The Elementary Particles by Michel Houellebecq Page B
Authors: Michel Houellebecq
Tags: Fiction
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little brats, one on each hip, and rocked them gently. They screamed louder. The squaw’s brave trotted up, his cock dangling in the breeze. He was about fifty, a stocky guy with long gray hair and a beard. He took one of the little monkeys in his arms and started tickling it. Disgusting. Bruno moved a little way off—that was a close call. With little monsters like that, he wouldn’t get a wink of sleep. She was obviously breast-feeding, the cow; nice tits, though.
He walked a couple of meters away from the wigwam, but didn’t want to stray too far from the panties. They were delicate, lacy and transparent, and he couldn’t imagine they belonged to the squaw. He finally found a spot between two Canadian girls (cousins? sisters? school friends?) and set to work.
It was almost dark by the time he had finished. In the half-light, he went back to get his suitcases. He met a number of people on the way: both couples and singles, and quite a few single women in their forties. At regular intervals there were signs nailed to the trees reading MUTUAL RESPECT . He walked up to one of them; underneath was a small dish full of condoms conforming to French specifications. Below, there was a white plastic trash can. He stepped on the pedal and turned on his flashlight; the trash can was mostly full of empty beer cans, but there were also used condoms. That’s reassuring, thought Bruno; it looks like this place is humming.
The trip back was difficult; he was out of breath and the suitcase handles cut into his hands. He had to stop halfway up. Some people were still circulating, the beams from their flashlights crossing in the darkness. There was still a lot of traffic on the coast road. The Dynasty on the way to Saint-Clément had a topless night, but he didn’t feel up to it. He stood motionless for half an hour. This is my life, thought Bruno, I’m watching the cars’ headlights through the trees.
When he got back to his tent he poured himself a whiskey and jerked off slowly, flicking through a copy of
Swing—
“pleasure is a right”—having bought a copy at a service station near Angers. He had no intention of really replying to any of the small ads; he couldn’t hack a
gang bang
or a
sperm fest
. The women seeking single men were generally looking for black guys, and in any case he did not come close to the minimum size they required. Issue after issue, he came to the conclusion that his cock was too small for the porn circuit.
In general, however, he was not unhappy with his body. The hair transplant had taken well—luckily he’d found a good surgeon. He worked out regularly and, frankly, thought he looked good for forty-two. He poured another whiskey, ejaculated on the magazine and fell asleep, almost content.
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
He walked a couple of meters away from the wigwam, but didn’t want to stray too far from the panties. They were delicate, lacy and transparent, and he couldn’t imagine they belonged to the squaw. He finally found a spot between two Canadian girls (cousins? sisters? school friends?) and set to work.
It was almost dark by the time he had finished. In the half-light, he went back to get his suitcases. He met a number of people on the way: both couples and singles, and quite a few single women in their forties. At regular intervals there were signs nailed to the trees reading MUTUAL RESPECT . He walked up to one of them; underneath was a small dish full of condoms conforming to French specifications. Below, there was a white plastic trash can. He stepped on the pedal and turned on his flashlight; the trash can was mostly full of empty beer cans, but there were also used condoms. That’s reassuring, thought Bruno; it looks like this place is humming.
The trip back was difficult; he was out of breath and the suitcase handles cut into his hands. He had to stop halfway up. Some people were still circulating, the beams from their flashlights crossing in the darkness. There was still a lot of traffic on the coast road. The Dynasty on the way to Saint-Clément had a topless night, but he didn’t feel up to it. He stood motionless for half an hour. This is my life, thought Bruno, I’m watching the cars’ headlights through the trees.
When he got back to his tent he poured himself a whiskey and jerked off slowly, flicking through a copy of
Swing—
“pleasure is a right”—having bought a copy at a service station near Angers. He had no intention of really replying to any of the small ads; he couldn’t hack a
gang bang
or a
sperm fest
. The women seeking single men were generally looking for black guys, and in any case he did not come close to the minimum size they required. Issue after issue, he came to the conclusion that his cock was too small for the porn circuit.
In general, however, he was not unhappy with his body. The hair transplant had taken well—luckily he’d found a good surgeon. He worked out regularly and, frankly, thought he looked good for forty-two. He poured another whiskey, ejaculated on the magazine and fell asleep, almost content.
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
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