The Sexual Life of Catherine M. by Catherine Millet Page A

the middle of his high-tech art stu- dio, while presenting his dick like a mon- strous pistil emerging from the corolla of
    ephemeral, crotchless women’s panties—a baroque touch in that austere setting—par- ticularly appealed to him. I had to narrate it dozens of times, not even having to embel- lish it with variations, and even after I had stopped seeing the other friend. If I could come quickly while masturbating that morn- ing when I woke up, or in the office, in such and such a position and having made myself come X number of times in succession, that worked, too. I never invented an adventure that hadn’t happened, and my descriptions betrayed reality no more than any transposi- tion inevitably does. As I have already poin- ted out, the realm of fantasy and the realm of experience may well be close neighbors, but to me, they are still independent of each oth- er, like a landscape painting and the corner of the countryside that it actually represents; there is more of the artist’s interior vision than reality in the painting. The fact that, from then on, we see that reality through the
    prism of the painting does not stop the trees from growing or their leaves from dropping. It is not unusual, at an orgy, for a man oc- cupying a pussy that has already been well reconnoitered to worry about the effect his predecessors may have had. “You were cry- ing out earlier. Tell me about it. He has a big cock, doesn’t he? He must have really had to ram it in, and you liked it. You were behav- ing like a woman in love. Don’t deny it, I saw you.” I have to admit that sometimes, con- trary to expectations, I would reply hon- estly—no, I liked his cock just as much—be- cause at the time I hadn’t learned to correct my scrupulous instincts, but also because of my writerly unwillingness to repeat myself.
    But usually this chronicling of events took place outside of carnal exchanges. In that in- stance, the words hang in the space between those who are speaking, like a house of cards built up by their play of questions and an- swers, and which they hope won’t suddenly
    crumble in the face of prematurely salacious confessions or a curiosity that too quickly be- comes indiscreet. While driving in his falling-apart little car, one friend asked me almost curtly: How old were you when you started swinging? What sort of people did you meet at orgies—middle-class types? Were there lots of girls? How many men fucked you in one evening? Did you come every time? My replies were equally matter- of-fact. At one point he pulled over, not so that we could touch each other but to pursue the interrogation, his face quite relaxed, his eyes focused well beyond the end of the street. Did I take several at the same time, in my pussy and in my mouth? “That’s the best, and jerking off two more with my hands.” This particular friend was a journalist; he ended up interviewing me for a magazine he contributed to.
    In my immediate circle of friends, it was a question of keeping the excitement at a
    certain level verbally so that all the members of the club could clandestinely identify one another anywhere, at a work-related meeting or at a party, and could tolerate the conform- ist nature of the event, for example at a housewarming party where there are lots of guests. They come and go in the artist’s huge at-home studio and there isn’t anywhere to sit. “Is that guy there the one you have such a fantastic time with? That’s great; he’s not much to look at, but that doesn’t mean any- thing. What the hell does he do to you?” I reply with a nod of the head; it’s true that he’s ugly, and more than that, he’s out of place here. In my wanderings I come across lots of different kinds of people, and I like ar- ranging for these worlds to meet. I made sure he was invited even though they didn’t know him. Someone comes and asks me who the guy is in the hopelessly outdated hippie smock. All the same…When I spend the night