Standing underneath the great vaulted Gothic windows in the immense library of the Sorbonne we were staring through the lid of a glass case at Rimbaud's lost notebooks, copious journals full of never-before-seen poems as well as itineraries, inventories and notes regarding shifting weather conditions and how they affected the transportation of guns or slaves, upon which his livelihood depended.
No one knew he wrote them, my companion said, whose acquaintance I was just beginning to make because of this comment.
He took off his rimless glasses and rubbed them on the bottom of his black t-shirt. It was not tucked into his also black jeans which fit him nicely and showed that he was nicely fit.
I realized he was beautiful, blue green eyes, curly browb hair almost neat and almost messy, and a very warm smile. If he had not actually looked as good as he did such a description would be an amateur's cliché, but it was dead on.
His English was perfect and his accent was so slight that I could not be sure if he were French or German.
You like him? I asked. I actually had scant acquaintance with his work.
Very much, he said.
How would you like to get a coffee? he grinned. It's warm enough to sit outside and I can recite Le Bateau Ivre to you.
It was a gorgeous day, constituted by a delicately intermingled sunshine and cloudiness. The air was so clear you could see right through it.
The coffee was strong, and I like it sweet, and I was speeding.
You can't know that, I argued.
But he argued it was possible to control thought on a mass level.
We had gotten into such dangerously pretentious conversation because he had teased me for being an American and indolent in my responsibility, along with my countrymen, of bringing down the current government, stopping its militarism, brutality, destructiveness, and its advance to fascism.
It was not easy to hear the United States spoken of that way, and with such disappointment and conviction, but I was troubled because I knew it was right, that America, right before our eyes, had been turned into a different country from the one I had been taught it was, and I was impotent.
His hand found its way to my lap and he wrapped his palm around my wrist.
Don't be distressed, he said. I live over there, he said, pointing in the direction of rue Monge. Come home with me.
He did not seem out of breath at all when we reached the sixth floor. I was trying to breathe as smoothly as I could, but aware that despite my efforts to keep my breath from jumping, it was.
Who I was never made it to this side, I said, a laugh in my voice, as I took off my scarf and linen jacket.
What does that mean? he said, kneeling by the fireplace and playing with the kindling.
What does what mean? I said.
Who ever you were you never made it to this side.
That I'm not the person I really am. I'm really somebody else. I'm just a confused construction.
Are you confused about wanting to kiss me?
No, I said.
Then go ahead.
I got up and walked over to him and dropped to my knees beside him and touched my lips to his tentatively and then I pressed my lips more deeply against his and our mouths opened slightly. I felt his breath coming into me and I yielded to it opening my mouth to our mutually exchanged deep breaths.
Wait a minute, he said, taking himself away from me. I want to finish making the fire.
But from behind I kissed him on the neck as he continued with his kindling and got him so excited/frazzled that several times he could not strike the match on the side of the box so that it lit.
I stared at the screen sometimes, I said, as I was leaning against him, staring into the blaze he had made in the fireplace despite my interference, forgetting whatever I was doing, just staring at the task bar, waiting for the number one to appear inside a parentheses.
That was stupid.
It was insane.
He smiled, and I did not mind that he just about called me stupid. I was stupid. I wanted to stop being stupid.
He kissed me like he owned me. I responded like he did and I felt him unbuttoning my shirt. I blushed when he smiled approvingly at my smooth, shaved, well defined chest.
It's ok to be proud of that, he said. You worked for it.
I did, I said.
He slapped me gently.
Don't talk unless I tell you to.
I smiled a little funny, like I didn't quite understand. But I did. Very huskily I whispered Yes, sir.
He unbuckled my belt and took hold of me through the black microfiber briefs I wear.
I own you now. Do you know that?
I felt he did.
Yes, sir, I said.
I'm always acting, he said.
That does not mean I am faking or that I don't mean what I say. It means I am realizing myself in a role.
I like your role I said breathily into his ear.
Who told you you could speak? he said.
Necessity, I answered.
He turned and smiled.
Necessity is highly overrated, he said, raising himself on straight arms pressing the bed on either side of me, as if he were preparing to do push-ups, locking me with his eyes.
There's something more powerful than necessity. Do you know what it is? he grinned happily.
You, sir? I said.
It is, he said, acknowledging me by ignoring me, will. In this particular relationship involving you and me, it is my will. My will trumps necessity. Do you understand? He said smiling and pressing his forehead against mine.
Yes, sir.
I did not understand just how serious he was and how dedicated he was to emptying me out and filling me with him. The anal cleansing rituals before, and, afterwards, how he would take me plunging and leave his half-life to disappear in me were only symbolic of a less tangible process of stripping me down and recreating me.
It is a strange process to undergo, to participate in alienating what I had come to know as myself and to become what I was being trained to be by learning to be governed by obedience and submission. The words became slogans for me that filled my mind with brightness, filling the spaces where thoughts I no longer even remembered had once bred.
I want these out, he said, pulling on the clamps I had clipped to my nipples that evening, as I was preparing myself to be attractive to him.
Do you know why?
I shook my head and remained silent.
Because I determine what you feel, when you feel, how you feel, whether it's pleasure or pain.
Yes, sir, I said, about to pull the clips off my nipples.
Uh uh, he said slapping my hands with a small silver-handled whip he picked up from a side table.
You're proud of yourself, he said, twisting one of the clamps rather than removing it.
That's something new, isn't it? he said smiling.
The pain was searing, and I said nothing.
I asked you something, he said pulling the clamp off with a sudden surprising movement.
Yes, sir, I said on an in breath.
You think you can take pain? We'll see how much you can tolerate when I determine when and how much, not you, when it's my teeth biting your nipples.
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