The Sexual Life of Catherine M. by Catherine Millet

gradually and obscurely come to understand what this lifestyle had to offer me: the illusion of open- ing myself to innumerable possibilities. Given that I obviously had to comply with all sorts of constraints (a very demanding and
    stressful job, an upbringing defined by poverty and, the worst shackle of all, the bag- gage of family conflicts and rows in relation- ships), the certainty that I could have sexual relations in any situation with any willing party (as a matter of principle, the illusion held only on condition that anyone unwilling was excluded from the horizon) was the lungfuls of fresh air you inhale as you walk to the end of a narrow pier. And, as reality did still impose limits on this freedom (I couldn’t do only that, and even if I could, the bracelet of my thighs could link together only a tiny part of the human chain), this meant that the spoken word, the briefest evocation of epis- odes in my sexual life, should always conjure up the panorama of possibilities in all their fullness. “I am here, with you, but if I talk about it, I pull aside the sheet, I open up a breach in the wall, and I let in the entire army of lovers that surrounds us.” Usually, after about the third or fourth date, I would
    drop in a few men’s names, connecting them with day-to-day activities that were, non- etheless, open to ambiguous interpretation, and—if I was feeling more confident—I might refer to a few picturesque situations in which I had made love in the past. I would evaluate the reaction.
    I have said that I did not go in for preach- ing, and even less for provocation, except as part of a well-meaning and harmless perver- sion, addressed only to people who had already been identified as kindred spirits. I was careful to be sincere, adhering to a dia- lectic with three terms: to some extent I pro- tected myself from new relationships by branching out only if there was a connection with my community of swingers; in doing this I could identify whether or not the new- comer belonged to this community; finally, whatever his reaction, while still taking care to protect myself, I would appeal to his curiosity.
    The friend who made me speak so much while we were fornicating insisted that, as well as evoking fantasies, I should talk about things that had really happened—as it should be. I had to give names, describe places and say exactly how many times. If I failed to specify when describing a new acquaintance, he was quick to ask: “Did you sleep with him?” But his interest did not focus exclus- ively on an obscene inventory (“What color was his glans when you drew back his fore- skin? Brown? Red? Did you give him one up the ass? With your tongue? Or your fingers? How many fingers did you stick up his ass?”), it also extended to the more banal as- pects of the setting: “We were visiting an apartment for rent in the rue Beaubourg, the carpet had balls of fluff all over it and he took me there and then on a mattress on the floor.” “He’s a bouncer for The Johnny Halli- day Show; that’s how I saw the whole show from the side of the stage, it felt as if the
    speakers were inside me. We came home on his Harley Davidson; it didn’t have any back- seat left, and the frame was carving into my pussy; when we did eventually fuck, I was already spliced open like a ripe grapefruit.” A basic sentimentality was always welcome: “Was he in love with you?” Me: “Hmm.” Him: “I’m sure he’s in love with you.” Me: “The other morning I was pretending to sleep, and I heard him whispering, ‘I love you, Catherine; I love you, Catherine,’ and these breathy words were accompanied by a little movement of his belly, not as if he was fucking but more like a big cat twitching in its sleep.” A sentimentality corrupted by the jealousy of a third party: “Does he know you fuck everyone in town? He’s jealous, isn’t he?” The antics of another friend of mine who fucked me laid out on his worktable, right in