The Pleasure of M (12 page)
Authors: Michel Farnac
Finally,
he
knows
I
am
ready.
His
head
moves
between
my
legs.
And
as
I
lie
there
spread-‐eagled
on
the
bed,
it
is
now
you
who
make
love
to
me.
I
have
been
drawn
into
another
world.
I
am
spellbound
by
the
sounds
of
the
tropical
birds
calling
outside
the
open
door,
the
whirr
of
the
fan
overhead,
the
view
of
waving
palm
fronds.
I
have
stepped
into
one
of
those
fantasies
which
we
have
previously
created.
I
am
living
our
story.
Your
tongue
torments
me
until
I
am
pushed
over
the
edge
and
you
hold
tight
to
me
as
you
feel
the
waves
of
pleasure
wash
over
me.
I
push
your
hand
away
and
replace
it
with
my
own
to
enhance
the
last
sensations
as
you
watch
with
a
big
smile
on
your
face.
Yours,
Catherine”
Their
life
stories
diverged
as
much
as
their
thoughts
converged,
and
it
was
his
magic
that
could
draw
these
thoughts
out
into
words,
whether
from
her
mouth
or
his.
With
him,
the
smallest
thing
was
worthy
of
consideration
and
meaning.
Desires,
longings,
pleasures,
choices
from
long
ago.
His
presence
endowed
her
not
only
with
the
freedom
to
express
herself
but
also
the
means.
Words
flowed
between
them
and
they
breathed
them
in
as
if
to
substitute
for
the
air
they
could
not
share.
They
loved
the
sound
of
each
other’s
voice.
For
him
it
was
like
feeling
the
effect
of
the
first
hit
of
a
good
joint,
soothing,
the
feeling
of
returning
to
a
comfortable
place
where
one
always
feels
welcome.
For
her
it
was
the
echo
of
a
shiver
moving
slowly
down
her
spine,
the
slight
quickening
of
her
pulse.
He
had
a
wonderfully
delicate
French
accent,
the
lightest
hint
of
a
foreign
melody
with
some
recurring
notes
such
as
his
way
of
pronouncing
‘I.D.’
for
‘idea’
and
other
amusing
and
endearing
lapses,
mainly
on
diphthongs.
She
asked
him
to
speak
to
her
in
French
a
couple
of
times
and
he
did,
though
it
evoked
in
him
images
of
Cleese
and
Murray
in
Wanda
and
Groundhog
which
made
it
difficult.
He
recited
for
her
Ronsard
and
Baudelaire,
pearls
of
beauty
bestowed
upon
him
in
another
time
when
the
passions
in
him
flowed
freely
unhindered
by
the
garb
of
a
life
half-‐lived.
As
much
as
she
adored
speaking
with
him,
the
messages
had
a
special
attraction
in
that
she
could
read
them
over
and
over.
She
would
pick
them
apart,
marvel
at
his
choice
of
words,
read
them
out
loud
and
hear
him
speaking.
She
made
lists
of
words
that
particularly
moved
her
when
she
read
them
and
on
occasion
sit
and
gather
them
like
a
word
collector,
removing
duplicates,
making
groups
by
theme,
by
color,
by
smell…
She
sent
him
a
list
once:
Enamored,
unpredictable,
solace,
heartbeat,
familiar,
strong,
gently,
rhythmic,
ancient
patterns,
warm,
impale,
caress,
island,
aftershocks,
petal
by
petal,
crescendo,
probe,
pulsating,
envelope,
marble,
guide,
behind,
dream,
phallus,
benediction,
trembling,
ride,
soft,
glove,
dream,
lava,
antechamber,
stroke,
enter,
shudder,
wave,
sanctuary,
explode,
ecstasy….
to
his
next
message
was
his
initial
reaction
to
the
reading
of
her
lit.
“Enamored:
Taken
by
surprise
-‐
Sun
shining
in
smiling
eyes
-‐
And
out-‐of-‐breath
sighs
So
hard
to
see
through
-‐
Always
seeking
something
new
-‐
Yet
always
so
true
Solace:
Longing
made
absent
-‐
Conquer
fear,
make
doubt
relent
-‐
Now
the
soul’s
ascent
Heartbeat:
Sacred
sound,
ocean,
-‐
Through
the
veins,
tides
of
passion
-‐
Lust
but
no
caution
Familiar:
Ancient
walls
echo
-‐
So
softly,
ever
so
low
-‐
Sweet
sounds
that
we
know
Strong:
The
body
you
desire
-‐
My
desire
for
your
body
-‐
Our
bond
and
our
lust
Gently:
I
caress
your
back
-‐
Lick
your
nipples
‘til
they
ache
-‐
Ever
so
gently
The
sound
of
our
blood
-‐
Pounding
in
each
other’s
ears
-‐
Form
effort
and
lust
Patterns:
Each
day
a
new
life
-‐
Each
life
an
old
tale
retold
-‐
Ancient
patterns
live
Warm
is
your
embrace
-‐
Warm
the
sheath
for
my
phallus
-‐
Warm
is
your
body
Impale:
Vanquishing
warrior
-‐
Like
a
trophy
on
a
lance
-‐
Impaled
on
my
flesh
Caress:
The
slow
moving
hand
-‐
Reverently
exploring
-‐
The
skin
you
expose
Island:
A
tropical
dream
-‐
A
little
piece
of
heaven
-‐
Our
own
little
beach…”
It
would
become
another
motif
in
their
correspondence
and
over
the
next
few
months
he
would
continue
the
cycle
of
one
haiku
for
each
word
in
her
list.
No
man
had
ever
written
poetry
for
her.
Michel
was
by
far
the
most
eloquent
man
she
had
ever
met,
although
sometimes
he
left
her
head
spinning
with
his
existentialist
ideas.
She
was
a
'simple'
girl
and
one
who
was
prone
to
feeling
inadequate
save
for
the
fact
that
she
evolved
in
a
world
populated
with
people
beside
whom
she
demonstrated
superior
intelligence,
but
not
so
with
Michel.
Contrasting
him
with
her
husband
was
at
once
revealing
and
painful.
Her
husband
was
a
very
good
man,
overall,
with
relatively
few
of
the
defects
that
make
men
unbearable,
but
while
one
might
still
call
love
what
remains
after
upward
of
a
decade
and
two
children,
it
is
a
form
of
love
in
flux,
far
from
the
dreams
and
passions
of
youth
yet
still
distant
from
the
devotion
one
can
see
between
those
who
have
survived
an
entire
life
together.
Mistakes
and
misunderstandings
are
overcome
well
before
they
are
forgotten
and
her
lot
of
daily
frustrations
now
had
a
focal
point,
inevitably,
even
though
she
and
Michel
acknowledged
openly
that
hey
showed
each
other
only
the
best
of
themselves
with
ease
and
glee,
their
prerogative
as
lovers.
“Michel
wouldn’t
say
that”
was
probably
the
most
common
thought
to
enter
her
mind
before
she
could
stop
it
and
she
learned
to
hate
that
moment
for
where
it
would
lead
her.
It
was
unfair
to
her
husband,
undoubtedly,
since
the
very
thought
stemmed
from
her
betrayal
of
him,
and
yet
he
was
a
clear
beneficiary
of
the
situation
freely
clamoring
as
he
was
to
their
friends
when
he
thought
her
out
of
earshot
that
his
was
a
great
marriage,
something
she
had
never
heard
before
Michel.
Though
raised
a
Catholic
she
was
not
one
to
often
go
to
confession
and
her
conflict
was
not
grounded
in
guilt,
being
more
philosophical
and
existential
in
nature
than
theological.
Guilt
would
have
come
from
any
harm
she
would
have
done
others
and
there
was
clearly
none.
There
were
now
two
lives
in
her
existence
and
though
they
brought
her
everything
she
desired
they
could
not
be
reconciled,
and
it
was
Michel
she
could
not
touch.
To
palliate
this,
she
pursued
her
quest
to
understand
male
pleasure
further
and
sometimes
reminded
Michel
of
his
promise
of
a
full
description
of
his
orgasm.
The
very
idea
of
describing
an
orgasm
might
have
seemed
simple
to
Michel
at
first
but
he
was
soon
presented
with
certain
difficulties
intrinsic
to
the
task:
to
start
with,
describing
the
orgasm
would
require
him
to
actually
be
there
when
it
happened
in
order
to
first
observe
it,
a
self-‐awareness
that
inhibited
the
very
pleasure
he
was
trying
to
explore.
He
found
that
it
was
quite
like
trying
to
transcribe
a
good
improvised
solo
after
having
played
it,
a
frustrating
exercise
resulting
at
best
in
an
incomplete
and
unsatisfactory
approximation.
And
just
as
no
two
such
solos
are
alike,
so
too
with
orgasms.
The
great
infrequency
of
marital
sex
complicated
things
for
him
further.
He
was
no
stranger
to
masturbation,
without
which
no
doubt
his
marriage
would
not
have
survived,
but
as
he
explained
to
Catherine
in
response
to
her
renewed
demands
for
prose,
there
is
quite
a
difference
between
intercourse
and
sex
à
one
.