The Pleasure of M (26 page)

“Dear
 Michel,
 

It
 was
 so
 nice
 to
 speak
 with
 you
 today.
 The
 time
 seemed
 obscenely
 short,
 but
 I
 will
 
take
  that
  over
  the
  alternative.
  As
  I
  mentioned
  earlier,
  my
  long
  weekend
  will
  be
 
rudely
 interrupted
 by
 an
 afternoon
 with
 our
 department
 director’s
 Christmas
 staff
 
party
 on
 Sunday
 at
 his
 mansion.
 

So
 I
 have
 procrastinated
 long
 enough.
 Here
 is
 what
 you
 would
 find
 next
 to
 my
 bed.
 
-‐
 Flashlight
 

-‐
 Stress
 tamer
 eye
 pillow
 (a
 gift
 from
 my
 daughter,
 which
 I
 don’t
 think
 I
 have
 ever
 
used)
 
-‐
 Bottle
 of
 Astro-‐Glide
 

-‐
  Small
  collection
  of
  birthday,
  Mother’s
  Day
  and
  anniversary
  cards
  that
  held
 
particular
 meaning
 (or
 were
 just
 too
 beautiful
 to
 toss)
 

 

-‐
  Massage
  lotion,
  barely
  used
  (my
  husband
  is
  not
  into
  massage
  and
  in
  fact,
  seems
 
rather
 awkward
 when
 I
 ask
 him.
 How
 would
 you
 feel
 about
 giving
 it
 a
 try?)
 

 

-‐
  CD
  of
  Indian
  music
  (useful
  when
  pleasuring
  myself,
  I
  think
  I’ve
  mentioned
  that
 
before)
 

-‐
  Books,
  among
  which
  you
  would
  find:
  “Seductions:
  Tales
  of
  Erotic
  Persuasion”,
 
“Erotic
 Interludes:
 Tales
 Told
 by
 Women”,
 “Mars
 and
 Venus
 in
 the
 Bedroom”,
 “Turn
 
Ons/Pleasuring
 Yourself
 
 While
 You
 Please
 Your
 Lover”.
 (Is
 that
 intimidating
 enough
 
for
  any
  man?
  By
  the
  way,
  I
  have
  not
  read
  all
  of
  them.
  Good
  intentions
 
notwithstanding…)
 

-‐
 The
 Story
 of
 O
 (still
 waiting
 for
 the
 right
 time
 to
 start
 that
 one)
 

 

I
 imagine
 you
 pondering
 this
 list
 as
 you
 sit
 at
 your
 computer,
 robe
 open,
 silken
 cock
 
at
 rest.
 You
 see,
 I
 can
 never
 quite
 divorce
 thoughts
 of
 you
 from
 my
 sexual
 fantasies!
 

You
 bring
 me
 such
 joy…
 
Fondly,
 
Catherine”
 

This
  was
  the
  first
  time
  that
  Michel
  had
  ever
  heard
  of
  Barbach
  and
  her
  collections,
 
and
 he
 was
 quite
 surprised
 by
 the
 content
 of
 the
 tome
 he
 found
 at
 a
 branch
 of
 the
 
public
  library,
  so
  much
  in
  fact
  that
  he
  decided
  to
  reread
  several
  passages
  in
  an
 
attempt
  to
  change
  his
  understanding
  of
  Catherine’s
  possession
  of
  these
  books.
 
Between
  the
  two
  readings
  he
  pondered
  his
  prejudice
  in
  reflexively
  reaching
 
conclusions
 unfavorable
 to
 her
 considering
 (as
 he
 did)
 that
 they
 were
 in
 complete
 
dissonance
 with
 his
 understanding
 of
 her
 character.
 He
 knew
 himself
 to
 be
 a
 snob
 in
 
the
  French
  sense
  of
  the
  word,
  meaning
  to
  be
  someone
  who
  disdains
  those
  who
 
acclaim
  the
  virtues
  of
  things
  of
  lesser
  quality
  and
  who
  disdains
  also
  those
  who
  do
 
not
  seek
  out
  the
  better
  things
  of
  life
  either
  out
  of
  stupidity
  or
  out
  of
  choice,
  and
 
Catherine
  was
  a
  million
  miles
  away
  from
  that:
  he
  admired
  her
  taste,
  her
  wit,
  her
 
imagination,
  her
  vibrancy.
  What
  then
  was
  his
  element
  of
  reference
  in
  considering
 
these
 stories
 to
 be
 of
 inferior
 quality?
 Surely
 the
 adjacency
 of
 Barbach
 and
 Réage
 in
 
her
 nightstand
 contributed
 insomuch
 as
 it
 juxtaposed
 two
 periods
 of
 her
 life,
 one
 of
 
which
  he
  had
  not
  been
  a
  part
  of,
  but
  were
  there
  not
  many
  parallels
  between
  the
 
abduction
 of
 Rebecca
 to
 a
 harem
 and
 the
 abduction
 of
 O
 to
 Roissy?
 
 “You’re
 an
 idiot”
 
he
  thought
  finally
  to
  himself,
  then
  adding
  “and
  a
  Frenchman
  always”
  with
  a
  smile
 
that
 Catherine
 would
 have
 adored.
 The
 librarian,
 who
 knew
 his
 wife
 well,
 came
 to
 
ask
 him
 if
 he
 wanted
 to
 borrow
 the
 book
 and
 he
 flashed
 her
 the
 same
 smile
 as
 he
 
struck
 back
 at
 the
 middle
 aged
 meddler
 with
 ease
 and
 grace.
 Turning
 the
 cover
 her
 
way
 so
 that
 other
 patrons
 could
 clearly
 see,
 he
 asked
 “Oh,
 so
 you’ve
 read
 it
 then?
 Did
 
you
 like
 it?”
 Meaning
 to
 protest
 that
 she
 had
 not
 read
 it
 she
 blurted
 out
 a
 rather
 loud
 
“NO
 …”
 but
 before
 she
 could
 finish
 he
 interjected
 “Well
 if
 you
 didn’t
 think
 it
 was
 any
 
good,
  it
  won’t
  be
  of
  much
  use
  to
  me
  then”
  and
  he
  plopped
  it
  on
  the
  table
  and
  left
 
while
  the
  librarian
  turned
  an
  interesting
  shade
  of
  purple
  and
  a
  patron
  giggled.
  He
 
was
 quite
 sure
 she
 would
 not
 mention
 the
 incident
 to
 his
 wife
 which,
 while
 he
 could
 
have
  handled
  it,
  would
  have
  been
  much
  more
  effort
  than
  he
  had
  desire
  to
  spend
 
trying
  to
  explain
  to
  her
  why
  he
  was
  reading
  such
  books
  and
  undoubtedly
  also
 
questions
  as
  to
  who
  had
  given
  him
  the
  idea.
  ‘Even
  librarians
  do
  it’
  he
  thought
  to
 
himself
 as
 he
 began
 to
 mentally
 compose
 his
 next
 message
 to
 Catherine.
 

“Dearest
 Catherine,
 

I
  should
  perhaps
  begin
  with
  an
  apology
  for
  what
  may
  have
  appeared
  to
  be
  a
  very
 
aggressive
  and
  one-‐sided
  request
  regarding
  your
  fantasies,
  but
  I
  won’t
  and
  will
 
instead
  tell
  you
  about
  the
  first
  time
  I
  found
  myself
  fantasizing
  during
  sex
  with
  my
 
wife.
 This
 was
 not
 so
 long
 into
 our
 marriage
 and
 came
 as
 rather
 of
 a
 shock
 to
 me
 but
 
in
  retrospect
  coincided
  well
  with
  the
  two
  of
  us
  having
  reached
  a
  decent
 
understanding
 of
 what
 we
 expected
 from
 sex
 and
 more
 to
 the
 point
 what
 would
 not
 
be
 forthcoming.
 There
 quickly
 came
 to
 be
 an
 aspect
 of
 repetition
 in
 the
 act
 that
 was
 
insurmountable
  and
  so
  inevitably
  I
  suppose
  came
  the
  day
  when
  I
  found
  myself
 
daydreaming
  of
  having
  sex
  with
  another
  woman
  while
  I
  was
  having
  sex
  with
  my
 
wife.
 The
 main
 salient
 detail
 was
 that
 the
 position
 I
 was
 engaged
 in
 with
 my
 fantasy
 
partner
  was
  not
  the
  same
  as
  the
  one
  I
  was
  engaged
  in
  with
  my
  wife,
  the
 
unmistakable
  purpose
  of
  which
  was
  to
  bring
  me
  to
  climax
  in
  response
  to
  a
  slight
 
edge
  of
  impatience
  apparent
  in
  my
  wife’s
  demeanor.
  But
  this
  was
  not
  something
  I
 
did
  self-‐consciously,
 and
 when
 I
 realized
 after
 the
 orgasm
 where
 my
 thoughts
 had
 
drifted
  I
  was
  rather
  mortified.
  For
  months
  thereafter,
  I
  tried
  to
  limit
  my
  appeal
  to
 
fantasy
 to
 being
 with
 my
 wife
 in
 different
 positions,
 but
 eventually
 that
 resolve
 wore
 
off.
 

I
 once
 told
 you
 that
 a
 man’s
 pleasure
 is
 self-‐centered,
 but
 perhaps
 it
 is
 instead
 that
 
all
 sexual
 pleasure
 is
 self-‐centered.
 

Yours,
 always,
 
Michel”
 

When
 she
 did
 not
 answer
 the
 next
 day,
 he
 decided
 to
 call
 her
 and
 immediately
 began
 
the
 conversation
 by
 recounting
 the
 librarian
 incident.
 She
 laughed
 and
 was
 touched
 
that
 he
 had
 made
 the
 effort
 of
 reading
 what
 she
 had,
 just
 as
 she
 had
 often
 done
 after
 
his
 many
 allusions
 to
 film
 and
 literature
 alike.
 

“Did
 you
 enjoy
 the
 read?”
 she
 asked
 a
 bit
 hesitantly,
 expecting
 that
 he
 would
 either
 
change
 the
 topic
 or
 expound
 his
 disdain
 for
 such
 writings.
 

“Actually,
 yes,
 somewhat.
 I
 mean
 it’s
 not
 high
 literature
 or
 anything,
 but
 it
 is
 fun.”
 
“Yes”
 she
 said
 relieved,
 “it’s
 cheap
 entertainment.”
 
“I
 suppose
 it
 makes
 a
 great
 starting
 point
 for
 pleasant
 daydreams.”
 

“Yes,
  it
  does,
  especially
  when
  the
  foreplay
  is
  lacking.
  Given
  the
  elusiveness
  of
  the
 
orgasm
 for
 us
 women,
 foreplay
 can
 be
 more
 important
 than
 sex
 itself.
 I
 guess
 that’s
 
mostly
  when
  my
  mind
  tends
  to
  wander
  off
  into
  fantasy.
  But
  now
  you
  are
  always
 
present
 in
 the
 fantasy.
 And
 you,
 do
 you
 dream
 of
 me
 when
 you
 daydream?”
 
“The
 quick
 answer
 is
 yes,
 though
 in
 truth
 it
 is
 more
 complicated
 than
 that.”
 

‘Of
 course
 it
 is’
 she
 thought
 to
 herself
 with
 a
 sigh
 before
 asking
 the
 inevitable
 “What
 
do
 you
 mean?”
 

“Well,
 I
 have
 no
 image
 of
 you
 to
 conjure,
 so
 it’s
 not
 as
 if
 there
 is
 a
 specific
 vision
 of
 
you
  that
  is
  recurring
  in
  my
  fantasies.
  So
  you’re
  an
  inspiration,
  but
  I
  guess
  I’ve
  not
 
given
 you
 a
 face,
 so
 that
 you
 are
 more
 of
 a
 presence
 in
 my
 fantasies
 than
 a
 character.
 
You,
 on
 the
 other
 hand,
 know
 what
 I
 look
 like.”
 

“Well
 that’s
 true,
 but…”
 

“Now
  don’t
  misunderstand,
  I
  think
  about
  you
  all
  the
  time
  and
  I
  think
  about
  you
 
when
  I
  have
  sex
  with
  my
  wife.
  Your
  presence
  is
  there,
  you
  are
  with
  me,
  just
  not
 
necessarily
 part
 of
 the
 scenarios
 that
 go
 through
 my
 mind
 in
 vivid
 detail.”
 

“OK.
 That’s
 not
 very
 flattering.”
 

“Yes
  it
  is!
  What
  happens
  in
  my
  fantasies
  is
  not
  always
  the
  most
  graceful.
  It’s
 
something
 I
 wanted
 to
 ask
 you.
 You
 seem
 to
 imply
 that
 you
 have
 control
 over
 your
 
sexual
 fantasies,
 but
 I
 don’t,
 at
 least
 not
 completely.
 There
 is
 always
 a
 part
 of
 it
 that
 
escapes
 me.”