suspender belt and minuscule g-string in black lace which left her buttocks completely naked. To be sure, her serious, even slightly obstinate face seemed to indicate a prudent character; here was a girl who must surely carry condoms in her bag.
For a few minutes Tisserand danced not far from her, thrusting his arms forward energetically to indicate the enthusiasm the music caused in him. On two or three occasions he even clapped his hands to the beat; but the girl didn't seem to notice him in the least. Profiting from a short break between records he took the initiative and addressed a few words to her. She turned, threw him a scornful glance and took off across the dance floor to get away from him. That was that.
Everything was going as planned. I left to order a second bourbon at the bar.
On my return I sensed that something new was in the offing. A girl was sitting at the table next to mine, alone. She was much younger than Véronique, she might have been seventeen; that aside, she horribly resembled her. Her extremely simple, rather ample dress of beige did not really show off the contours of her body; they scarcely had need of it. The wide hips, the firm and smooth buttocks; the suppleness of the waist which leads the hands up to a pair of round, ample and soft breasts; the hands which rest confidently on the waist, espousing the noble rotundity of the hips. I knew it all; all I had to do was close my eyes to remember. Up to the face, full and candid, expressing the calm seduction of the natural woman, confident of her beauty. The calm serenity of the young filly, still frisky, eager to try out her limbs in a short gallop. The calm tranquillity of Eve, in love with her own nakedness, knowing herself to be obviously and eternally desirable. I realized that two years of separation had changed nothing; I knocked back my bourbon in one. This was the moment Tisserand chose to return; he was perspiring slightly; he spoke to me; I think he wished to know if I intended trying something with the girl. I didn't reply; I was starting to feel like vomiting, and I had a hard-on; things were at a pretty pass. I said Èxcuse me a moment,' and crossed the discothèque in the direction of the toilets. Once inside I put two fingers down my throat, but the amount of vomit proved feeble and disappointing. Then I masturbated with altogether greater success: I began thinking of Véronique a bit, of course, but then I concentrated on vaginas in general and that did the trick. Ejaculation came after a couple of minutes; it brought me a feeling of confidence and certainty.
On my return I saw that Tisserand had engaged in conversation with the pseudoVéronique; she was regarding him calmly and without contempt. I knew deep down that this young girl was a marvel; but it was no big deal, I'd done my masturbating. From the amorous point of view Véronique belonged, as we all do, to a sacrificed generation . She had certainly been capable of love; she wished to still be capable it, I'll say that for her; but it was no longer possible. A scarce, artificial and belated phenomenon, love can only blossom under certain mental conditions, rarely conjoined, and totally opposed to the freedom of morals which characterizes the modern era. Véronique had known too many discothèques, too many lovers; such a way of life impoverishes a human being, inflicting sometimes serious and always irreversible damage. Love as a kind of innocence and as a capacity for illusion, as an aptitude for epitomizing the whole of the other sex in a single loved being rarely resists a year of sexual immorality, and never two. In reality the successive sexual experiences accumulated during adolescence undermine and rapidly destroy all possibility of projection of an emotional and romantic sort; progressively, and in fact extremely quickly, one becomes as capable of love as an old slag. And so one leads, obviously, a slag's life; in ageing one becomes less seductive, and on
For a few minutes Tisserand danced not far from her, thrusting his arms forward energetically to indicate the enthusiasm the music caused in him. On two or three occasions he even clapped his hands to the beat; but the girl didn't seem to notice him in the least. Profiting from a short break between records he took the initiative and addressed a few words to her. She turned, threw him a scornful glance and took off across the dance floor to get away from him. That was that.
Everything was going as planned. I left to order a second bourbon at the bar.
On my return I sensed that something new was in the offing. A girl was sitting at the table next to mine, alone. She was much younger than Véronique, she might have been seventeen; that aside, she horribly resembled her. Her extremely simple, rather ample dress of beige did not really show off the contours of her body; they scarcely had need of it. The wide hips, the firm and smooth buttocks; the suppleness of the waist which leads the hands up to a pair of round, ample and soft breasts; the hands which rest confidently on the waist, espousing the noble rotundity of the hips. I knew it all; all I had to do was close my eyes to remember. Up to the face, full and candid, expressing the calm seduction of the natural woman, confident of her beauty. The calm serenity of the young filly, still frisky, eager to try out her limbs in a short gallop. The calm tranquillity of Eve, in love with her own nakedness, knowing herself to be obviously and eternally desirable. I realized that two years of separation had changed nothing; I knocked back my bourbon in one. This was the moment Tisserand chose to return; he was perspiring slightly; he spoke to me; I think he wished to know if I intended trying something with the girl. I didn't reply; I was starting to feel like vomiting, and I had a hard-on; things were at a pretty pass. I said Èxcuse me a moment,' and crossed the discothèque in the direction of the toilets. Once inside I put two fingers down my throat, but the amount of vomit proved feeble and disappointing. Then I masturbated with altogether greater success: I began thinking of Véronique a bit, of course, but then I concentrated on vaginas in general and that did the trick. Ejaculation came after a couple of minutes; it brought me a feeling of confidence and certainty.
On my return I saw that Tisserand had engaged in conversation with the pseudoVéronique; she was regarding him calmly and without contempt. I knew deep down that this young girl was a marvel; but it was no big deal, I'd done my masturbating. From the amorous point of view Véronique belonged, as we all do, to a sacrificed generation . She had certainly been capable of love; she wished to still be capable it, I'll say that for her; but it was no longer possible. A scarce, artificial and belated phenomenon, love can only blossom under certain mental conditions, rarely conjoined, and totally opposed to the freedom of morals which characterizes the modern era. Véronique had known too many discothèques, too many lovers; such a way of life impoverishes a human being, inflicting sometimes serious and always irreversible damage. Love as a kind of innocence and as a capacity for illusion, as an aptitude for epitomizing the whole of the other sex in a single loved being rarely resists a year of sexual immorality, and never two. In reality the successive sexual experiences accumulated during adolescence undermine and rapidly destroy all possibility of projection of an emotional and romantic sort; progressively, and in fact extremely quickly, one becomes as capable of love as an old slag. And so one leads, obviously, a slag's life; in ageing one becomes less seductive, and on
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