Most pederasts, however, are attracted to youths between fifteen and twenty-five. Anyone older than that is, to them, simply an old, dried-up asshole. Watch two old queens together, Bruno liked to say, watch them closely: they may be fond of each other, they may even be affectionate, but do they really want each other? No. As soon as some tight fifteen-to-twenty-five-year-old ass walks past, they will tear each other apart like panthers; each will rip the other to pieces just for that tight little ass—so Bruno thought.

In this, as in many things, so-called homosexuals had led the way for society as a whole, Bruno figured. Take him, for example—he was forty-two years old. Did he want women his own age? Absolutely not. On the other hand, for young pussy wrapped in a miniskirt he was prepared to go to the ends of the earth. Well, to Bangkok at least. Which was, after all, a thirteen-hour flight.

3

Sexual desire is preoccupied with youth, and the progressive influx of ever-younger girls onto the field of seduction was simply a return to the norm; a restoration of the true nature of desire, comparable to the return of stock prices to their true value after a run on the exchange. Nonetheless, women who turned twenty in the late sixties found themselves in a difficult position when they hit forty. Most of them were divorced and could no longer count on the conjugal bond—whether warm or abject—whose decline they had served to hasten. As members of a generation who—more than any before—had proclaimed the superiority of youth over age, they could hardly claim to be surprised when they, in turn, were despised by succeeding generations. As their flesh began to age, the cult of the body, which they had done so much to promote, simply filled them with an intensifying disgust for their own bodies—a disgust they could see mirrored in the gaze of others.

The men of their generation found themselves in much the same position, yet this common destiny fostered no solidarity. At forty, they continued to pursue young women—with a measure of success, at least for those who, having skillfully slipped into the social game, had attained a certain position, whether intellectual, financial or social. For women, their mature years brought only failure, masturbation and shame.

Dedicated exclusively to sexual liberation and the expression of desire, the Lieu du Changement naturally became a place of depression and bitterness. Farewell to limbs entwined in a clearing under the full moon! Farewell to the quasi-Dionysian spectacle of oiled bodies glistening under the midday sun. That, at least, is what the forty-somethings muttered as they regarded their flaccid pricks and rolls of fat.

In 1987 the first quasi-religious workshops appeared at the Lieu. Christianity was excluded, of course, but a sufficiently nebulous, exotic mysticism—for these rather weak-minded beings—dovetailed neatly with the cult of the body beautiful which, against all sense, they continued to promote. There were still workshops on sensual massage and the liberation of the orgone, but interest in the esoteric—astrology, Egyptian tarot, chakras—boomed. There were Encounters with the Angel and courses on crystal healing. Siberian shamanism made a conspicuous debut when, in 1991, during the long initiation in a sweat lodge fired by sacred coals, an initiate died of heart failure. Tantric Zen, which combined profound vanity, diffuse mysticism and sexual frottage, flourished. In a matter of years, the Lieu—like many centers throughout France and Western Europe—became a relatively popular New Age institution while maintaining its reputation as a “1970s-style” hedonist’s paradise, which became its unique selling point.

After breakfast Bruno retired to his tent. He considered masturbating (the image of the teenagers was still vivid), but finally decided against it. The enticing girls must be the offspring of the regiments of flower children he had passed around the Lieu, so clearly some of the old hags had succeeded in reproducing after all. This realization plunged Bruno into vague, unpleasant reflections. He tore open the flap of his tent; the sky was blue, small clouds floated like spatters of sperm between the pines, the day promised to be dazzling. He glanced at the program for the week: he had chosen option one—“Creativity and Relaxation.” There was a choice of three workshops that morning: mime and psychodrama, painting in watercolors and creative writing. Psychodrama, he decided, was best avoided. He had been there and done that, on a weekend course in Chantilly where he had watched fifty-year-old social workers rolling around on the floor whining for daddy to bring them their teddy bears. Painting sounded more interesting, but would probably be outdoors: did he really want to squat among pine needles, insects and God knows what else, only to turn out some crap?

The woman who led the creative writing workshop had long black hair and a full, sensual mouth outlined in carmine red (what he usually referred to as “blow-job lips”); she wore a black tunic and stretch pants. A good-looking woman, she had class. Probably just a slut, though, thought Bruno, crouching down in the ill-defined circle of disciples. To his right a fat, sallow, gray-haired woman with thick glasses breathed noisily. She reeked of wine and it was only ten-thirty.

“To salute our collective presence,” began the leader, “to salute the Earth and the five ways, we will begin the workshop with the hatha-yoga movement called ‘the sun salutation.’ ” She followed this with a description of an unlikely posture; the wino on Bruno’s right belched. “You look tired, Jacqueline,” said the yogi. “You shouldn’t do any exercise if you don’t feel up to it. Lie down; the group will join you in a while.”

They all had to lie down while the teacher delivered a long, vacuous speech in the style of Contrexéville: “You are plunging into beautiful, crystal water. You can feel it enveloping your limbs, flowing over your stomach. You give thanks to your mother, the Earth. Confidently, you press yourself to your mother, the Earth. Feel your desire. You give thanks to yourself for giving you this desire,” etc. Lying on the filthy Japanese mat, Bruno ground his teeth together angrily. The dipso beside him belched regularly. Between burps, she exhaled with a great “Haaaaaa,” which presumably was intended to express her relaxation. The karma queen went on with her routine, conjuring tellurian energies to revitalize the stomach and groin. After meandering through the four elements, and satisfied with her performance, she concluded: “Now that you have broken the barrier of the rational and made contact with your deepest desires, open yourself to the limitless power of the creative urge.” “Urge, schmurge,” fumed Bruno as, with difficulty, he got to his feet. The writing session was followed by a presentation in which each of them had to read what they had written. The only halfway decent babe in the whole workshop was called Emma—a fit little redhead wearing jeans and a T-shirt, who had written a completely inane poem about moon-sheep. Most of the group were positively oozing with rapture at having made contact with Mother Earth, Father Sun and family. At last it was Bruno’s turn to read. Mournfully he intoned:

Taxi drivers are fucking cunts

They never stop, the little runts

“You feel like that . . .” said the yogi, “you feel like that because you haven’t mastered your negative energy. I can feel deep, powerful desires within you. We can help you—here and now. Let’s all stand and focus the energies of the group.”

Everyone stood, joined hands and formed a circle. Reluctantly, Bruno took the hands of the old bag on his right and a revolting little bearded man who looked like Cavanna. Her whole being focused but calm, the yogi uttered a long “Om” and they were off, everyone droning “Om” as if they’d been doing it all their lives. Bruno was gamely trying to join in the resounding harmony when he suddenly felt himself pitch to the right. Hypnotized, the fat hag was toppling like a stone. He let go of her hand but was unable to break his fall and found himself on his knees in front of the old bitch, now flat on her back and writhing on the mat. The yogi interrupted her meditation and said calmly: “That’s it, Jacqueline, just lie down if you feel like it.” The two of them seemed to know each other.

The second writing exercise was a little better; inspired by his fugitive vision that morning, Bruno penned the following poem:

I’m tanning my dick

(Hair on my prick)

Down by the pool

(Hair on my tool)

I swear I found God

In Body Space
8

He has a great bod

But his hair is a state

What is our job?

(Hair on my knob)

To praise him in song

(Hair on my dong)

“It’s . . . humorous,” said the yogi, her tone somewhat disapproving. “And mystical,” theorized the drunk, “mystical but empty . . .” What was he going to do, Bruno wondered. How long could he put up with this? Was it really worth the effort? When the workshop ended he rushed back to his tent, not even stopping to try and talk to the little redhead; he needed a whiskey before lunch. Near his tent, he happened across one of the girls he had been eyeing at the showers. With a graceful movement which showed off her breasts, she reached up and took down the lacy panties she had hung out the night before. He felt as though he might explode, showering the campsite in a rain of fatty tissues. What had changed since his adolescence? He still had the same desires, with the knowledge that he probably could never satisfy them. A world that respects only the young eventually devours everyone. For lunch, he chose a Catholic. She was easy to spot: she wore a big iron cross around her neck; besides, her heavy lower lids gave her eyes the fervor common to Catholics or mystics (though, admittedly, also to alcoholics). Long dark hair, pale complexion, a bit skinny but not bad-looking. Facing her sat a girl with reddish blonde hair, the Swiss-Californian type: six feet tall, perfect body, obscenely healthy. She was the leader of the Tantric Zen workshop. In fact, her name was Brigitte Martin and she came from Créteil. She had been initiated into the mysteries of the Orient in California, where she had her breasts done and changed her name. Back in Créteil, she ran a class on Tantric Zen under the name of Shanti Martin; the Catholic was clearly impressed. At first, Bruno found it easy to join in their discussion, which seemed to be about macrobiotics—he had read up on wheat germ—but the conversation quickly turned to more religious themes and soon he was lost. Could Jesus be subsumed into Krishna, or perhaps into some other deity? Was Rin Tin Tin more lovable than Lucky Luke’s Rusty? Though Catholic, this woman had no time for the Pope; his medieval outlook, in her opinion, was hindering the spiritual evolution of the Western world. “You’re right,” said Bruno, “he’s a retard.” The judgment earned him a new respect from the others. “And the Dalai Lama can wiggle his ears,” he said dolefully as he finished his tofu burger.

Indefatigable, the Catholic got up before coffee was served—she didn’t want to be late for her personal development workshop, “The Principles of Yes-Yes.” “Ah yes, Yes-yes is cool,” said the Swiss-Californian as she got up. “Thanks for the chat,” said the Catholic, turning back with a smile. Anyway, he hadn’t done too badly, Bruno thought as he headed back to his tent. “Talking to morons like that is like pissing in a urinal full of cigarette butts, like shitting in a toilet full of Tampax: nothing gets flushed, and everything starts to stink.” Space separates one skin from another. Words cross the space, the space between one skin and another. Unheard, unanswered, the words hang in the air and begin to decay, to stink; that’s the way it is. Seen like this, words could separate, too.

At the pool, he found a pool-chair. The teenage girls danced around like idiots, shivering, hoping a boy might push them in. The sun was at its height; slick, naked bodies moved across the expanse of blue. Without thinking, Bruno launched into a children’s book,
The Six Companions and the Gloved Man,
Paul Jacques Bonzon’s masterpiece, recently republished by the Bibliothèque Verte. In the unbearable glare of the sun, it was good to find himself back in the mists of Lyons with his stalwart companion, Kapi the dog.

The afternoon program offered a choice between “Sensitive Gestalt-Massage,” “Liberating the Voice” and “Rebirthing in Warm Water.” In theory, massage sounded the sexiest. He had a brief glimpse of liberating the voice as he walked up to the massage workshop: there were about ten of them, very excited, jumping around to the directions of the Tantric woman and screeching like startled turkeys.

At the top of the hill, arranged in a circle, were trestle tables, each covered with a large towel. The students were naked. In the center of the circle, the instructor, a small, dark-haired man with a slight squint, gave a brief history of sensitive Gestalt-massage. Born out of Fritz Perls’s Gestalt—or “Californian”—massage, the method had evolved to integrate aspects of the sensual to become—in his opinion—the most complete form of massage. There were those at the Lieu, he admitted, who did not share his point of view, but he did not wish to become polemical. Whatever the truth of it—and he would like to end on this note—there was massage and then there was massage; in fact one might say that no two massages were alike. Having finished his preamble, he began the demonstration by asking one of the women to lie on the table. “Feel the tension in your partner,” he commented as he stroked her shoulders, his cock only centimeters from the girl’s long blonde hair. “Harmony, it’s all about harmony . . .” he went on, pouring oil on her breasts. “You must respect the wholeness of the body . . .” His hands slipped down her stomach; the girl closed her eyes and parted her thighs, clearly enjoying his work.

“There you go,” he concluded. “Now I want you to work in pairs. Take your time, move around the space, get to know each other.” Still hypnotized by what he had just seen, Bruno was slow to react, though this was the crucial moment. You simply approached your partner of choice, smiled, and calmly asked her, “Would you like to work with me?” Everyone else seemed to know the drill, and in thirty seconds it was all over. Bruno looked around, panic-stricken, and found himself face to face with a hairy little man with dark hair and a thick penis. He had not realized there were only five girls for seven guys.

Thankfully the other guy didn’t look like a queer. Visibly furious, he lay down on his stomach without a word, rested his head on his arms and waited. “Feel the tension . . . respect the wholeness of the body . . .” Bruno poured more oil on but couldn’t get past the knees; the guy’s body was stiff as a board. Even his buttocks were hairy. The oil was beginning to drip onto the towel, the guy’s calves had to be saturated. Bruno looked up. Next to him, two men were lying on their backs. On his left, the man was having his pectorals massaged; the woman’s breasts swayed gently, his nose level with her pussy. The instructor’s ghetto blaster pumped out synthesizer music; the sky was a perfect blue. All around him oil-slick cocks were beginning to rise toward the light. Everything seemed intensely
real
. He could not bear it any longer. On the far side of the circle, the instructor was advising a couple on technique. Bruno grabbed his backpack and hurried off toward the pool, where it was clearly rush hour. On the nearby lawn, naked women lay chatting, reading or simply taking the sun. Where should he sit? Towel in hand, he wandered erratically across the lawn, tottering as it were between the vaginas. He decided it was time to get off the fence when he spotted the Catholic talking to a dark-skinned rugged little guy with bright eyes and dark curly hair. He made a vague sign of recognition—she did not notice—and flopped down nearby. “Hey, Karim!” someone called to the dark-skinned man as he walked past. Karim waved and went on talking to the Catholic, who lay quietly on her back listening. She had a pretty muff of curly black hair between her thighs. As they chatted, Karim gently kneaded his balls. Bruno rested his head on the grass and concentrated on the gentle world barely a meter away within the Catholic’s pubic hair. He quickly fell asleep.