Asia Argento received her guests at the Salo, for three days.
It was necessary to show a white paw, to cross a small door at the corner of an anonymous building at an angle, in Paris, not far from the Grands Boulevards, to descend from the steps, to progress in a dark and slightly damp atmosphere. To the right, behind a window, a Japanese tattoo artist dressed with a mask working on the almost naked body of a young man (what? a blue flower on the shoulder: very commonplace). A bar, further, held by two men(?). Sofas, screens hanging on almost every wall, spreading blurry and psychedelic images of Asia centered on her eyes and lips red like hell’s blood. Alternately, posters of her. Further on, a second bar, run by two women. One of them has a bewildering neckline, beautiful breasts like apples, no bra (I take myself for Max Ernst, in this black and white photo that obsesses me); she recognizes me and offers me a glass of red wine (Spanish, no one is perfect). The taste of tannin on my lips. A little taste of salt, too (I do not know where it comes from).
Asia is on a platform, in a corner: tall, fine, captivating, long clear dress that molds her perfect body and unveils her tattoos, incredibly desirable, sensual, attractive, singing and declaiming, making love to her microphone, rolling a weed joint, emptying a full bottle of vodka (maybe not the first one tonight), walking barefoot on the electric wires, playing with her hair as with a theater curtain, revealing her diaphanous teeth, challenging each one when he forgets to contemplate it, repeating more than a thousand times “fuck”. She is completely drunk, stuffed, cooked, made. She travels and one travels with her. She dreams and one dreams with her. She dies (little death) and one dies with her. Cold water (condensation) falls from the ventilation ducts. Iced liquid on my burning skin. Particularly exciting. I’m not the only one.
Breath of fresh air. Anthony Bourdain will not come: he is retained in New York (too bad, no beer with him). Bondage? Maybe not tonight, tomorrow? Another night? I sit in one of the countless sofas. I still have some red wine. I look around: there is Tintin, the most famous quarantine fatty tattoo artist in Paris with his biker coat, walking slowly as if he were here at home, accompanied by a sulphurous girl totally tattooed with Greek goddess plastic; Arielle Dombasle arrives after midnight, with her ethereal face, small breasts, wasp waist and legs that do not end (it’s still a pretty piece); an ecstatic guy or in the middle of a trip, his American cap screwed on his head, kissing me on the back of my hand as if I was a godfather; this girl with her guy who looks at me as if she knew me, insistently (and maybe more?). In this vaginal atmosphere, the temptation is permanent, fuck! Girls all decided to come without bra. When they move, walk, lean, grab their glass, pick up, point with their fingers, you guess everything, you want to stretch your arm, to grab the breasts that wait for the support of my palm. How do you sit still without seeing it? We do not know if we go to the toilet to finish or refresh ourselves.
In the red and black lights, lulled or rather hypnotized by the voice of Asia, I find myself to be no longer know who I am. I’m another, maybe?
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