Authors: Michel Farnac
It
is
years
before
I
finally
gain
an
understanding
of
this
part
of
my
body
and
an
appreciation
for
its
luscious
juices.
And
I
look
forward
to
the
day
when
you,
my
prince,
will
be
able
to
see
and
feel
and
taste
these
delights.
Yours
always,
Catherine”
Michel
was
very
moved
by
this
insight
into
a
young
woman’s
life.
He
had
always
been
fond
of
adolescence
and
its
byproduct:
teenagers.
He’d
been
an
educator
for
many
years,
teaching
music
to
kids
of
many
ages
but
always
drawn
to
that
window
of
time
when
children
turn
to
adults.
He
looked
back
very
fondly
upon
the
mixture
of
magic
and
emotional
pain
(some
self-‐inflicted)
that
his
own
adolescence
had
been
rife
with
and
could
feel
a
great
deal
of
elation
in
being
part
of
that
moment
of
growth
where
all
seems
possible
and
passions
can
arise
from
thin
air
with
just
that
slightest
nudge
from
what
Dolto
had
called
the
‘adult
on
the
side’,
and
that
had
drawn
him
to
some
involvement
in
neighborhood
after-‐school
programs
for
a
couple
of
years
before
he
had
a
son.
And
through
his
exchanges
with
Catherine
he
was
recapturing
a
bit
of
the
emotions
he
felt
during
these
male
rites
of
passage.
But
he
had
generally
hung
out
with
boys
and
in
the
end
knew
very
little
about
girls
and
their
initiation
rites.
This
was
the
first
time
that
a
woman
shared
with
him
such
intimate
memories
and
the
wave
of
empathy
he
felt
as
he
read
her
lines
was
an
eye-‐
opening
experience.
He
realized
that
for
boys,
things
are
not
quite
as
universal
as
they
are
for
girls,
as
his
own
experience
and
development
testified
to.
Manhood
was
clearly
defined
in
terms
of
ejaculation
in
his
corner
of
the
universe
growing
up,
but
that
could
come
in
many
different
guises,
a
lesson
that
he
had
clearly
learned
growing
up
and
one
area
where
his
relative
precociousness
would
be
of
great
advantage.
I
will
skip
a
couple
of
years
in
the
narrative
of
my
sexual
apprenticeship
to
when
I
was
eleven.
I
don’t
believe
that
much
happened
during
those
two
years.
By
now
I
am
starting
the
French
equivalent
of
Junior
High
and
some
kids
in
the
bunch
are
a
lot
more
advanced
than
others.
The
awareness
level
is
clearly
higher
by
that
point
through
schoolyard
bantering
and
such.
But
this
happens
at
home.
My
parents
are
not
here
for
a
few
hours
and
my
brother
is
not
there
either,
which
means
that
I
have
the
house
to
myself,
and
I
am
going
into
my
parent’s
bedroom
to
snoop
around.
This
is
pure
‘innocent’
curiosity
on
my
part.
I
just
wonder
what
my
parents
have
in
their
room.
I
open
some
drawers,
look
around
in
a
closet.
And
then,
I
open
the
door
to
my
father’s
nightstand…
A
new
world
is
revealed
to
me.
There
are
two
magazines,
there,
both
British(!).
One
was
called
‘Mayfair’
and
the
other
I
forget
(‘Club’,
was
it…?).
Three
models
per
issue,
full
female
nudity,
in
retrospect
some
reasonably
classy
pictures
of
the
Playboy
variety
back
when
Playboy
was
reasonably
classy
(I’m
sure
that
doesn’t
sound
to
your
ears
quite
the
way
I
intend
it
to…).
I
have
never
seen
anything
like
this.
I
have
never
seen
the
female
anatomy
so
clearly
and
photographically
displayed.
I
am
entranced:
this
is
great!
And
my
father
has
this!
And
these
women
are
beautiful
and…
And
it
turns
out
that
I
have
been
stroking
my
erection
and
suddenly
my
hand
is
wet.
I
have
no
idea
what
is
going
on.
I
look,
I
smell,
I
taste…
New,
interesting…
but
potentially
embarrassing.
I
don’t
have
much
time:
my
parents
will
be
returning
soon.
I
must
clean
up,
put
everything
back
the
way
it
was.
I
realize
with
relief
that
only
my
underwear
is
affected.
And
I
also
realize
how
good
this
was,
how
amazing
it
felt.
Something
beautiful
just
happened
and
I
have
no
idea
what.
But
it
was
beautiful.
For
the
next
few
weeks,
I
will
try
to
reproduce
this
in
vain.
I
don’t
know
what
I
did,
so
trying
to
do
it
again
is
not
simple.
The
only
way
I
know
to
get
an
erection
is
to
think
about
the
magazines,
and
that
works
well,
but
after,
I
don’t
have
a
clue.
It
took
me
about
two
months
to
figure
it
out.
It
was
during
the
Christmas
break,
in
the
country
estate
where
we
always
spent
two
weeks
that
time
of
year.
My
brother,
for
the
first
time,
is
not
with
us,
and
I
have
been
granted
the
permission
to
sleep
in
the
main
living
room
where
the
evening
fire
dies
down
over
the
wee
hours
and
the
tree
was
decked
out.
There,
on
a
cot,
late
one
December
evening,
I
reinvented
masturbation.
But
at
this
point,
I
should
mention
that
my
own
experience
does
become
a
little
atypical
though
it
occurs
in
a
fairly
common
narrative.
By
that
time
I
am
with
an
American
boy
scout
troop
stationed
in
Paris,
at
the
embassy.
We
go
on
camping
trips
one
weekend
a
month,
in
the
famed
Bellau
Woods,
east
of
Paris.
And
very
soon
after
I
have
joined
the
troop
together
with
a
couple
other
new
recruits,
the
pecking
order
must
be
redrawn:
the
younglings
must
be
separated
from
the
real
men,
as
it
were.
Conversations
turn
to
the
topic
of
ejaculation
but
without
explicit
mention
of
certain
things,
a
charade
of
sorts
where
each
participant
is
invited
to
add
a
level
of
detail
to
the
description
of
a
mystery
activity,
and
it
quickly
becomes
apparent
which
participants
are
completely
befuddled.
When
done
right,
there
is
no
way
to
sneak
your
way
into
this
big
boys
club.
And
I
got
in
with
flying
colors.
It
made
me
very
proud,
to
say
the
least,
and
earned
me
quite
a
bit
of
respect
from
my
peers.
The
club
had
four
members,
all
older
than
me
by
at
least
a
year,
and
its
main
purpose
was
one
of
scientific
research.
We
exchanged
notes.
Needless
to
say
that
within
a
couple
of
months,
all
notes
of
relevance
had
been
exchanged
and
out
interests
shifted,
but
I
did
at
that
point
learn
that
for
some
ejaculation
did
not
enter
life
provoked,
and
this
is
where
I
would
in
the
end
differ
most
from
my
brother
scouts:
I’ve
never
had
a
wet
dream.
I
suspect
that
I
masturbated
enough
those
first
few
years
that
my
body
never
felt
the
need
to
express
itself
outside
of
business
hours.
I
can’t
say
that
I
have
any
regrets!
Yours
truly,
Michel”
Unbeknownst
to
each
other,
Catherine
and
Michel
both
held
a
passionate
aesthetic
love
for
the
glimmering
plays
of
light
with
water,
and
yet
the
difference
in
their
preference
in
the
midst
of
such
a
strong
affinity
between
them
mirrored
an
important
emotional
difference
which
typically
expressed
itself
in
her
reaction
to
his
story
of
discovery
as
waves
of
competing
congruent
and
contradictory
thoughts
layering
into
a
minuet
of
feelings
washing
over
her
in
succession.
She
loved
the
glimmering
reflection
of
moonlight
on
the
silky
surface
of
a
lake
at
night,
the
gentle
dance
of
shimmering
sunlight
on
the
smooth
ocean
surface
at
dawn.
He
was
hypnotized
by
the
twirls
of
dancing
light
that
define
for
our
eyes
the
many
sheets
of
water
in
the
sheath
that
is
a
stream,
the
fantastic
fury
of
sparkling
diamonds
on
the
chaotic
yet
geometric
patterns
in
converging
waves
breaking
on
the
sand.
Upon
reading
his
intimate
memories
of
childhood
she
felt
closer
to
him
still,
moved
to
be
glimpsing
at
the
child
that
would
one
day
become
her
lover.
The
thought
then
came
to
her
that
she
knew
no
such
stories
from
her
husband’s
childhood,
and
wondering
why
took
her
to
barren
places
she
knew
all
to
well,
where
some
things
are
not
talked
about,
some
questions
never
asked,
not
because
they
would
cause
harm
but
because
they
are
in
essence
taboo,
even
between
man
and
wife.
A
prim
and
proper
catholic
mother
of
two
does
not
ask
her
husband
about
the
first
time
he
masturbated
or
had
a
wet
dream,
and
of
course
the
nice
husband
of
a
prim
and
proper
catholic
mother
of
two
would
never
think
of
offering
up
such
information
unbidden.
That
would
be
wrong,
though
admittedly
not
as
wrong
as
having
your
lover
tell
you
about
such
things.
Yet,
try
as
she
might,
she
did
not
feel
that
her
affair
with
Michel
was
wrong.
She
knew
it
was
in
the
canon
that
had
been
passed
on
to
her,
but
she
just
couldn’t
feel
it.
As
she
reread
his
last
message,
the
simplicity
of
it
struck
her.
That
of
the
setting,
that
of
the
story,
and
how
simple
it
seemed
for
him
to
tell
the
story,
with
its
cute
masturbating
boy
scouts
with
no
bible-‐thumping
nuns
to
beat
some
sense
into
them,
no
born-‐again
scoutmaster
to
instill
fear
in
their
hearts.
Was
it
so
for
all
boys,
she
wondered,
and
as
often
reread
several
of
his
latest
messages
to
find
that
he
had
in
essence
already
answered
her
question.
If
she
was
any
indication,
things
were
much
more
complicated
for
girls
indeed.
Girls
do
not
become
women
by
orgasm.
The
deck
is
stacked
against
you
when
coming
of
age
is
shedding
of
blood.
She
knew
there
was
a
tinge
of
anger
there
which
surely
should
not
be
directed
at
Michel.
He
was
free
to
share
these
tales
with
her
because
he
too
repudiated
the
cultural
chains
that
we
are
made
to
wear
and
the
simplicity
was
in
part
a
façade,
a
gift
to
her
in
the
form
of
a
rebellion
against
stereotypes
that
perhaps
she
too
harbored,
for
no
gift
comes
for
free.
She
was
grateful
for
his
honesty,
despite
his
arrogant
sincerity.
“Mirrors
don’t
lie
yet
we
love
them.”
The
thought
made
her
smile.
Being
in
love
was
obviously
out
of
bounds
and
would
have
been
completely
inappropriate,
and
while
she
couldn’t
quite
remember
how
it
had
occurred,
it
had
clearly
been
established
early
in
their
relationship
that
their
affair
would
be
an
addition
to
their
lives,
lives
which
would
in
all
other
ways
remain
unaffected
by
said
affair
except
perhaps
for
an
elevated
mood.
They
were
consenting
adults
with
productive
lives
in
need
of
added
depth,
not
idiots
in
a
midlife
crisis.
They
were
both
married
with
children
and
intended
it
to
stay
that
way.
As
a
result,
they
had
never
used
the
word
love
with
each
other
as
if
it
had
been
excised
form
their
common
vocabulary
as
a
useless
appendix:
nothing
intangible
exists
unless
it
has
a
name.
She
felt
that
she
had
found
in
Michel
a
soulmate,
and
the
word
now
held
a
full
meaning
for
her
as
she
realized
it
had
not
before
because
she
had
always
assumed
that
such
things
could
not
happen
to
people
such
as
herself:
sinners.
She
took
to
calling
him
that
in
her
messages,
“Dear
Soulmate,”
and
he
responded
in
kind.
She
found
no
other
way
to
evoke
the
connection
that
she
felt
between
them,
though
what
she
would
have
preferred
would
have
conveyed
the
sense
she
had
that
she
had
found
a
brother
without
the
incestuous
implications,
a
sense
of
kinship
of
spirit
that
had
the
right
and
privilege
to
carry
a
passionate
desire
for
this
mirror
image
of
herself,
a
complete
opposite
of
her
in
what
they
knew
and
yet
completely
like
her
in
what
they
loved
and
craved.
She
had
a
thought
and
decided
to
ask,
and
in
a
seemingly
carefree
way
inserted
this
into
a
long
email:
“(and
by
the
way,
what
are
the
French
words
that
approximate
'soulmate'?).”