The Pleasure of M (8 page)

Yours,
 
Michel”
 

She
 soon
 realized
 that
 the
 same
 went
 when
 they
 spoke
 and
 she
 soon
 found
 herself
 
often
 yielding
 to
 the
 pleasure
 of
 asking
 him
 in
 mid-‐conversation
 where
 they
 were.
 
“How
 rude
 of
 me!
 We
 are
 in
 Florence.
 We
 arrived
 from
 Rome
 yesterday.
 I
 wanted
 to
 
show
 you
 the
 cathedral.
 We
 are
 walking
 down
 one
 of
 the
 side
 streets
 that
 leads
 to
 its
 
rear.
 You
 see,
 I
 approach
 my
 Cathedral
 like
 I
 approach
 my
 Catherine.
 There,
 look
 at
 
this
  beauty!
  The
  stripes
  are
  actually
  alternating
  green
  and
  white
  marble.
  How
 
brilliant
 is
 that?
 But
 let’s
 get
 a
 drink.
 It’s
 like
 France
 here:
 there’s
 always
 a
 café
 next
 
to
 the
 church.
 They
 make
 the
 most
 wonderful
 fruit
 drink,
 so
 refreshing…”
 and
 on
 it
 
would
  go,
  and
  every
  time
  she
  was
  transported.
  When
  later
  she
  would
  look
  up
 
pictures
  of
  these
  places,
  they
  would
  feel
  pleasingly
  familiar.
  France,
  Italy,
  Spain,
 
England,
 Japan.
 
 

“All
 these
 places
 I’ve
 been,
 and
 it
 was
 all
 a
 waste
 until
 I
 met
 you”
 he
 told
 her.
 “And
 I
 
can
 share
 it
 all
 with
 you
 and
 it
 doesn’t
 scare
 you
 away,
 it
 doesn’t
 overwhelm
 you.
 I
 
do
 that
 to
 people,
 you
 know?”
 
 

“Not
 to
 me”
 she
 replied,
 “how
 could
 it,
 since
 I
 trust
 you?
 You’re
 so
 sincere,
 so
 open…
 
I’m
 always
 the
 one
 who’s
 prying,
 because
 you’re
 so
 open,
 though
 half
 the
 time
 you
 
answer
  my
  questions
  before
  I
  even
  ask.
  I’ve
  never
  met
  a
  man
  who
  could
  so
  easily
 
say
  what
  he
  feels,
  though
  I’ll
  have
  to
  admit
  I
  don’t
  always
  understand
  what
  you
 
mean.”
 
 

“Really,
 how
 so?...
 Well,
 I
 guess
 I
 can
 be
 obscure
 at
 times,
 but
 you
 should
 tell
 me!”
 

“No,
 it’s
 not
 obscure,
 it’s
 just
 that
 there
 are
 things
 you
 say
 that
 I…
 well
 it’s
 ‘guy’
 stuff
 
I
 guess
 and
 I
 don’t
 always
 know
 what
 it
 means.”
 
He
 was
 intrigued.
 “Do
 you
 have
 an
 example?”
 
She
 hesitated.
 “Yes.”
 Her
 voice
 had
 gotten
 softer,
 more
 hesitant.
 “Like
 the
 one
 time
 
you
  said
  something
  about
  ‘endowing
  the
  extra
  inch’.
  What
  does
  that
  mean?”
  She
 
knew
  that
  she
  was
  in
  for
  a
  ride
  just
  by
  asking
  such
  a
  question.
  Michel
  was
  a
 
whirlwind
 who
 blew
 wide
 any
 door
 opened
 ajar.
 

“Oh,
 that?!
 Well,
 it
 has
 to
 do
 with
 how
 an
 erection
 comes
 about.
 Hmm,
 yes
 of
 course,
 
there
  are
  a
  couple
  of
  prerequisites
  to
  this
  conversation.
  You
  see,
  you
  and
  I
  have
 
something
  that
  your
  husband
  does
  not,
  namely
  a
  prepuce.”
  She
  could
  not
  contain
 
her
 laughter.
 “That’s
 right,
 thanks
 to
 that
 whacko
 American
 version
 of
 the
 protestant
 
ethos
  and
  some
  freakish
  obsession
  for
  a
  warped
  version
  of
  hygiene,
  he
  is
 
circumcised.
 I
 am
 not.
 So
 even
 though
 what
 I
 am
 about
 to
 describe
 applies
 to
 him,
 
not
 in
 equal
 measure.
 As
 you
 know,
 as
 our
 organ
 grows,
 the
 skin
 is
 pulled
 taught,
 but
 
 
an
 erection
 will
 not
 reach
 its
 full
 potential
 without
 some
 assistance.
 Now
 when
 you
 
are
 not
 circumcised,
 the
 tip
 of
 the
 phallus
 will
 not
 be
 fully
 revealed
 until
 the
 sheath
 
of
  skin
  is
  manually
  pulled
  back,
  or
  by
  some
  other
  form
  of
  friction.
  When
  this
  does
 
not
 happen,
 intense
 frustration
 can
 result.
 Mind
 you,
 wiggling
 in
 your
 jeans
 will
 do
 
the
 trick,
 but
 loose
 clothing
 is
 of
 no
 assistance.
 This
 is
 of
 less
 consequence
 for
 those
 
who
  are
  circumcised
  but
  remains
  true.
  The
  touch
  of
  a
  woman’s
  hand
  will
  do
  the
 
trick
 every
 time
 which
 is
 why
 so
 many
 of
 us
 react
 so
 strongly
 to
 the
 initial
 touch.”
 

Such
 insights
 were
 as
 potent
 for
 her
 as
 the
 astral
 projection
 that
 took
 her
 around
 the
 
world.
 Part
 of
 it
 she
 knew
 stemmed
 from
 the
 fact
 that
 she
 could
 not
 detect
 in
 Michel
 
a
 single
 ounce
 of
 jealousy.
 She
 spoke
 freely
 of
 having
 sex
 with
 her
 husband,
 just
 as
 
she
  might
  to
  an
  intimate
  girlfriend,
  and
  he
  engaged
  with
  as
  much
  pleasure
  as
  he
 
would
  on
  any
  other
  topic
  which
  left
  her
  facing
  yet
  another
  seeming
  paradox:
  the
 
more
 she
 got
 to
 know
 Michel
 the
 better
 she
 understood
 her
 husband.
 

“What
 else
 have
 I
 said
 that
 puzzles
 you
 about
 men?”
 he
 asked
 with
 the
 obvious
 glee
 
of
 a
 child
 who’s
 just
 realized
 he
 knows
 more
 about
 something
 than
 an
 adult
 does.
 
“Well,
 there
 was
 this
 one
 comment
 about
 ‘recovery
 time’
 that
 left
 me
 wondering.”
 

He
 looked
 at
 her
 with
 those
 smiling
 eyes
 and
 that
 look
 on
 his
 face
 of
 when
 he
 knew
 
he
  had
  found
  yet
  another
  soft
  spot,
  one
  more
  door
  to
  have
  her
  push
  open.
  In
  the
 
short
 pause
 that
 followed,
 she
 thought
 of
 asking
 him
 where
 they
 were,
 but
 it
 came
 to
 
her
 that
 this
 must
 be
 a
 café
 in
 Paris.
 

“Should
 I
 be
 led
 to
 understand
 from
 your
 last
 remark
 that
 no
 man
 has
 ever
 told
 you
 
what
  he
  feels
  during
  an
  orgasm?”
  He
  instantly
  knew
  he
  was
  on
  to
  something
  big.
 
“No”
  she
  murmured
  in
  reply,
  a
  sigh
  barely
  audible
  over
  the
  din
  of
  traffic
  and
  the
 
heated
  conversations
  all
  around
  about
  whatever
  it
  is
  the
  French
  seem
  to
  be
  so
 
passionate
 about
 all
 the
 time.
 When
 he
 teased
 her
 as
 he
 was
 about
 to,
 it
 was
 mostly
 
for
 her
 pleasure,
 not
 his:
 a
 part
 of
 the
 game
 that
 he
 felt
 was
 still
 acceptable.
 “Good
 
catholic
 girls
 don’t
 talk
 about
 such
 things”
 she
 said
 to
 which
 he
 quickly
 replied
 “Nor
 
do
 they
 smooch
 with
 boys
 in
 the
 back
 of
 cars,
 nor
 have
 affairs
 once
 they
 are
 married,
 
both
 of
 which
 you
 talk
 about
 on
 occasion.”
 She
 would
 have
 said
 “touché”
 had
 they
 
not
 been
 in
 France
 but
 instead
 waited
 for
 him
 to
 launch
 into
 his
 explanation.
 

“Well,
 recovery
 is
 not
 the
 best
 word,
 but
 it
 does
 convey
 a
 part
 of
 what
 is
 involved.
 

Here,
 they
 call
 it
 ‘la
 petite
 mort’
 which
 would
 translate
 to
 the
 little
 death,
 and
 I
 find
 it
 
to
  be
  a
  very
  apt
  name.
  As
  soon
  as
  the
  explosion
  of
  the
  orgasm
  is
  over,
  there
  is
  a
 
contraction,
  a
  drawing
  inward
  of
  the
  senses.
  To
  some,
  any
  intrusion
  from
  the
 
outside
  at
  this
  point
  is
  unwelcome,
  be
  it
  the
  touch
  of
  a
  loving
  hand.
  The
  brain
  is
 
rejecting
  external
  stimulation
  after
  the
  intensity
  of
  the
  internal
  stimulation
  it
  just
 
underwent.
 It
 is
 as
 if
 one
 were
 seeking
 a
 form
 of
 sensory
 depravation
 to
 allow
 the
 
immense
  feeling
  of
  well-‐being
  that
  follows
  the
  orgasm
  to
  pervade
  the
  body
 
unhindered.
  The
  body
  is
  at
  once
  suffused
  with
  comfort
  and
  completely
  raw
  and
 
defenseless.
  Every
  sound,
  touch,
  smell,
  if
  not
  blocked,
  is
  amplified
  to
  the
  point
  of
 
overwhelming.
  We
  are
  blind,
  deaf,
  trembling,
  defenseless,
  at
  the
  mercy
  of
 
everything,
 floating
 in
 an
 ether
 of
 pleasure
 where
 gentle
 waves
 that
 are
 the
 echoes
 
of
 the
 orgasm
 wash
 over
 you
 in
 a
 slowly
 receding
 tide
 which
 as
 it
 wanes
 takes
 you
 
back
 ever
 so
 gently
 to
 the
 reality
 you
 left
 when
 the
 orgasm
 started.”
 He
 felt
 that
 they
 
had
 moved
 and
 paused
 briefly
 to
 listen
 to
 her
 breathing
 in
 his
 ear.
 “Of
 course,
 this
 is
 
only
 the
 way
 things
 can
 progress
 naturally
 if
 uninhibited.
 Needless
 to
 say
 that
 there
 
are
  a
  lot
  of
  men
  who
  could
  not
  allow
  this
  to
  happen.
  It
  is
  a
  loss
  of
  control
  that
  is
 
nearly
 total
 and
 which
 we
 all
 learn
 early
 on
 to
 harness,
 one
 way
 or
 the
 other.”
 

“So
 you
 can
 stop
 it?”
 

 

“In
  essence,
  yes.
  You
  can
  regain
  mastery
  of
  yourself.”
  He
  wondered
  where
  they
 
were.
 

 

“How
 do
 you
 do
 that?
 You
 seemed
 to
 describe
 something
 very
 powerful.”
 

“Powerful
  it
  is,
  especially
  once
  it
  has
  begun,
  but
  a
  spell
  that
  can
  be
  broken
 
nonetheless.
 You
 see,
 it
 proceeds
 from
 a
 removal.
 The
 orgasm
 takes
 you
 away
 from
 
where
 and
 even
 who-‐with
 you
 are
 for
 a
 few
 instants,
 but
 you
 can
 pretty
 much
 beam
 
yourself
 back
 at
 any
 time,
 it
 is
 just
 a
 question
 of
 will.
 With
 a
 sometimes
 tremendous
 
effort
 you
 can
 grasp
 on
 to
 outside
 stimulus
 with
 a
 conscious
 effort
 and
 use
 it
 to
 stay
 
in
  the
  room,
  so
  to
  speak.
  Did
  you
  ever
  read
  that
  Matheson
  book,
  ‘Somewhere
  in
 
Time’?”
 And
 of
 course
 they
 were
 in
 a
 hotel
 room.
 

“Is
 that
 the
 one
 where
 he
 falls
 in
 love
 with
 a
 singer
 or
 an
 actress
 that
 died
 a
 century
 
before?”
 she
 asked.