exquisitely pleasurable pain, to penetrate or to be penetrated. At the end Andrés’s mouth, forbidden to kiss Guy’s swollen lips, was just an open vowel of ecstasy as they both spilled on his muscly stomach in the dim, shifting colored light of the television and its maddening banter.
Guy had been in America so long that the French struck him as either coiled up and suspicious or absurdly sweet, with an eye out for profit—either paranoid or sycophantic.
He knew what they were up to, he’d been that way, too, with strangers, but in the intervening years he’d become as naïve, as kind, as childish ( bon enfant ) as Americans, which he definitely preferred now. Why waste all that energy being suspicious or syrupy? In America photographers and their assistants and the hair and makeup people thought of him as a good guy, but here, he noticed, friendliness was considered troubling. He enjoyed talking to his old French friends on the phone and with them he could joke and tell stories with no point, but if he tried to make conversation during a fashion shoot the strangers on the set went about their jobs briskly and greeted his American-style garrulousness with a sharp, derisive look, an intake of breath, and an “ Et alors? ”
Making love to Andrés was a full-time job. Whenever they went for a walk or a meal he could feel the impatient desire building up in the boy; at a table he’d rest his heavy head again on his huge cupped hand and look out the window, his mouth open. From time to time he’d surface from his thoughts and the racing images, no doubt, of remembered or projected couplings. Then he’d smile and say something amusing, but it almost felt as if a grieving man were trying to make small talk during a wake; he was definitely downshifting into a different speed. Only when they returned to their hotel room did his thoughts and actions seem to converge. He became more and more passionate and Guy thought of the Greek word agon , wasn’t it at once an athletic contest and a style of suffering, an agony? Wasn’t it the name of that Balanchine ballet he liked so much?
When he called his mother she sobbed into the phone and said, “Thank God you’re back in France. Your father is going quickly. Come home right away. Tonight.”
Guy said yes, of course, but after hanging up he sank into the bleakest resentment. He felt as if the last twenty years had just been a rosy chimera. He felt as if his parents were dragging him away from his glamorous, cosseted life in which so many men loved him. He knew his father had been fighting emphysema for years, though he wouldn’t give up his pack of Gauloises a day and would even turn off the oxygen in his tent so that he could smoke another clope . He was now so bad he couldn’t talk on the phone without gasping, and his mother said he couldn’t walk fifty meters without sitting down to catch his breath.
“What’s wrong?” Andrés asked, a crease across his lovely smooth forehead.
“I’ve got to take the train down to Clermont-Ferrand. My father’s very sick. I think he’s dying.”
“ Oh, mon petit, ” Andrés said folding him into his arms. “Tonight?”
“Yes, I guess.”
“I’ll come with you.”
“No, that wouldn’t work. They don’t want a guest at this time. And there are no hotels nearby. You can’t believe how … poor it is! How poor they are. And how would I explain you to them?”
Andrés was Latin enough to understand the sacred rights of the family and the inconvenience of a same-sex lover. He looked pained, as if someone had turned off his oxygen, too; Guy remembered that in a crisis Latins don’t know how to be stoic. They wear their emotions on their sleeve, and their lips, far from being stiff, are quavering with self-pity.
They had only two more hours before the train but Andrés managed to squeeze in another orgasm. Guy couldn’t concentrate on sex. The concierge was arranging his train ticket, but he had to cancel
Guy had been in America so long that the French struck him as either coiled up and suspicious or absurdly sweet, with an eye out for profit—either paranoid or sycophantic.
He knew what they were up to, he’d been that way, too, with strangers, but in the intervening years he’d become as naïve, as kind, as childish ( bon enfant ) as Americans, which he definitely preferred now. Why waste all that energy being suspicious or syrupy? In America photographers and their assistants and the hair and makeup people thought of him as a good guy, but here, he noticed, friendliness was considered troubling. He enjoyed talking to his old French friends on the phone and with them he could joke and tell stories with no point, but if he tried to make conversation during a fashion shoot the strangers on the set went about their jobs briskly and greeted his American-style garrulousness with a sharp, derisive look, an intake of breath, and an “ Et alors? ”
Making love to Andrés was a full-time job. Whenever they went for a walk or a meal he could feel the impatient desire building up in the boy; at a table he’d rest his heavy head again on his huge cupped hand and look out the window, his mouth open. From time to time he’d surface from his thoughts and the racing images, no doubt, of remembered or projected couplings. Then he’d smile and say something amusing, but it almost felt as if a grieving man were trying to make small talk during a wake; he was definitely downshifting into a different speed. Only when they returned to their hotel room did his thoughts and actions seem to converge. He became more and more passionate and Guy thought of the Greek word agon , wasn’t it at once an athletic contest and a style of suffering, an agony? Wasn’t it the name of that Balanchine ballet he liked so much?
When he called his mother she sobbed into the phone and said, “Thank God you’re back in France. Your father is going quickly. Come home right away. Tonight.”
Guy said yes, of course, but after hanging up he sank into the bleakest resentment. He felt as if the last twenty years had just been a rosy chimera. He felt as if his parents were dragging him away from his glamorous, cosseted life in which so many men loved him. He knew his father had been fighting emphysema for years, though he wouldn’t give up his pack of Gauloises a day and would even turn off the oxygen in his tent so that he could smoke another clope . He was now so bad he couldn’t talk on the phone without gasping, and his mother said he couldn’t walk fifty meters without sitting down to catch his breath.
“What’s wrong?” Andrés asked, a crease across his lovely smooth forehead.
“I’ve got to take the train down to Clermont-Ferrand. My father’s very sick. I think he’s dying.”
“ Oh, mon petit, ” Andrés said folding him into his arms. “Tonight?”
“Yes, I guess.”
“I’ll come with you.”
“No, that wouldn’t work. They don’t want a guest at this time. And there are no hotels nearby. You can’t believe how … poor it is! How poor they are. And how would I explain you to them?”
Andrés was Latin enough to understand the sacred rights of the family and the inconvenience of a same-sex lover. He looked pained, as if someone had turned off his oxygen, too; Guy remembered that in a crisis Latins don’t know how to be stoic. They wear their emotions on their sleeve, and their lips, far from being stiff, are quavering with self-pity.
They had only two more hours before the train but Andrés managed to squeeze in another orgasm. Guy couldn’t concentrate on sex. The concierge was arranging his train ticket, but he had to cancel
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