The Pleasure of M (24 page)

I
  realize
  that
  I
  have
  not
  been
  very
  good
  at
  articulating
  what
  you
  have
  given
  me
 
through
  this
  relationship.
  Your
  recent
  messages
  got
  me
  to
  wondering
  why,
  and
 
because
 that
 wasn't
 too
 successful,
 got
 me
 to
 wanting
 to
 articulate
 it
 and
 see
 where
 
it
  would
  go
  from
  there.
  You
  mention
  often
  how
  important
  it
  is
  for
  you
  to
  please.
 
Your
  application
  of
  this
  to
  me
  is
  of
  course
  the
  first
  thing
  that
  I
  have
  derived
  from
 
knowing
  you:
  much
  pleasure.
  But
  it
  also
  leads
  to
  another
  part.
  You
  are
  indeed
  a
 
Pleaser,
  and
  in
  this
  categorization
  of
  humanity
  into
  archetypes,
  I
  find
  four:
  the
 
Pleaser,
  the
  Giver,
  the
  Taker
  and
  the
  Transient.
  I
  am
  a
  Giver.
  One
  of
  the
  things
  I
 
cherish
 most
 about
 our
 relationship
 is
 you
 telling
 me
 how
 much
 I
 have
 given
 you.
 I
 
hope
  this
  does
  not
  sound
  petty.
  Telling
  me
  that
  I
  have
  gifted
  you
  with
 
Weltanschauung
 is
 like
 giving
 a
 puppy
 a
 belly
 rub:
 I
 almost
 peed
 all
 over
 the
 place.
 
Beyond
 that,
 you
 brought
 a
 lantern
 into
 the
 cave
 in
 which
 I
 dwelt,
 you
 gave
 me
 my
 
anima
 by
 showing
 me
 a
 woman's
 true
 form,
 in
 all
 its
 glory.
 You
 have
 freed
 me
 from
 
many
  demons,
  mended
  me
  in
  many
  places.
  The
  list
  is
  long.
  You've
  allowed
  me
  to
 
think
 of
 myself
 as
 a
 man
 again.
 That's
 a
 great
 gift.
 

Yours,
 
Michel”
 

Of
 how
 many
 times
 her
 spine
 had
 been
 nearly
 paralyzed
 by
 shivers
 upon
 reading
 his
 
words
 she
 had
 lost
 count,
 knowing
 only
 that
 this
 was
 one
 more.
 These
 words
 were
 
high
 praise
 indeed,
 coming
 from
 his
 heart
 as
 she
 knew
 they
 did:
 she
 would
 cherish
 
them
 forever.
 
 As
  a
  child,
  she
  had
  briefly
  know
  a
  great-‐uncle
  who
  was
  a
  priest
  and
 
grown
 quite
 fond
 of
 him
 before
 he
 passed
 away.
 One
 afternoon,
 she
 was
 sitting
 on
 
his
 lap
 as
 he
 showed
 her
 the
 art
 of
 gothic
 calligraphy
 with
 quill
 and
 ink,
 and
 when
 he
 
was
 done
 and
 she
 looked
 up
 at
 him,
 she
 saw
 something
 and
 asked
 him
 about
 it:
 “You
 
have
  two
  smiles
  and
  the
  second
  one
  is
  bigger
  than
  the
  other.
  Why
  is
  that?”
  His
 
answer
  had
  stuck
  with
  her
  all
  these
  years:
  “The
  first
  is
  from
  the
  pleasure
  of
  being
 
with
 you,
 and
 the
 second
 comes
 from
 knowing
 I’ve
 got
 the
 first.”
 She
 thought
 of
 this
 
when
 her
 smile
 broadened
 between
 her
 third
 and
 fourth
 reading
 of
 Michel’s
 words.
 
As
  often,
  the
  e-‐mail
  was
  so
  dense
  with
  meaning
  that
  a
  single
  reading
  would
  have
 
served
 it
 ill,
 but
 clearly
 the
 last
 reading’s
 purpose
 was
 to
 wallow
 in
 the
 pleasure
 of
 
his
  praise,
  no
  longer
  to
  further
  her
  understanding
  of
  his
  words
  but
  to
  revel
  in
  the
 
pleasure
 of
 the
 pleasure
 that
 his
 words
 gave
 her.
 She
 knew
 that
 he
 understood
 such
 
things
  in
  ways
  perhaps
  more
  intricate
  than
  she
  but
  did
  not
  care,
  for
  he
  did
  not
 
either.
 
 

She
  accorded
  great
  value
  to
  his
  presence
  in
  her
  dreams,
  a
  common
  occurrence
 
which
 had
 caused
 some
 confusion
 in
 her
 when
 the
 image
 had
 become
 more
 precise.
 
She
 had
 not
 requested
 it
 per
 se
 but
 had
 clearly
 intimated
 to
 him
 over
 the
 course
 of
 
many
 conversations
 that
 she
 had
 a
 burning
 desire
 to
 know
 what
 he
 looked
 like.
 The
 
request
  would
  have
  been
  out
  of
  place,
  perhaps,
  and
  a
  rupture
  of
  one
  of
  the
  limits
 
that
  had
  inherently
  defined
  their
  affair,
  and
  she
  had
  not
  wanted
  to
  arouse
  in
  him
 
feelings
 of
 caution
 towards
 her
 motives,
 but
 much
 more
 deeply
 she
 had
 been
 afraid
 
that
 such
 a
 request
 could
 then
 lead
 to
 a
 symmetric
 one
 from
 him,
 one
 she
 was
 not
 
ready
 to
 accede
 to.
 Yet
 one
 day,
 in
 her
 inbox
 was
 an
 email
 from
 Michel
 with
 as
 only
 
body
 his:
 a
 picture
 of
 him
 in
 a
 strange
 backlit
 chiaroscuro,
 unclothed
 but
 for
 a
 robe
 
loosely
 draped
 on
 his
 shoulders,
 his
 nakedness
 revealed
 for
 her
 pleasure.
 Since
 then
 
the
  dreams
  had
  gotten
  much
  more
  realistic
  as
  her
  visions
  of
  him
  had
  the
  feel
  of
 
reality
  engendered
  by
  familiarity.
  The
  receipt
  of
  the
  image
  had
  caused
  some
 
trepidation
 on
 her
 part
 as
 she
 fully
 expected
 that
 this
 was
 the
 prelude
 to
 a
 demand
 
for
  a
  reciprocation
  that
  she
  did
  not
  feel
  she
  would
  be
  able
  to
  deliver
  on,
  but
  as
  it
 
happened
  Michel
  never
  asked
  for
  anything
  nor
  in
  fact
  ever
  made
  mention
  of
  the
 
photo
  until
  she
  one
  day
  asked
  him
  who
  had
  taken
  it,
  to
  which
  he
  replied
  ‘myself,
 
with
 a
 remote
 control’.
 In
 fact,
 it
 had
 not
 taken
 long
 to
 understand
 that
 his
 invitation
 
had
 been
 declined
 and
 he
 felt
 no
 need
 to
 ask
 her
 since
 he
 knew
 well
 it
 would
 only
 
make
 her
 uncomfortable.
 He
 was
 quite
 happy
 to
 know
 that
 she
 had
 the
 image
 and
 he
 
was
 content,
 as
 it
 were.
 He
 had
 a
 very
 different
 relationship
 to
 his
 dreams
 indeed.
 
For
  years
  mostly
  he’d
  made
  every
  effort
  to
  not
  remember
  them,
  knowing
  full
  well
 
that
 this
 was
 not
 the
 norm.
 On
 the
 whole
 his
 dreams
 were
 unpleasant
 and
 there
 had
 
been
 times
 in
 his
 life
 when
 his
 dreaming
 had
 been
 made
 up
 mainly
 (or
 so
 it
 seemed)
 
of
 recurring
 mild
 nightmares
 which
 went
 on
 for
 weeks
 and
 more.
 Later
 as
 a
 young
 
musician
  in
  Europe
  he
  had
  discovered
  that
  the
  use
  of
  certain
  narcotics
  could
 
suppress
 any
 memory
 of
 his
 dreams,
 something
 that
 had
 nearly
 ruined
 the
 budding
 
musical
 career
 he
 was
 having
 but
 also
 seemed
 to
 have
 permanently
 diminished
 the
 
intensity
  of
  his
  dream
  memories
  upon
  waking,
  which
  essentially
  meant
  that
  if
  he
 
made
 no
 effort
 to
 remember
 his
 dreams
 in
 the
 morning,
 he
 never
 remembered
 any
 
of
 them
 at
 all,
 and
 that
 suited
 him
 just
 fine
 until
 his
 affair
 with
 Catherine
 had
 really
 
taken
  off.
  Now
  he
  had
  developed
  a
  new
  ritual
  in
  the
  morning,
  where
  he
  tried
  to
 
probe
 his
 mood
 and
 residual
 sensations
 as
 he
 awoke
 to
 figure
 out
 if
 he
 had
 dreamt
 
of
 Catherine
 and
 if
 so
 to
 immediately
 try
 to
 focus
 his
 memory
 on
 the
 dream
 at
 hand,
 
and
 this
 seemed
 to
 work
 well.
 Of
 course,
 her
 shape
 had
 no
 face.
 This
 did
 not
 bother
 
him.
 In
 his
 dreams
 she
 was
 first
 and
 foremost
 a
 presence
 whose
 appearance
 tended
 
to
  differ
  depending
  on
  the
  setting
  and
  the
  situation,
  changing
  from
  blonde
  to
 
brunette,
 long
 hair
 to
 short
 hair,
 light
 eyes
 to
 dark
 (for
 while
 faceless
 to
 him
 she
 did
 
have
  eyes
  always).
  There
  was
  no
  glamour
  or
  amazing
  beauty
  in
  his
  onyric
 
representations
  of
  her
  but
  always
  a
  soothing
  serenity
  bathed
  in
  the
  glow
  of
 
familiarity,
  however
  fleeting
  her
  features.
  More
  often
  than
  not
  it
  was
  an
  erection
 
that
 indicated
 without
 the
 shadow
 of
 a
 doubt
 that
 he
 had
 dreamt
 of
 her.
 He
 shared
 
as
 much
 with
 Catherine
 who
 quickly
 became
 enthralled
 with
 the
 images
 that
 Michel
 
was
 conjuring
 in
 her
 mind.
 

OK,
 so
 now
 I
 will
 be
 ahead
 of
 you
 by
 one
 as
 I
 sneak
 in
 a
 quick
 message.
 I
 have
 just
 
showered
 and
 sit
 here
 naked
 in
 my
 robe
 -‐
 fragrant
 and
 warm.
 We
 are
 going
 out
 for
 
breakfast
  and
  then
  to
  the
  public
  market
  to
  buy
  plants,
  as
  it
  is
  finally
  the
  growing
 
season
 in
 New
 York.
 I
 am
 hoping
 for
 a
 sexual
 encounter
 when
 we
 return
 and
 turn
 to
 
you
 for
 inspiration.
 

What
 do
 you
 do
 when
 you
 feel
 stirrings
 in
 your
 cock?
 Do
 you
 ignore
 them
 and
 play
 
the
 role
 of
 monk?
 Or
 do
 you
 take
 it
 into
 your
 hands
 and
 bring
 yourself
 to
 a
 further
 
state
 of
 satisfaction?
 Seeing
 your
 cock
 in
 real
 life
 is
 still
 on
 my
 to-‐do
 list,
 but
 I
 would
 
leave
 it
 up
 to
 you
 as
 to
 whether
 you
 give
 me
 permission
 to
 touch.
 

Teasingly
 yours,
 
Catherine”
 
“Dear
 Catherine,
 

As
 often,
 your
 first
 paragraph
 and
 its
 description
 of
 your
 day
 of
 rest
 was
 enthralling.
 
I
 will
 try
 to
 answer
 your
 concerns
 if
 partially
 only,
 then
 at
 least
 unequivocally.
 This
 
morning
 was
 a
 good
 example,
 as
 I
 awoke
 with
 a
 hard-‐on
 and
 decided
 to
 take
 matters
 
into
 my
 own
 hands.
 My
 wife
 was
 up
 and
 already
 upstairs
 (the
 bedrooms
 are
 below
 
in
 our
 apartment).
 There
 is
 something
 very
 soothing
 about
 having
 an
 orgasm
 when
 
one
 wakes
 up,
 very
 relaxing.
 While
 the
 intensity
 of
 the
 orgasm
 is
 quite
 diminished
 
with
 self-‐satisfaction,
 the
 physical
 effort
 is
 much
 less,
 of
 course,
 which
 has
 its
 good
 
side.
 I
 find
 the
 concept
 of
 prolonged
 periods
 without
 orgasms
 distasteful
 and
 have
 
never
  done
  so
  (not
  counting
  the
  first
  eleven
  years
  of
  my
  life).
  One
  may
  easily
 
conclude
  that
  upwards
  of
  99%
  of
  my
  sexual
  pleasure
  has
  been
  self-‐induced.
  I
  pity
 
those
 who
 have
 taboos
 around
 such
 things:
 I
 have
 none.