Copyright (c) 2014 by Giovanni Major Mastrogiacomo. All rights reserved. Permission is granted to Nifty Archives, to archive and display this work. All other uses are expressly forbidden unless explicit arrangement has been made with the author. This copyright applies to all chapters and pages of this work. It may not be reproduced, posted, stored electronically, or archived, except for personal, non-public use, without the express written permission of the author.
Soul Mates
OK, pay attention, you! This is the only time I will go through this so don't miss it. And don't forget it, either.
My name is Jean-Paul Ouellette du Archambeaux dit Tardif. That's Jean-Paul, not John Paul. The `J' sounds like the g in the word genre. I am not Jean, John, or Zhahn. It's Jean-Paul. My middle name is pronounced Will-et. And my last name is pronounced dew R-sham-bo dee TAR-deef.
I don't give a damn if you have spoken French your entire life, I have just told you the correct pronunciation of my name. It is the only name to which I will respond. Call me Jean-Paul and we'll get on fine.
Since entering grade school I have been explicitly clear on the pronunciation of my name. Most people pick up on the fact that I am ticked-off by the subject and we don't have to go over it again. Most people. Fred Ð is not most people.
Fred. The verbal equivalent of a hairless cat. It's just wrong. It's like whacking your thumb with a hammer. Fred. It just falls flat, there's nothing there, no music, no poetry, not even a description. It's just a dull thud.
But Ð Fred Ð is my best friend. My worst nightmare. My indispensible partner. What an unfortunate, miserable little man. As interesting as his name. Fred. Frederick Franklin Smith. Oy. His parents must have hated him. Fred explained to me that he is named after his two grandfathers. Oh well, what can you do?
Fred also happens to be my husband, the love of my life. God help me. We moved to California to get married right after the first time California passed the law making it legal. We moved away when California changed its mind. We moved to Vermont. How stupid can two people be?
Fred is, ready for this? He's a math teacher. He was a CPA but decided that his life wasn't exciting enough so he became an elementary school teacher Ð of math! He tells me it's `satisfying.' Satisfying? Sort of like winning a five-dollar lottery? Yawn.
No human being on Earth is allowed to call me Jean, like the girl's name. No one but Fred. He does it to tick me off. It works. But I've gotten used to it.
As a CPA, or even a math teacher, Fred can settle down anywhere since his skills are needed EVERYwhere. My job is not like that. I have to go where the work is. I'm a travel writer. I travel and then write about the place to which I traveled.
Fred hates to travel. Well, Fred hates everything really, but that's not relevant. We met in France. I was visiting the Cotes du Rhone area and its wineries. Fred was drunk. He'd been at a wine tasting and didn't know he wasn't supposed to swallow. He hates wine.
I grew up in America but I traveled back to France often with my father who went at least twice a year. Between school years, my family stayed in France where I got to know and play with my cousins and other more distant relatives in the Marseille area.
The winery where Fred was getting drunk and sick was a very fine winery. It did not deserve to be vomited on, not by a Fred at any rate. Fred was with a group of his friends, who were nearly as drunk as he. While the other's in Fred's group, four men and two women, were happily making fools of themselves Fred was like a lost and frightened puppy. I couldn't just ignore him.
His so-called friends let a perfect stranger, me, take him away. Fred and I spent the next half hour in the restroom. Oh, get your mind out of the gutter. He was puking up his wine soaked lunch. He was lucky I had my rucksack with me. I let him use my toothbrush and a very generous helping of toothpaste. It wasn't enough.
When Fred was able to stumble out of the restroom, his friends were gone. Just like what happens when someone finds a lost puppy, Fred came home with me. He didn't talk much and once I dumped him on the bed in my room, he promptly began to snore. Very annoying.
The following day, I had an early meeting and was gone before Fred awoke. When I got back to the room, he was just finishing his shower. I walked into the room as he walked out of the bathroom Ð naked. That moment is a snapshot, forever fixed on the cover of the virtual photo album in my head.
Fred was quite simply the best looking man I had ever seen. Of course I was young and hadn't seen all that many naked men, but even now, years later, I would say that Fred is right there, among the top three or four. We stood there looking at each other for a minute. I couldn't decide whether to be jealous or covetous of Fred'sÉ uhm, - endowment.
Humiliated is what I ultimately settled on. I was no match. Ticked me off. But after we stood there for a decade or so, I introduced myself. "Hi. I'm Jean- Paul."
"Is this your room?"
"Yes. You were very drunk. Your friends did not care much that I took you away."
"You took me away?"
"You do not remember? You were at the winery and very drunk. We spent the afternoon in the toilet. You do not remember me giving you my toothbrush?"
"Oh God! I used your dirty filthy toothbrush?"
"What?"
"That is so gross!"
"Ok you, first of all, my mouth is not a filthy gross place. And the toothbrush was brand new."
"Sorry, I just sort of have a thing about germs."
"Are you one of those people that clean the house with dental tools?"
His hesitation before answering told me all I needed to know. He lied to my face.
"No." It was not just a plain old `no,' it was strung out to two syllables as he screwed up his face. His handsome whisker-stubbled face with its square, dimpled chin Ðugh, my one of my many weaknesses. He was so beautiful.
"Whatever, Dude. Give me your clothes."
"What? Why?"
"Relax. You are wound very tight, aren't you? I can smell them from here. They need to be cleaned. Unless you, `Mr. Have a thing about germs', wants to put his puked encrusted clothes back on.
"I don't have any other clothes."
"I have shorts in my sack, just grab a pair and I'll go see if I can get your clothes cleaned."
"Well, I-, You, ah, really don't have to."
He gave me his lost puppy look again. I had to look away, but looking down, my eyes slid down over his then towel clad hips and I felt every contour before running into his hirsute legs. His toe knuckles were hairy. I couldn't breathe.
An hour or a hundred year-long pause finally ended. "Do you want to put them back on, all germy?" My voice sounded desperate to me.
"Well, no. Why are you doing this?" He shrugged and pushed his hands through his wet hair, but in shrugging, the towel inched just a bit lower. An electrical current jolted me directly in the heart. My eyes locked onto the edge of that towel as it cut across his hairy, marble-hard abdomen.
I had never said the words out loud. Most people didn't know. I felt me eyes sting and my face burn. I should have walked past the puppy. I got ticked off, but then I got scared and I'm not sure of what.
"J'aime les homes." My voice was so quiet, I wasn't sure if I said it aloud. My ears were ringing. I felt dizzy.
"Good. Me too."
"What? You know French?"
"Sure. And half a dozen other languages. It's so nice to meet another gay man. I thought I was the only one in this whole damn country."
"Besides your friends." I reminded him.
"Huh? Oh, no, they're not gay. One of them is my brother and his brother-in- law. One of the women is my brother's wife and the other one is her sister."
"What about the other two men?"
"What other two?"
"You were with four men."
Fred searched the rumpled bed as if he might find a clue. His face looked as if he'd found one.
"Did weÉI mean, the bed is all messed up. I was so drunk. Did we, you know." He said, waiving his hand at the bed as if it was damning evidence in a trial.
"You are right, you were drunk. You snore like a train."
So, did weÉ?"
I felt my face burn again. "No. Didn't you wake up in your clothes? I never even peeped. You were quite safe." My voice sounded odd.
"Hm. Too bad. You're cute."
Just like that. The words sounded as if he was commenting on the weather.
"You said that very easily."
"Of course, it's the truth. Oh, are you one of those closeted French guys? It seems you French men have exceedingly large closets."
My face burned, but this time I knew why. "Don't bite the hand that feeds you. I am not one of those closeted French guys. I am American."
"With a French accent?"
"I was raised in Minneapolis, Minnesota. Do you know the state?"
"Yes, actually. I have relatives there. How did you get the accent then?"
"My parents moved to America. I was born soon after."
"What on Earth would make you come back here?"
"You say that like this is a bad place."
"Oh, sorry. This has not been a good trip for me. I just want to go home." Fred at last quit pacing and sat down in the only chair in the room. When he sat down, his towel revealed nearly everything beneath it. My eyes locked in their sockets again. I forgot what we were talking about.
"I, I'll try to see if your, I mean get your clothes seen. Washed!" I had to get out of there. I snatched up his clothes in my rush to escape. There was air on the other side of the door. I was sweating. I was ticked off. Another arrogant American.
I went to eat. And drink. It was very hot and my shirt was soaked with sweat, not all of it produced by the heat. I was angry and nervous. No, frightened, not so much nervous. I bought some food and returned to the hotel room. Fred was on the bed, snoring again. He was naked.
I stood there watching him sleep. His body was perfect. Tan, with a slight tan line of a speedo. His entire body was covered with a fine, short coat of hair, even his back, rear, and the inside of his forearms. His fine haircut was evident in spite of his having slept on it wet.
The thickness of his black, wavy hair made me want to tangle my fingers into it. I thought my own hair was thick, but Fred's was a bit thicker than mine, although mine was far longer. Fred had a neatly trimmed short cut while mine was an unruly mass hanging down to my waist.
I began to think inappropriate thoughts. Fred must have heard them, as he rolled over. That's when nervous became the correct word. He stretched and woke up. I rushed to the little table, placing his food down before my trembling hands dropped everything.
"You want to join me?"
I stayed with my back to him, afraid to turn around. No, no. I already ate. This is for you." I leaned forward, hoping the tabletop was securely fastened to the base.
"I'm not talking about food. I want you in bed."
"Tank- uhm, thank you. That's a very tempting offer, you have no idea. But I have another meeting. I'm here on work."
"Too bad. What are you here working on?"
The fact that he was making conversation as if we had just bumped into each other on the street ticked me off. My hands were white-knuckle tight on the table.
"I'm a travel writer. I'm late." I rushed out the door without a look toward him. I had no idea where I was going, but I hoped that when I returned from there, Fred would be gone. I went back to the bar.
Three hours later, I was pleasantly drunk. The images in my head were sufficiently blurred so that they had no affect on me. At last. I was bored and tired. I hadn't slept well since Fred was snoring so much. I just wanted to relax, put my thoughts in order for the article I had to turn in and get the hell away from that guy. That perfect, handsome, enticing, aggravating, naked man in my bed.
My head lowered back to rest on the chair top. I languished in that place between sleep and wakefulness. I dreamed of Fred. His fresh, clean smell wafted out of the bathroom with him. It was nice. His flat, square pecks. His flat, square, tan, finely-coated-with-hair-pecks. Long muscular arms. Even longer more muscular legs. Hairy legs. Thighs that begged to be bitten into. His huge brown eyes. Those full lips.
Those lips slowly came toward me. Soft and warm, they pressed against mine. It was the most comforting feeling ever. How wonderful life would be if I could always have the option of feeling those lips on mine. To feel that perfect naked body pressed against me. To wrap myself around that tall, handsome figure.
The dream was amazing. I could smell him and feel him touch me. My body reacted to each feathery touch as if it carried with it an electrical current. I had to wake up. This was not the sort of drunken dream one should have in a public place.
My eyelids weighed as much as the marble tabletop. I had to open my eyes. I had to stop the dream before it was too late and I really embarrassed myself. I managed to open my eyes, just barely. But the kissing kept going. Fred was there, bent over me, kissing me! Right there in a public bar!
"What the hell are you doing?" I was on my feet, and already aware that Fred and a few other people in the bar were looking at me. At myÉ state of being, clearly visible through my pants.
"You looked so peaceful. I wanted to taste you."
Fred dropped into a chair, as casual as if he were completely alone.
I quickly sat down, trying to arrange myself.
"You know, that looked very, very much like an erection in your pants."
"Shut up. Never mind. I was dreaming." A quick inventory of the people helped me relax; no one was watching us anymore, except the woman licking her lips.
"Tell me about it. Seems like the kind of dream worth talking about. But I thought you were going to a meeting."
"I lied."
"Why?"
"It was the first thing I thought of."
"If you didn't want to have sex, why not just say so? I'm a big boy, I can handle the truth."
"I did want-. I did not want to have sex with you. Not under these conditions."
"What conditions?"
"I do not know you."
Fred's unibrow shot up into his hairline. "Seriously? Are you an old-fashioned girl, waiting for her wedding night?"
"Do not refer to me as a girl. Ever. I am all man, I assure you."
"Touchy about masculine image. Duly noted."
"You know what, why don't you just go back to America and nobody gets hurt."
"A little safe sex never hurt anybody that I know of. Or do you have a husband?"
"No. I do not- How did you get your clothes?"
"Well, you rushed out in such a panic that I called the front desk and some old woman said that she would find out what you did with my clothes. A few minutes later, there was a knock on the door and some starving child was there with my clothes.
"Madam. That was her granddaughter, Marie."
Ok. All I know is that I could get dressed. First place I thought of was a bar. And look who I found? So why no sex? You don't like hairy men. Yeah, that's not really in fashion any more. But I'd go broke with electrolysis treatments. And as soon as I was all smoothed out, hair would come back into vogue again."
"I said to you. I don't know you."
"Oh, right, the chastity vow path. So are you still a virgin or did a broken heart cause this passionate stance?"
"Why do you care?"
"I don't. But until I can figure out where the hell I am and how to get back to my travel partners, I just thought I would make polite conversation in the hope that either you would buy me a meal or someone would ask me if I wanted one!"
Fred raised his voice, tilting his head back, and his arms out in surrender.
"Here, you finish this. I must leave."
"Another meeting?"
"Go to hell." I left him sitting there and hoped his plane would crash half way across the ocean.
I'm glad his plane made it back to America safely Ð I was on it. Nine days had passed. Nine peaceful, uneventful, un-aggravated days with no Fred. Much too soon after taking off, Fred dropped into the empty seat next to me. My flight was ruined.
"Fancy meeting you here. Are you going home?"
"No. I'm on the way to Mars. What do you want?"
"Ok. I just wanted to say thank you. I felt bad that you kept getting pissed off."
"You're forgiven. Did you find your friends?"
"Sort of. They will pay dearly for dragging my ass along on this little excursion."
"France is a beautiful country. Some day you should go back and see it properly. Without being drunk."
"Yeah. No thanks. I'm not really the traveling type of guy. This was my first and last out-of-country experience of the worst kind."
"Your loss. I grew up there and love it."
"I thought you said you were from Minneapolis."
"I am. But every summer between school years, I live in France. I have a large family, it feels as much like home as Minneapolis does."
"Where in Minneapolis do you live?"
"Near the downtown area."
"Ok. Like, Uptown, or Calhoun?"
"How do you know those names?"
"Because I live there."
"You live in Minneapolis?"
"Just like Elsie from Chelsie, we had to go to France to met one another."
"I live in Kenwood." Jean-Paul stated, flatly, as he gazed out the window.
"Kenwood. Of course you do."
"What?"
"Another poor little rich kid. I live over on the opposite side of Lakewood Cemetery from Lake Calhoun. The peasant section."
"Oh. You grew up there?"
"Yes. Why didn't I ever seen you in school?"
"I was home-schooled. My mother thought the schools weren't doing well enough."
"Well, they did tear down two of the best high schools, so she may have known what she was talking about. I just don't ever remember seeing you around anywhere, and you, I would remember."
"Why? What makes me so memorable?"
Fred's unibrown shot back up into his hairline again. "You sort of stand out. I don't know many men with waist-length hair, and a jet-black beard and what I'm guessing would be a killer body. Not to mention the accent."
"Well, I couldn't have long hair when I was a kid. The beard wasn't around beck then either."
"Well I'm still happy to meet you. I never even got your name. I'm Fred Smith." I shook the hand he held out to me. It was strong and he smiled. I felt his eyes reach out and grab me.
"Jean-Paul."
"Well, thanks for helping me out, John."
"Jean-Paul, not John."
"Right. You're French. What's your last name? Maybe I have heard it before."
"du Archambeaux dit Tardif."
"Right. You are most definitely French. Never heard that name that I can recall. Quite a name, that."
"It is an old, well respected name. Even if you have not heard it before."
"Right. Touchy about masculine image and name. Duly noted."
"Perhaps you should return to your friends. Now."
"Oh, I'm alone on this flight. We have the next several hours together. This is going to be a fun ride."
During that return flight to New York, I learned to hate and love him. Fred had never been anywhere and had no interest in ever going anywhere again. He said that he was working for a good accounting firm and hoping to buy a car.
I was suicidal. I could not have possibly cared less. But his deep voice was incredibly attractive. His personality was not. He bragged about everything he had accomplished and everyone that he knew.
His friends were the best, most educated, most talented, most famousÉ His family was the most loving, most generous, most beautifulÉ His life was the most perfect, the most satisfying, the most rewardingÉ
Murder or suicide. Those were my choices. I decided on going to the bathroom. For as long as possible. The flight lasted for a hundred years. I finally understood the philosophy of purgatory.
Less than three weeks later, Fred once again dropped down beside me. I was tanning quietly by myself at Lake of the Isles, just a block from my house.
"Well, fancy meeting you here!"
"Oh God. You."
"Why Jeannie, I can't believe you! It's been so long and this is how you greet you old bed partner?"
"I am not Jeannie. You are not a bed partner."
"You are in serious need of an attitude adjustment. Why don't we go somewhere and I'll make you feel much better."
I turned to look at Fred for the first time. He was dripping with sweat, wearing obscenely short shorts and running shoes Ð nothing else. I felt my stomach get queasy. He smiled at me. He just leaned on his arm, smiling at me, letting me examine him. Ticked me off.
"I'm glad you like it."
"What?" I asked, stupidly.
"My body. I like the way it feels when you ogle me."
"I'm not used to exhibitionists."
"And I'm not used to voyeurs. But I like it when you do it. Are you sure you want to stay a virgin until our wedding night?"
"We, will never have a wedding night."
"Oh, it's just a matter a time. One day, you will be licking these concrete pecks and wrapping those little legs around my waist while I slide my-"
"Stop that. Take your porno hopes elsewhere."
"You really are a virgin aren't you?
He was so irritating. I brought him home.