Fuck me, Sartre. Fuck me even harder. I know what unleashes you, what excites you, what tenfolds your forces, up to the point of dislocating your eye almost completely out of its orbit. It’s this picture of my ass, my bare legs, my feet sunk in mules, in a bathroom that is not yours. It was in a bad house in a popular Chicago neighbourhood. I was Nelson’s episodic lover, Nelson Algren. He lived in an infamous apartment, a sordid hole where cockroaches were bathing in my American coffee in the morning. But what he was good at was fucking, this guy. He knew how to handle his cock like a helmsman holds his rudder. I scratched, walls, home, fucking. Fucking shit. But it was not him who took my picture. It’s his friend, Art Shay, the artist, the photographer. To tell you all, darling, I had left the door open because I wanted him to watch me. He had a huge erection, gaffing like a bull seeing my rounded ass well open in front of him. When I heard the click of his Leica, I turned around, open vulva, gift of the gods. I saw like a mountain in the middle of his pants (it must have been the Rockies). He must have taken fifteen shots of me naked. I was laughing, a lot. I was happy. He wanted me, and I liked it. And after, he fucked me on the sink. So much so that the toothbrushes, the soap, the mirror, and even the plumbing were unsealed. Fuck, these Americans, they know how to fuck. As if they were taught at school. Go! Enough about others, my love. Fuck me, Sartre. Fuck me as an existentialist!
No spice, no pleasure, I had watched your tongue click against your mouth as you had whispered these words in my ears in that old, dusty café next to l’avenue de Champaubert, while your hands had slipped inside my pants – oh, you sly little Beaver, oh darling Simone. You know when I was done fucking Wanda, that little girl, our little girl Olga’s sister, I thought only of you. As I came, I said to her (it’s vulgar but the human condition is vulgar) that I have to tell Simone and I left her lying on the bed, my dear Simone, to write a letter to you. If I don’t tell you something, S, it’s like it has not happened. Until you know, my reality feels like a dream to me. When I tell you, I become real. Now come to me, my little girl, let me take off your panties and then you can come sit on my lap – can’t you see this huge erection I have? It’s bigger than that bastard Nelson’s, come feel it against your bare ass, but first let me spank it while you bend against this table where I wrote No Exit. Do you remember how much you had laughed when I kept saying “No Exit, Only Entry” while fucking you right in the ass after finishing that damned book?
Existence precedes essence. I am such a bastard philosopher. Those fucking fools think I am talking about life and meaning, but you know what I truly spoke of. The existence of my erection precedes my essence, my cum. We really fooled them this time, my girl, now come let me fuck you first between your breasts. After a few minutes, your mouth. Then your vagina. Your ass. Your whole body. Come, I will fuck you until all of me is inside you, until you are covered in my essence.
The .44 Magnum was still warm in my hands which were now shaking, I had never shot a gun before. Like a real crazy, you loved when I played with that old weapon that your American lover gave you after a night of lust. I do not know what he did to you with, in which hole he put it to you, but I like this weapon. The scratches on the barrel, is it because of your teeth?
Simone, do you know why I gave you this delicate nickname “beaver”? It’s not because of the sound proximity to your last name. No. It’s because your teeth rape my dick when I’m in your mouth, your prominent incisors that massage my callous bodies second after second, until the final explosion. You are my beaver, my fetish, my well-bred bourgeoise who sucks cocks as a suburban whore at five francs pass. You know how to do it like a professional. Sometimes you make me enjoy so much that you almost put my eyes straight!
One of the things I hate most, Simone, in life, are the people who speak alone. While walking. Sit down. In the street. At the restaurant.
The second thing I also hate is this priest, at the table next door, at the Flore, who looks over my shoulder at everything I write to you. This letter. So, I will be even more outrageous, even more raw, even more obscene. To make it blush even more red than the reddest of all Mexican peppers.
I’m going to talk to you about fish, Simone. And the taste of your sex, your vulva, your secretions. It looks like the big tide in Cancale. Where does this smell come from? From your American (Atlantic) or Chinese (Pacific) lovers? Your vagina is a journey, the exotic is in the hollow of your buttocks, my Simone. At each tail, I go a mile, from one port to another. Where did you get this iodine smell, this marine taste, this ocean flesh? What are you doing?
Simone, my jealousy is bottomless, unimaginable, and your silences make me sick like a mad dog. You think that making love will fill those silences, but no, you. Behind your smell, I smell the smell of others.
My love, Jean – let me call you ‘my love’, for what else are you, what else could it be that would cause me to dream such a dream about a man as ugly as you. I take pleasure in your bottomless jealousy, my love, in making you think that another man is caressing my naked breasts when, in reality, I am just sipping a coffee alone in a café – Jean, you see, you see, there never have been Atlantic or Pacific lovers, the smell you smell in me are the many smells of your own self, the others you feel inside the holes of my body are your many selves, all your selves. In the dream, I got on my knees and unzipped your trousers before taking all of you inside my mouth. I sucked and sucked endlessly like a woman falling in a vertigo. My love, it was right at the end, at the point of explosion, that you caressed my head between your legs and asked me to swallow.
My love, life is a crime I wouldn’t commit without you.
M & Mrs Hyde are the two tantric and trashy sides of a forgotten soul, with frequent Jungian mood, tiny red spot obsession, Bombay Sapphire passion, frequent insomnia, recurrent headaches, taste for Darjeeling, and fascination for words. Always travelling from East to West, and inversely.