Authors: Michel Farnac
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.