Guillaume Bacharene
bacharene@gmail.com
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Village Life - Part I: The Firemen's Ball
In France, the Sapeurs Pompiers and SAMU operate the fire and ambulance services. In Paris and Marseille it is also part of the military and thus, highly integrated. In Paris, it is part of the French army and in Marseille, of the French navy. Then, as is the case in many countries, there are paid and volunteer staff. So, in our village where I spend part of the year, there is what they call an annual Bal des Pompiers', a Firemen's Ball. Well, it is more a celebratory and thank you' event with food, wine and entertainment, rather than something formal and grand, as the name might suggest. This year it came before the annual special cultural event, a Tahitian Night.
So, I had agreed to go with friends or more specifically `a friend', Marlne although this really wasn't my thing. As it turned out, however, just as I was about to walk up, Marlne telephoned to say she had a migraine and simply had to sleep it off. I decided to go for a while anyway and duly arrived, expecting little of interest. One of the larger village squares, close to the brand new Sapeurs Pompiers et SAMU HQ, had been set up as the key events venue with a stage, tables and seats, a dance floor, bar area, food services area and some quiet areas, well back and less well lit, under some starling-free, mature Platanes, Plane trees, so ubiquitous in France.
Now, a little aside: in many villages, certain areas of mature Platanes are to be avoided after dark as the starlings roost in them in their thousands and all night there is a constant `rain' of shit, which coats everything below. Unsuspecting tourists are the butt of village jokes when they cannot believe their luck, finding a centralised area to park, totally devoid of cars. Unless a villager is very polite and lets them in on the secret, it is only next day they discover the reason why nobody parks where they had selected!
Anyway, the firemen were being acknowledged, thanked and applauded. I collected a glass of red wine and retreated towards the quiet areas, as the noise level was already ear splitting. I noticed one of the firemen doing the same thing a few minutes after I did. He sat about two metres away, nodding in my direction and smiling with a flash of white teeth. He looked about 20, fresh, flawless and handsome, decked out in his uniform. As I kept an eye on the action up front, I saw out of the corner of my eye he was looking in my direction, constantly. Whenever I moved my head, he would look away. I figured that perhaps he was checking me out. Sure enough, the minute I diverted attention back to the action, his looking continued. I went to get another drink and decided to get a bottle since it was only 10 euros. As I came back he gave a little wave of his hand. I went over and sat beside him. He flashed another smile.
Salut. C'est moi Guillaume,' I said as I pulled out a chair. There was a lull in the sound. Hi. I'm Guillaume.'
Salut Guillaume. C'est moi Marc.' Hi Guillaume, I'm Marc.'
We shook hands and did the usual Cin, Cin,' Cheers!'
Marc moved closer. And asked in French,
`All too loud for you Guillaume?'
Yes indeed, way too loud. I rarely come to things like this for that very reason. I end up with my ears ringing for days!' I sipped my wine and filled his glass. My ears are really sensitive to noise.'
`Me also. Makes my ears hurt. My colleagues are real party dogs but I'm not. I'd prefer to sit in a corner and read a good book.' He smiled again and continued,
`They think I'm a bit of a bookworm, but that's OK. I'm perfectly happy within myself. I don't need approval or validation from any of them.'
I smiled and said, `So you're more the quiet, sensitive and deadly type are you?'
He laughed and tipped his glass.
`If it makes you feel any better, I too am more the quiet, sensitive and deadly type!' I said and tipped my glass as I finished. He smiled again, a lovely smile with his eyes as well.
`Well we can be quiet, sensitive and deadly together then!' he replied. I smiled and nodded.
Now, in French, words can be loaded with subtle meanings. I decided to test him out.
`So, Marc, are you proposing that we be quiet, sensitive and deadly together, now?'
He smiled and nodded, saying,
`Not here of course. We can go to your place if you like and be quiet, sensitive and deadly there.'
Suddenly, what had promised to be a dull evening was looking up, wherever this was headed and, innocent or not.
We emptied the bottle of red and stood up. My house was about 4 minutes away. Marc put a protective hand under my elbow as we walked and chatted. I was warming to him by the second. He was a little shorter than me but not by much as well as being trim and well formed.
`It's weird,' he said. It's like we've been friends forever.'
Now, French people generally are far more reserved than most and our language is inherently polite with subtle nuances and levels in everything. The way in which Marc was speaking was certainly not typically French at all.
As we arrived at my house and I opened the door to the foyer and turned on the lights, he exclaimed with a loud gasp,
`Your house is so beautiful but also, it is a private library, all of those books! I am in heaven already!'
Marc went straight to the first set of shelves and lovingly caressed the books there, mouth opened.
`I can see immediately Marc. You are a real book lover. I can see it instantly. It takes one to know one.'
`Oh yes, my love, my passion, my world is books.'
`And you are also a fireman.' I intended nothing from the remark; it was merely an observation.
`We French are best being complicated don't you think Guillaume? I am complicated. I think you are also. That's why and how we connect.'
I smiled as he meanwhile continued with his instant love affair with my books, pulling one out after another and putting each back.
`What can I offer you to drink? I am going to have a pastis on ice. Also, you are welcome any time to come and make love to my books.'
I put on some Satie. He said,
`A pastis would be perfect, on ice, and I will be a lover to your books.'
I sorted the drinks and some grilled almonds and sat down on the sofa. Marc came and sat right beside me, putting his arm around my shoulders. Again, this is not typical French behaviour with people unless they are close friends. But, it was sweet. I picked up the glasses and handed him one along with grilled almonds. We clinked and sipped and nibbled. His face was totally alive and in the subtle light of the room, glowed. The rich aniseed flavour of the pastis swirled in my mouth. He had amazingly dark eyes and a flawless olive skin. In the light of the house he looked stunningly beautiful; like a model.
`How old are you, Marc?' The question fell out of my mouth. He looked younger than I had thought.
`Twenty-one next week, and never been kissed.' He smiled again.
`I can't believe you didn't have them lining up to kiss you, Marc!'
He smiled again. `I am fussy and have been waiting.'
I chuckled. `So, Marc, how much longer do you have to wait, you think?'
Another smile. `Until you decide to lean over and kiss me of course, Guillaume! I so want you to.'
I took our drinks and set them down. Marc withdrew his arm and snuggled closer. His hair smelled of apples. I kissed the corner of his mouth lightly and then gently did the same all around his mouth. He moaned softly and his body shuddered, his head cradled on my left arm along the sofa back. I went to the centre of his mouth, his lips quivering, and gently ran my tongue between his lips. His breath caught as he opened his mouth a little and our tongues met. And, for someone who had never been kissed, he instantly became my star student, tasting of pastis, rampant with anticipation.
I caressed his nipples, clearly visible through his shirt. They hardened like nails. He moaned and gasped and I saw very clearly his cock was about to burst out of his trousers.
Our kissing became deeper and more impassioned. I ran the back of my fingers gently along his imprisoned cock. His moans and shudders increased.
`I have to say, Marc, you are a very fast learner,' I whispered into his mouth. His response was to knead my cock and then he said,
`I so have to go pee!'
I showed him where the downstairs bathroom was and switching the music to my bedroom and collecting our drinks, waited for him. His emptying of his bladder indicated he was a good fireman: it reverberated.
Within minutes we were naked in my bed, his cock liberated and proud. As is typical in France he was uncut although his foreskin was loose and his cockhead almost uncovered. His cock, however, was slick with pre-cum and we were almost identical in terms of size.
`Are you Jewish, Guillaume?' he whispered as he fondled my cut cock. Between passionate kisses, I mumbled,
`No, Marc but in my family, all the men are circumcised. We have our own tradition, whatever the reason and whatever the origins.'
I ran my tongue around his balls and cock, exposing his glans. He tasted clean and sweet. And, we kissed some more.
`Kissing is wonderful; I like it a lot,' he whispered. What's the next lesson?' as he pulled on top of him.