Descoperirea Laurei D Studentă la 19 Ani, Înfruntând Viața cu Curaj!

Bine ați venit pe canalul nostru! 🌟 În această audiobook, vă invităm să explorați “Destinul Laurei D”, o poveste captivantă despre forța interioară și învățare continuă. 📚 Înfruntând provocările vieții cu curaj și optimism, Laura, o studentă de 19 ani, împărtășește experiențe inspiraționale. 🌈 Descoperiți cum ea transformă adversitatea în oportunități și îmbrățișează cu încredere fiecare lecție. 🚀 Alăturați-vă călătoriei sale pline de speranță și învățați cum să strălucească chiar și în cele mai dificile momente ale vieții! ✨ #Inspiratie #CrescerePersonala #Optimism

LAURA D Cu colaborarea lui Marion Kirati Scump Studii Student 19 ani Ocupatia: prostituata Martor postfață lângă Eva Clouet

“Unul cuvânt pe această pagină și totul începe … Fuziunea dintre hârtie și cerneală, dintre tine și mă… Iubirea, una transcenzând-o pe cealaltă, cealaltă răspunzându-i. Momentul cele două devin una; Scrisul, aventura noastră, această carte. Acel moment în care mă mișcă. Realitatea cuvintelor, a faptelor, a groazei scrise… Oroarea unui Student care deformează timpul… O carte despre Laura, dar Laura este mai mult decât o persoană… Ea este prea mulți oameni deodată, trebuie să deschidem ochii, să reacționăm…”

Acest cartea a fost scrisă în colaborare cu Marion Kirat, o traducere veche de 23 de ani student. Introducere Nu închide ochii

Acum Stă în fața mea cu boxerii pe el. În lenjeria mea intimă, îl privesc Uită-te lung la mine. Știu că în mai puțin de un minut mă va întreba să stau lângă el și că după aceea corpul meu nu va mai fi al meu timp de o oră. O oră pentru 100 de euro.

Meu numele este Laura, am 19 ani. Sunt student la limbi moderne și sunt m-am forțat să mă prostituez pentru a-mi plăti studiile.

Sunt Nu este singurul în această situație. Se pare că există alți 40.000 de studenți ca mine. Totul a urmat o logică bizară, fără ca eu să-mi dau seama cu adevărat de asta Căzusem.

Eu Nu m-am născut cu o lingură de argint în gură. Nu am cunoscut niciodată luxul sau bogăție, dar până anul acesta mi-a lipsit degeaba. Setea mea de învățare și Convingerile m-au făcut întotdeauna să cred că anii studenției vor fi cei mai mulți frumos, cel mai lipsit de griji. Nu m-am gândit niciodată că primul meu an de facultate s-ar transforma într-un coșmar care m-ar face să fug din orașul meu natal.

La 19, nu te prostituezi pentru bani de buzunar. Nu-ți vinzi corpul cumpărați haine sau cafea. O faci când trebuie și te convingi că va fi ceva temporar, suficient pentru a vă plăti facturile, chiria și hrană. Prostituatele studente nu sunt ca cele pe care le găsești pe stradă. Sunt Nu sunt dependenți de droguri, nu sunt fără acte și nu toți provin din săraci Fundaluri. Pot avea pielea albă, pot fi francezi și pot veni din familii cu mijloace modeste. Ceea ce au toate în comun este dorința de a studiați într-o țară în care este nevoie de tot mai mulți bani pentru a face acest lucru. Povestea ta sunt pe cale să citească are loc într-un mare oraș francez. L-am numit V. pentru a proteja părinții mei. Nu trebuie să știe. Ei nu trebuie să știe niciodată. Eu sunt aproapele lor fiica model. Încăpățânat, dar nu neglijent.

De Desigur, oamenii mă pot critica pentru că nu am păstrat o slujbă de rahat pentru a ieși din prostii. Majoritatea prostituatelor studente, așa cum a fost cazul meu, au o slujbă mică pe partea laterală, Dar tot nu pot ieși din roșu. Prostituția și ratele sale astronomice sunt Prea multă tentație atunci când ești legat de bani și trebuie să-i găsești într-un grabă.

Acest este povestea mea și, deși nu mi-a fost ușor să o spun, motivația mea principală a fost să ridice vălul de pe ipocrizia din jurul prostituției studențești. Cel Condițiile precare de viață ale studenților de astăzi nu mai pot fi ignorate. Pentru Acum, prea puțini oameni sunt conștienți de existența acestui flagel.

The purpose of this story is to raise awareness, to change things so that underprivileged students never again have to sell their bodies to pay for their education. So that we are no longer shocked only by the traffic from other countries, but also focus our efforts on the cases in France.

And so that, finally, this never happens again, so that we never turn a blind eye. Chapter 1 Convocation of the meeting September 4, 2006 I walk leisurely through the university campus in V. Today is no ordinary day because I am enrolling in LEA, Spanish and Italian.

Two weeks ago, I received a letter telling me that at 2.30 pm I had to go to the university secretariat to submit the application file and get my student card. I was overwhelmed with emotion and rushed to gather all the necessary documents. It’s a lot of paperwork, but I managed to get through it. The most exciting part was the integration of the baccalaureate file, because it marks the end of an era. I also went to take some hasty photos in the subway, where I have a big smile, a winning smile.

When I woke up in the morning, I carefully studied the subway route so that I could reach the university on time. I really didn’t want to miss the sign up. I even cheated on public transport because I didn’t have enough money to pay for my ticket. I promised myself that I would not do that again this year and buy a membership, even if it is expensive. I am convinced that the university will change many things in my life.

In the subway, I couldn’t sit still, excited to discover the place where I would study and spend so much time. My Walkman , to which I am usually plugged, had failed to quell my heightened excitement. I even triple checked to make sure I had all the documents I needed to sign up. I couldn’t imagine being there and being told, “Sorry, miss, but your application is incomplete and you can’t get your card. You’ll have to come back again.” No, today was the day I became a student, not any other day.

I was so nervous that I almost missed the stop. At the last moment, the cheerful voices of a group of young people brought me out of my reverie. They were scrambling to get off the train, which reminded me that I was going to get off there too. I will have to get used to my new status: I am now a student, not a high school student. I am 18 and a half years old.

I arrived at the campus at 14.00 sharp. I didn’t really know where to go when I got out of the subway, so I followed the group of students. Realizing I still had some free time, I walked around a bit to get an idea of the place. I looked at a map displayed outside the subway station, but I didn’t want to get lost, so I looked to see exactly where I was. The campus looks like a real village. There are even signs pointing to the different buildings. On the map, I spotted what will be my future place of study: “Faculty of Foreign Languages, Building F”. Building F, that’s where I’ll be studying this year. At that precise moment, I can’t wait to meet her, to walk up and down her steps like a regular, to know which shortcut to take to get there. I can’t wait to be a part of that world.

I decided to take a quick look before signing up. I couldn’t go home without seeing where I would be studying for my bachelor’s degree in the next three years. Once there, I squinted into the September sun, remembering last summer. The building is pretty basic, but I don’t care. In my eyes today, it is synonymous with the future.

I chose modern languages a bit out of spite, I admit. I wanted to go into marketing and go to a school that would give me exceptional training. I have always been a dynamic person who likes responsibility. I like the constant stimulation and the challenge that a sale can present. I think I also wanted to have a very clear view of the world of work as quickly as possible. I wanted to be as well prepared as possible for my future job. I was looking for a total break with the high school environment, which was a burden to me, with its protectionism and infantilism. And let’s be honest, after business school it’s often much easier to find a job than after university. And a well-paid one, too.

But this dream is impossible for me at the moment. Schools are way too expensive for me. And taking out a loan requires a multi-year commitment that I can’t afford. Basically, I don’t even think my application would have been accepted. Beyond full repayment, I can’t even make regular monthly payments at this point. So I gave it up and now study modern languages strategically. I am confident that after I get my LEA degree in Spanish and Italian, I will be able to go on to a business school, where mastery of modern languages is essential. Plus, Latin America has seen considerable economic growth in recent years, and with my Spanish and Italian, I’ll be ready for the onslaught. And who knows, maybe I’ll outdo everyone else with this extra cultural baggage? As I stand in front of Building F, my head is full of dreams.

I always had clothes on me and food on my plate. But I never experienced the ease and carefree nature of money. My father works as a laborer and my mother is a nurse. Both earn only the minimum wage in the economy, with two children to raise. Enough to make it to the end of the month, but never a surplus. I am not entitled to any scholarship because I am one of those countless students who fall into the fatal category: very far from what one would call rich, but not poor enough to receive student aid. After adding up the two family incomes, the government decides that my parents can support me. There is no way out: I have to make do with what we don’t have.

I cut my walk short because I really want to get to the secretariat on time. I can’t resist anymore, I want to have my student card in my hand. I was about to run away.

Once there, there was a line of people all the way to the outside of the building. I waited patiently, like the novice that I was. But they told me that at 14.30 it was mandatory. This was my first taste of student life, which often consists of waiting for hours in front of administrative offices.

Just as I was heading to the line, two girls in different colored t-shirts literally pounced on me. – Hi, are you in first year? – Yes, and you?”, I say with a rather surprised smile.

One of the girls looks at me strangely. It’s not the answer he was expecting, and he apparently has no intention of engaging in conversation with me. Very quickly, however, he answers me with a smile: I am easy prey.

Their only reason for approaching me is to get me to sign up for student social security. I quickly realized from what they were telling me that they were doing this work before classes started and were paid on commission. It is evident that they are in competition with each other, or even at war, because, without using violent gestures, they constantly interrupt their conversations and almost hug each other to get in my face. I don’t really understand what I should do, everything is so new to me. They talk fast and stupidly, and I only catch one word out of two. They both try to make a convincing presentation, and their speech becomes totally incomprehensible. I just revel in this surreal spectacle while feeling sorry for them. They do what they do to make some money and I would bet my life that they are as meek as lambs.

– So, have you made a choice? The two fighters look at me, the fight is over. I use my judgment to decide. I didn’t listen to them. – The thing is… I already have social security!

Yes, obviously, that’s a good excuse. One of them, obviously disappointed and considering that she had no more time to waste with me, left immediately. The other one let me go after a few minutes, trying one last time to make me believe that sometimes two welfares are better than one, and that mine might not be the best, so if you reconsider the choice for a moment, you would realize that… blah blah blah _

In the face of such meaningless pleading, I step aside to join the queue. It’s 2:30 p.m., the time of my appointment, but I certainly can’t get past everyone, even with very good explanations, to get into the secretariat. So I decide to wait quietly and take a seat behind a huge man. I look at his citation, identical to mine. Write “14:00” in red marker right in the middle of the sheet. 14 o’clock! But how long has it been there?

From the sidelines, I hear the voices of the regulars, the “veterans” of the fourth or fifth year, who complain about the immobility of the queue. It has to be the same every year. But never mind, I have neither the desire nor the energy to be upset today. So I don’t throw a tantrum or join the general protest.

After half an hour, though, I’m starting to wonder if I’ve been forgotten. I intercepted a man wearing a university badge. – I’m sorry, but I had a meeting at 2:30 p.m. I’ve been waiting for almost half an hour.

As we spoke, I waved the summons in his face. Without even looking at her, he replied contemptuously: – Yes, miss, just like everyone else here. – So what are you going to do? Should I keep waiting? Am I really going to come today? – We do what we can.

“We’re doing our best…” That’s not an answer! I’ve just had my first run-in with university administration and it’s not exactly a victory or a relief.

Faced with such an evasive answer, I decide to wait. I reproach myself for not having brought a book with me; I would have passed the time intelligently. I rummage through my bag though, but nothing, not even a newspaper or a stupid leaflet to read. I regret sending the two girls for a walk so soon; I could have at least gotten them a brochure, that would have kept me busy for five minutes.

Stupidly, I dressed smart today. I wore very old heels, like I was going to an important meeting. But now, standing in line, I hate myself for making such a choice. If I dared, I would go barefoot.

After an hour and a half of waiting, I finally reach the secretariat. I look at all the busy ticket offices to see who can free up a seat for me first. I mutter words, I’m tired today. The good mood is gone, I just want to get my card and go.

Finally, a young woman beckons me. I rush towards her with a smile on my face, happy to know that I will soon be done. She looks at me like I’ve made an embarrassing joke that only I can laugh at. He’s not exactly the type of person who would do anything to cheer you up!

Then comes the tricky part with the bill. – Do you pay by check?

Yes, my mother wrote me the check last week. A blank check. I can still hear her saying to me, “Laura, be very careful not to lose it! Imagine if someone found it! I’ve always been careful with money, and as soon as I had that check in my hand, I realized the power it had. I carefully put it in a bag, which I then placed in the locked drawer of my desk. I am the only one who can open it, and even if I trust my friend, who I live with, I prefer to take precautions. You never know.

– Yes, by check! – So, since you don’t have a scholarship, but you have social insurance for students, that gives us a total of… 404.60 euros!

What a ridiculous amount! I hand him the check, trying to hide my grimace. Without a word, she stamps and scribbles marks on all my documents and points me to the student card office. Everything was ready in two minutes.

The card man was no friendlier and almost snatched my degree certificate from my hand. In a mechanically controlled gesture, he prints my student card on plastic, hands it to me, and tears off the next sheet.

I don’t care anymore, I finally got my student card. That’s it, a new page opens in my life! I’m confident, serene, holding my future in my hands, on this stupid piece of plastic. Laura D. Year 1 LEA. Spanish. Class. I go back to the subway, I feel calm. Chapter 2 Requirement

September 8, 2006 I cross the threshold of my apartment, where I live with my friend Manu, after a day’s work at the restaurant. We have been dating for a year and moved in together two months ago.

This in the conditions where at the beginning of the year I was desperately looking for a solution for my home. I had no money to my name and my parents could not help me financially. Besides, they don’t live in V. Ever since my baccalaureate results, I knew I would have to study there myself. Manu was already living there since the beginning of his physics studies and I was excited about the idea of joining him in the city. So I started looking for an apartment. I scoured Crous and his classified ads to find a maid. I quickly realized that a real apartment was far too expensive, if not unaffordable. All I wanted was a roof over my head, but even that seemed out of reach. I wasn’t expecting anything fancy. In any case, my finances would not have allowed me to do so.

I was at a standstill. Since I didn’t have a scholarship, I didn’t receive any help from the state, and my parents couldn’t afford to pay 200 euros a month for rent. I didn’t even get housing benefit. Other than finding a job or dropping out of school, I didn’t see any way to get by. Crous favored students with subsidies for accommodation in student rooms. Many students work at the same time, but it is often the same students who fail exams or drop out mid-year. I couldn’t stop my studies, I knew my future was at stake. Quitting for a job would have meant giving up my ambitions.

I continued to frantically search for a miracle in the pages of free newspapers where there were ads. At the same time, I even went to shelters to take an interest. I tried to convince myself that this was my only chance to study and that once I got there I could try to find something else. But the idea of spending the night in a hostel made me shudder, it seemed so humiliating.

I was desperate that I couldn’t find a satisfactory solution. One day, when I was crying out of anger, Manu jumped at me. – We could live together! Would be awesome! We could both find an inexpensive rental and be together all the time!

His eyes shone. I liked the idea, but financial difficulties held me back. – Manu, I can’t, I don’t have money! I barely have money for a work room, so an apartment for two!

– You will be able to find a job in parallel with your studies, and the university will not take so much of your time!

I had my reservations. Manu comes from a relatively affluent family and sometimes does not meet all the expenses that I have to face. To convince him that I could manage to combine my studies with paid work, Manu showed me the university’s website, where the course schedule was posted. I had a lot, but it was manageable. I was seduced by this piece of dream that Manu was offering me.

– You see, it’s possible, that’s for sure! Come on, say yes, it will be wonderful to be together all the time! And when it comes down to it, you have no choice!

It’s true that I didn’t really have a choice. I jumped into his arms for joy. So Manu welcomed me to his apartment the very next day. For me, it was the ultimate luxury. I felt like a princess in this palace! I left my two heavy suitcases in the hall and began to spin around the apartment, dragging her with me.

My parents were relieved by this solution, even though they didn’t like Manu very much. They preferred that to their daughter doing a menial job or, worse, sleeping on the streets.

I worked all summer at a restaurant down the street so I could at least pay for the groceries. With the little I had left, he gave me some pocket money.

This is our understanding: he pays the rent and bills and I take care of the rest, given my financial situation. In fact, even if he doesn’t tell me, I know for a fact that he doesn’t pay the rent. His mother pays his rent every month as well as a generous amount of pocket money. I say nothing about it, I love him too much and, living with him, I consider it normal to contribute to the expenses within my means. I manage as best I can. Sometimes when I go to my parents’ house, I take what I find in the fridge or what my mother gives me. This summer, everything worked perfectly. We were happy as we were, we prepared small meals together and sometimes we went out with friends for a drink. Most of the time, I was sitting in front of the TV, me curled up in his arms, him always with a joint in his mouth. With my friend by my side, everything seemed so much easier.

Tonight I come home from work exhausted, after two overtime hours that I know I won’t get paid for. I’m totally exploited by this job, but it’s the only solution I’ve found for now to make a financial contribution. I also know that with this job, like this all year, I would be tired all the time, but for now I don’t really have anything better to do. I’ll find something else when I get the schedule, when I know exactly what time I have classes.

Manu is there in front of the TV. I give him a lively “hello” as I sit down next to him and plant a huge kiss on his mouth. Something strange is happening, he is not responding to my excitement. – What happens? Is everything alright? – Yes, I’m fine, he answers evasively.

– Are you sure? It really doesn’t seem… Manu turns off the TV and finally looks at me. He hesitates for a moment, then suddenly decides: – Laura, this year we will live together and I want to help pay the rent. I stop for a moment, still looking at him.

– Yes, I understand that. But I don’t make much in the restaurant, so how much do you want me to give you? – Half the rent, 300 euros. You see, I won’t be able to handle it on my own…

Alone! What a liar! He knows very well that I barely make that much as a waitress and that after I pay him, I have nothing left. To cheer myself up, I tell myself that this is my chance to stop being a waitress and find another job.

– Okay, I guess I’ll have to find another job. – Yes, I think you’re right. As for the shopping, we’ll take it in turns every two weeks, okay? Does he ask me to do all the shopping too? OMG!

Lack of money always puts people in such an embarrassing position that they dare not answer. I just nod my head: – Okay, as you say.

I sit on the couch and turn on the TV so I don’t have to talk. It’s the only way we’ve found to break the awkward silence between us. At night, I fall asleep in his arms to convince myself that these money problems are normal and won’t tear us apart.

Two days later, I signed up with a telemarketing firm for a part-time job. Chapter 3 Back to school September 11, 2006

With the timetable in hand, I run not to miss the first hour. I just left the secretariat where I registered. I thought I was relieved of all administrative obligations after the interminable wait of the past few days, but I was wrong!

After administrative registration, I had to go to the modern language building to register for classes. I only have about twenty hours of classes spread out over the week. I was looking forward to this timetable, to be able to organize and structure my life. I will be able to continue working in parallel with my studies. Starting tomorrow, I will be able to call the telemarketing company to review my hours.

The whole procedure was quite quick, I was given the timetable quickly, but now I’m late for the first lesson. A glance at the newspaper tells me I must go to the third floor for an hour of Spanish civilization. I run up the stairs, eager to learn.

I slowly enter the room, the other students are already seated. I mumbled an inaudible “excuse me”. The teacher gives me a quick glance, then turns back to the call list. – Who are you? – Laura, Laura D.

After scribbling something on the paper, he motions for me to take a seat. I take a seat next to another young girl. The vast majority of the room, and certainly the entire class, were female.

The teacher asks us to fill out a form to get to know each other better. Ah, the famous formulas! Up until then, it hadn’t really been that different from high school – we were required to ask for one for every lesson. By the end of the week, I’ll probably end up answering them in just a few seconds.

The form includes a “Career Plans” box. I have thought a lot about this question. Do I know what I really want to do? I want to work in business, yes, but what exactly? I have a lot of beliefs about the type of responsibilities that would suit me perfectly, but is there a specific job for this? I write down everything I dream of, I entrust all my expectations to this unknown person, all the hopes that the university represents for me. But something is missing.

I chew my pencil and look up at the ceiling. Then, after a few minutes, I write at the very bottom of my dream inventory for the future: Live life to the fullest.

It’s not the answer the teacher is looking for, of course, if they’re looking for a specific one, but it’s the one that suits me best.

I started the lesson and with each passing minute I thanked the heavens for giving me the gift of being in this room. My mother had to pay over 400 euros for me to be here, but she did it without hesitation, knowing very well that my future depended on it, she who always only wanted the best for her daughters . I will learn, I will succeed.

The course is only in Spanish. My father is Spanish, and even though he never spoke to me in his native language, I learned Spanish when I was on vacation with his family. The teacher gives us a sheet of paper with the list of books for this year.

– If you want to do well, you will have to read them all very carefully and take a lot of notes. I drink in her words. Yes, of course I’ll read them all, I’ve always loved reading, no problem!

– There are some that you won’t find in the library. I kept asking for them, but they still haven’t arrived, so you’ll probably have to pay for them out of pocket, or agree to let me borrow them…

I’m not too happy about it. Books in the original language are always very expensive, at least 15 euros, and although I hope to be able to afford one or two, I will not be able to cover all these additional costs.

I look at the book, fearing it will be exhaustive. I grit my teeth when I see about ten books to buy. I quickly put it back in my bag, not wanting to ruin my day. I have plenty of time to think about it.

– In addition, I do not accept repeated and unjustified absences. After three absences, I will not allow you to appear in my exam. That’s it, plain and simple. It’s up to me to decide if I really want to pass or not. The books are in my hands.

The hour passed quickly and I wasn’t bored for a second, unlike at school where I looked at the clock every five minutes. I headed to the next class, where I saw a real classroom for the first time. I was so impressed it took my breath away. I’m not the only one; many people stop for a few seconds to admire the huge auditorium. Only the repeaters were hurrying to choose a seat. It’s the same for them as for inscriptions, they know what they’re doing, they can afford to be blasé.

I contemplate the place, I already know that I will like learning here. I’ll be just a needle in a haystack, no one will notice me, no one will know me. The professors won’t interrupt their classes to give me a reflection on my last assignment. University is a service: we are offered a course, which we are free to attend or not, which we are free to follow as we wish. University gives you a sense of responsibility – I’m just one of many, but now I have to choose whether I want to take it or not. I like this atmosphere where we are already considered adults.

I’ve finally really broken up with high school. Even after just one day here, I feel like everything will be different. The last year has left indelible marks on me, sufferings that I am convinced I will not have to face here.

During my senior year, I remember one time when a history teacher publicly humiliated me in front of the whole class by attacking me personally. After a surprise test in which I had just received a very mediocre grade, he called me “incapable”, to which I responded with the most indifferent fluttering of my eyelashes. I was perfectly capable of accepting his comments about me being a little person, but in reality it didn’t matter to me because this teacher didn’t care about me in the slightest and always treated me like a child. Drama came with the following phrase.

– No reaction, Laura? I don’t congratulate you, it seems to me that you should seriously reconsider your future, which is shaky at the moment. So much cruelty for my first and only below average grade! But it didn’t stop there.

– Admit it, you’re very distracted and you don’t follow your lessons properly. You only reap what you sow, Laura. Your parents seem to me to be very irresponsible…

The word “parents” made my blood run cold. How could that man allow himself to judge my family, and still on such a trivial note? I went crazy in a second. My tablemate tried to stop me, but it was too late, anger was already coursing through my veins, and before the curious teacher had time to retaliate, I threw the table and everything on it. My anxiety attacks have never been as bad as they were that day. I grabbed my bag and ran.

The next day, I registered for the baccalaureate as an independent candidate. I just couldn’t stand the childish atmosphere of that place anymore, so I just left. Now I know I overreacted and should have swallowed my pride. But at the time I was unable to do so. My parents didn’t understand at all and at first thought it was just a temporary crisis. But when they saw that I no longer wake up in the morning and received my registration confirmation as a free candidate, they understood the seriousness of my decision. However, they continued to wake me up every morning, shaking me to send me to high school, but I wouldn’t go. My mother begged me to go back to school, she even cried.

– You are completely reckless! You will ruin everything! Laura, please, your studies are too important to give up on a whim! You can’t do anything without your bachelor’s degree! You can’t quit, not three months before the baccalaureate!

I never told my parents the reason for my decision. They would have been too sad. I shook my head and said I would never go back. From that moment on, my father never spoke to me again. We weren’t talking much already, but I had just added another layer to his disappointment. Even now, I can feel when he wants to hug me and tell me he loves me, but he stops and slowly walks away without saying a word.

For three months, I worked from home, learning about the courses and books in the program. My mother gave me a hand, hiding me from my father, who did not – and never would – agree with my decision. In July, I got my baccalaureate with honors. How proud I felt that day! My mom cried with joy when I told her on the phone. That evening, dad didn’t say a word either, and we ate dinner in silence, because there was no question of celebrating anything.

I was very lucky, I realize now. But was it really luck, or was it an exaggerated desire to succeed? In that precise moment, in that amphitheater, I know that this cannot happen to me. As a rule, teachers have too many students to remember all their names, to take them into account and therefore to insult them. Here, you work only for yourself.

I have a few other classes during the day: translation, language lab. After five hours of lessons, I return to my cozy nest where my love awaits. It really is a beautiful day, how could I be happier? I have a boyfriend who loves me and with whom I live in the center of V., I study and even if I don’t have much money, I am healthy. What more could you ask for?

I board the crowded subway train. I will make it this year, I know it, I feel it, I want it. Chapter 4 Everyday life October 4, 2006

I come home from school exhausted. On Wednesday evening I finish at 20:00, and then I have to take the metro for three quarters of an hour. I’m tired from the previous evening: I finished work at 9:00 p.m. As I travel I think of Manu, I can’t wait to see him again. I think about the little dish he will have prepared for me and maybe the table will be set and a few candles will be blown out.

When I get home tonight, I also know we’ll be talking about the last month we’ve spent together. I dread this moment, because I know we have a lot on our minds that we don’t talk about. Our life is more and more like a shared apartment. We only see each other in the evening, and when I get home I have a quick meal and then I start studying the lessons.

At first, Manu was content with this, occasionally making a slight huff, but he would only say to me: – Come on, continue your work, you have work to do.

He spent his evenings in front of the television and did not do much for the university. I silently exiled myself to the bedroom and kissed him one last time.

Manu is part of that small minority of people who are naturally gifted. He excels in his field, although I have never seen him actually work. Sometimes I’m jealous of him, his intelligence and his ability to deal with things as they come. I often work very late at night.

Then, when he wants to go to bed, Manu walks gently into the bedroom: this is the signal for me to go work in the kitchen, on the plastic table. Manu is already fast asleep when I join him in bed. I lie down and fall asleep. In the morning, I go to university or work, depending on the day of the week.

I’ve loved this routine so far because I’ve lived it with him. At the telemarketing company , I earn around 400 euros. I paid him the long-awaited rent of 300 euros for the month of September, pretending not to know that he would spend it with his friends at parties, smoking and so on. Now I don’t have much left to end the month, I have no way to have fun, shop or even go out with my friends. But I don’t want to spoil anything, our story is too beautiful. I have never loved anyone as much as Manu.

But very quickly, in barely a month, things got worse. Tired of having to spend every evening in front of the TV, Manu started going out a lot and sometimes returning home at dawn. At first I put up with it because I had nothing better to offer between my books and my job. I am also happy that I have kept my independence and freedom. But lately, time seems to be running out for me. Very often, when I come home in the evening, Manu has already left to join his colleagues. I can tell if he’s been gone for a long time or not: sometimes there’s only the end of a joint left in the ashtray in the living room . He spends very little time with me. Exhausted by the pace of my life, I don’t have the strength or courage to wait for him and fall asleep alone in bed almost every night. I’m often tempted to sit on the couch and finish his joint , but I never do. First, because they might reproach me, but mostly because they would prevent me from working properly.

As the days go by, Manu is getting harsher and stingier towards me. All his money goes on going out and smoking. At first I thought I was fooling myself, unable to come to terms with this reality. But the facts are there: Manu is going through a very rough time with what is now just a regular flat-sharing arrangement, and he makes me feel it every day. I can no longer take life as lightly as I did under my parents’ roof.

Even worse, I have the distinct impression that Manu is teasing me. Always wears new clothes; in short, he can do everything I can’t do. A chasm has opened between us, a chasm that is no longer just financial, even if initially it was based only on money. I feel like we’re drifting apart day by day and there’s nothing I can do about it.

But tonight we planned to have a romantic dinner together. I’ve been begging him for a week, feeling like we need to meet. He relented, even offering to cook for me himself, so all I have to do is put my feet under the table. I purposely got ahead of myself with this week’s work. When I got out of school, I put on my make-up at a subway window so I’d look good when I got there. Not too much, just a bit of kohl under the eyes.

When I walk through the door, I feel like something is wrong. The apartment is far too quiet for Manu to be there. I have to admit it’s not there. I check the kitchen, trying to convince myself that he’s gone out to buy bread, but the room is empty and there’s no sign that he’s started eating. My stomach is churning, I’m very hungry. I didn’t have enough money to buy a sandwich for lunch, so I stayed in the library to study.

I sit in front of the TV and cry. The clock struck and Manu did not come home. I try to work but I can’t concentrate. I can’t even watch TV, my retina can’t print the images that pass by. Should I call a friend? What good? They’ll laugh at me and tell me that boys are all the same, that you can’t rely on them. Manu is not like that, Manu loves me deeply and cares for me.

But midnight approaches and Manu is still not there. I’m too proud to call him on my cell and I’m out of credit anyway. I’ve smoked all my tobacco, and the packet of rolling papers is lying on the table. Why is he doing this to me? Why me? I don’t work hard enough and so? After only one month, I can’t take it anymore, I’m exhausted all the time, for a few extra radishes, because I can barely see my money.

Suddenly, a key turns in the lock. I’m holding my breath, I never imagined that I would see Manu tonight. I quickly wipe my tears with the back of my hand, I don’t want to look at him like that, my makeup must have run.

The next thing I know, Manu is in the kitchen. I stare at him, he looks back at me with red jointed eyes and naturally says: – How are you? Don’t you learn? I feel like my body is exploding! He can’t be serious. It’s obvious he’s on drugs.

– What? You kidding me? Where have you been? Do you know I’ve been waiting for you all night? Shouldn’t we have dinner together tonight? I’m screaming, I can’t control myself. I am so tired that, as the words come out of my mouth, I wonder where I have so much energy.

Manu bows his head, he knows he hurt me.

– Look, Laura, I don’t know what happened, but I didn’t mean to, I swear. I was there in the kitchen and I really wanted to make you dinner. Then I opened the fridge and saw that you hadn’t bought anything. It was your turn to do the shopping, wasn’t it? Yes, it was your turn and you didn’t.

– Is that what it’s about? Are you going to let me cry all night just for this? Is this your punishment for me?

– No, Laura, it’s not just about shopping, it’s about everything. I know you don’t have the money, but we agreed to split the costs. Plus I just got my gas bill today so that added to it.

He looks straight into my eyes and doesn’t scream at all. Despite all my goodwill, I don’t understand what he’s saying, I don’t understand how he dares to say such a thing to me when I’m doing everything in my power to help him financially. I was always shy when it came to money.

– And like last time, I was the one who was going to do the shopping, because otherwise I wouldn’t have anything to eat. I’m tired of giving in, I’m tired of you relying on me all the time. So I went out for a walk, to see some friends, to think about nothing…

I remained silent, I really don’t know what else I could say. Manu has truly reached the height of his miserliness. He asks me for money for rent, shopping and bills, which adds up to almost 450 euros a month. I don’t have enough from my salary, so I supplement with the little pocket money my mother gives me every month. There are not many; the little he can afford, he gives to me. I stopped paying the flat rate for my phone for a month, putting apartment costs at the top of the list of expenses. In addition, I work fifteen hours a week at this telemarketing firm , twenty hours at university, plus the hours I spend on recaps. He doesn’t even work, and the money his mom puts into his account for rent every month he spends on joints and clothes, taking my share as well. In short, I don’t see myself as a profiteer in this situation, I’m involved and I deserve this apartment as much as he does.

But despite everything that’s going on, I love him dearly, and at this point I don’t even hate him. He impresses me too much for me to have anything to say about him. I am ashamed of my weakness for beautiful faces with charming eyes.

Finally, Manu takes me in his arms, gently, and I accept his embrace. It’s not a dramatic moment at all, I feel good in his arms, that’s all that matters. He releases me a few minutes later, looks at me with his big black eyes and suddenly says:

– Listen, I think that in the future, to avoid such situations, we will do our shopping separately, each for himself. It will be easier for everyone and we won’t have any more discussions like this. OMG. So everything that happened tonight wasn’t enough? Want to add another layer? – Does he want to?

– Yes, I really think it will be better for us. Plus, with our schedules, we never really eat together and we don’t like the same things anyway.

I still don’t say anything, but I’m thinking the same thing. What can I say, after all? I’m not going to try to convince the biggest miser on earth. The mere fact that it bothers him is enough for me to understand that there is nothing I can do about it. It’s stingy, it’s spoiled, and it’s going to stay that way for a long time. But he doesn’t realize the pain he’s causing me. My marriage is falling apart.

I nod, forcing a smile, but both he and I know something is wrong between us. Something about money. Maybe something to do with a difference in social class, which he ultimately can’t stand. His mother often says I’m not good enough for him.

The next day, when I come home from work, it made room for me in the cupboard where we usually put the cans. Chapter 5 Hunger October 26, 2006

My mother hands me the plate of chicken and keeps her eyes on me. He didn’t stop from the beginning of the meal. It’s All Saints Day and I’m visiting my parents for two or three days. I have not yet decided exactly how long I will stay. We are sitting at the table with my mother, my mute father and my sister who can’t stop talking.

– The chicken is good, isn’t it, Laura? says mom.

I know he doesn’t take his eyes off what I’m doing: I stick my fork into a beautiful leg, and with my other hand I grab it and devour it like an ogre. Today I eat like a quartet, I’m very hungry. This dinner is without a doubt the biggest feast I’ve had in a month.

– Yes, it’s delicious, I like it very much. My sister is the only one who talks and I’m the only one who really listens. I know my presence interferes with my father’s thoughts. He doesn’t talk much already, but when I’m around he’s quiet as a mouse.

Our relationship was always difficult, we always loved each other but in silence. My father is a person who commands respect. In his twenties, he left his native Spain to escape dictatorship and poverty and try his luck in France. He was raised in a very strict family, which pays a lot of attention to the observance of tradition. He always kept this natural coolness towards his daughters, especially towards me, as his father had done before with his children. I’ve always accepted this, because that’s how it works.

I know very well that he loves me, but he never told me, never expressed his feelings in words. I am the oldest and I know that I was a very wanted child. My parents spoiled me a lot when I was very young. But as I grew up and my relationship with my mother became closer, my father became more and more quiet, probably because he did not know how to handle his daughter. The aplomb I showed when he wanted to punish me seemed abnormal and disrespectful to him. Little by little, he closed himself in a bubble that amounted to ignoring me. As soon as I walk into the room, he only talks to me about the really essential things. I know I’ve let him down more than once with my behavior. The highlight was when I dropped out of senior year. My sister and I have always known that there are family preferences: I prefer my mother’s, she prefers my father’s… But we couldn’t help ourselves. But there was nothing we could do about it, and accepting the obvious meant we didn’t feel resentful or jealous.

I remember one day when I was 16, I left home for a month. I was in the living room with my parents and my sister and I was looking at the couch I was sitting on. It was a very old sofa, made of green fabric, which I had always seen at home. It was so old that one day, when I was still a baby, my mother decided to paint it dark red to hide the obvious wear and tear. While listening to TV, I scratched a spot on the armrest where the paint had never set.

Suddenly I burst out: – Maybe we should paint it green again. She’s been red for a long time and needs a makeover. Dad answered me, without looking at me for a moment: – This sofa was never green. His tone was dry and dismissive, like I’d told him the dumbest story he’d ever heard.

– Of course it was, Dad, I still remember when Mom painted it. – This sofa was never green, I tell you. I tried to show him for several minutes that

That it was, that I remember it very well. I even dived into my photo albums to find proof of what I was saying. Seeing me rummaging through the shelves in the living room, my father went into a frenzy of unwarranted rage.

– Ah, you must always be right! You always have to be the smart one, the one who knows everything! he shouted. My mother and sister looked at him, transfixed. I didn’t move either, not knowing what to do with a photo album in my hand.

– I’m tired of you, your manners, your behavior. You are disrespectful to others, everything revolves around you, your little navel. Actually, I can’t stand you anymore, you’re just…shit! That’s shit!

He whispered the word and left for the kitchen. My sister screamed when she heard it. My father in all his glory, my father who does not beat the plains. But still, it stuck in my throat. My fists clenched and I took off running, while my mother stood up and was already trying to hold me back. I took my bag from the flight. My mother was crying and begging me not to go, and my sister was clinging to my arm. My father never moved from the kitchen.

– Mom, I can’t, I can’t do this anymore. Look at his condition, it’s unbearable. I will leave. – But where are you going? What are you going to do? – I’ll think about it myself.

And so I did. For a month, I lived with a friend and her parents. They didn’t try too hard to understand me, they just gave me some space in their house, it was a big house. I went to school with my friend every morning, and once a week I called my mother to give her some news.

I came back after a month because I didn’t want to take advantage of the kindness of my friend and her parents. When I returned, my father ignored me, as usual. He continued to ignore me even when the business went out of business. I was in terrible pain, but I didn’t know what to do to tell him or show him. I found out later that she had tears in her eyes the day I left.

So the situation we find ourselves in now, on this All Saints Day, is not exceptional. My sister speaks at the table to break the awkward silence. Then he gets bored of talking and stops. We finish our meal in silence.

In the evening, my mother takes me aside. I know he wanted to talk to me since I arrived. – Laura, tell me, are you eating well? – Yes, mother, you saw, I ate chicken twice tonight!

– No, Laura, I don’t mean that. Do you eat well at home? Do you and Manu have anything to eat?

So he noticed the obvious. I’ve lost a lot of weight in the last month since Manu and I each have our own food cupboard. At the beginning of September I weighed over 60 kilograms, I was even a little overweight, and now I have reached 50 kilograms. I come home late in the evening, tired, and often I don’t have time to make something to eat because I have to study. I run all day between university, library, work and apartment. Anyway, I have nothing in the cupboard except a half-used packet of pasta that has been lying around for two weeks. I often don’t eat lunch at university, and at the end of the week a sandwich ends up weighing in the balance. By not eating, I don’t really feel hungry anymore. Please, almost.

As for Manu, he often eats out with friends. I guess she’s using my rent money to indulge herself while I’m immersed in books. Other than that, we get along pretty well, we don’t argue. After all, we rarely see each other. But I still love him madly, even when I open the pantry and drool with envy over his can of pate or his pesto sauces that would make my pasta so much more appetizing.

One day I bought him a slice of Italian ham, thinking he wouldn’t notice. Unfortunately, he had to count them because he immediately realized the theft. I apologized profusely, telling him I was hungry and that I would buy him some more. Which I did the next day, taking the 5 euro bill that was supposed to last me three days. I could have pushed the vice so far that I only gave him back a slice, maybe he would have realized the stupidity of his behavior. But I don’t want to get into his game, I don’t care.

I definitely can’t tell all this to my mother, she would get scared and curse Manu. It would force me to return home, which is absolutely out of the question. – Don’t worry, mom, everything is fine. – You’d tell me if something was wrong, wouldn’t you?

– Of course I would tell you, mother! Do not worry. She looks at me with an eye that says a lot about her skepticism. He doesn’t believe me, but he can’t do anything if I don’t tell him the truth.

Two days later, when I left my parents’ house, my mother gave me a whole bag full of food, everything she could find. He winked at me as he handed it to me. – Be careful inside, dear. My father waved at me but didn’t kiss me. We haven’t kissed in years. Chapter 6

The shame November 16, 2006 In front of the Crous building , I hesitate to enter. I’m not sure I want to go there anymore. I step aside, not completely in front of the door.

It’s November and it’s cold. My weight loss has accelerated considerably in recent months. I feel like the cold is piercing me like never before. But I dressed very well this morning. Since I’ve lost so much weight, I’m always cold. I tremble everywhere, even indoors: at school, at work and at home.

Winter is fast approaching and we still haven’t turned on the heating in the apartment. At least, I don’t want to. Manu turns it on as soon as he gets home, before curling up on the couch like a pasha. I wait for him to leave and then I close it. I’ve been doing this since I had to pay some of the bills. Electricity, water and heating, that’s a lot together! Manu doesn’t care because he’s not the one managing these expenses. So he cranks up the heat while I covertly slow it down without being able to ask him for the favor.

At first I studied in my normal clothes, but I quickly realized that sitting in a chair for several hours without moving makes me feel the cold almost as if I was outside. So now, to work, I put on a real suit: a huge scarf knitted by my mother, a fleece sports jacket and knee-high socks. Manu laughed the first time he saw me like that, so did I for a few seconds when I looked in the mirror. In the end, there is nothing funny about this situation. I’ve finally gotten used to this extra weight on my fragile shoulders, and saving money keeps me motivated. I’d rather look like a high altitude explorer than have to pay 50 euros for an avoidable bill.

I put away all the money I can. No unnecessary expenses. Needless to say, I stopped shopping a long time ago. First of all, I don’t have time. Anyway, what’s the point of drooling over something I’ll never wear? So I don’t tempt the devil and carefully avoid window shopping. I finally got it into my head that I would never have the latest fashion trends. Of course, there are times when I’m envious of the new raw denim jeans , the new slim jackets and the new expensive shoes my colleagues are wearing. I can only look at them, to the point of embarrassment, sigh, and then go back to my sheep. I wish I could be strong enough to say that I can’t stand the consumer society and that it disgusts me, but let’s be honest: who doesn’t have desires and who wouldn’t be tempted by them? I’m young, advertising is everywhere: I’d be a perfect prey if I had money.

I envy the girls around me in class. Fresh and rested, some of them have never had to work to survive financially. Their parents earn more than enough money to support them. Sometimes they have to go shopping with their mother and show their envy by pouting in front of an item of clothing in a store, to which their mother responds by pulling out a credit card. Can’t blame them, I’d do the same in a heartbeat. I simply envy them for their peace of mind, while as for me, I shudder at the sight of a ticket inspector on the subway and constantly wonder how I’m going to make it through the month. I flinch when Manu nonchalantly asks me to pay my share of the rent. Am I the only one going through this? All these situations are so shameful that I cannot talk about them with my student friends. How could they understand? So I politely decline their invitation to dinner and shut myself up in the only free thing I have left: study.

None of this would really be a problem if I had something to eat. The state of my food cupboard is sadder than ever and my mother’s supplies did not last long. Easter, Easter and always Easter. I look at them as I prepare the food and it feels like they’re mocking me, like they’re reminding me that tonight, once again, I won’t have anything better. At first, I used to serve them with canned tomato sauce, but a night of indigestion made me give them up, and the mere thought of pasta bathed in cheap sauce makes me nauseous. “With butter, it’s not so bad after all.”

There is also a jar of Nutella , my little corner of happiness. I don’t eat more than a spoonful at a time to keep it as long as possible. It calms me down when I open the closet.

I stopped eating because I was very hungry. I realized that after a while the end comes and the human cycle resumes itself. After a few days of this diet, I don’t really feel any pain anymore. I made a habit of skipping breakfast and going from one day to the next at university with nothing in my stomach. Sometimes he makes strange noises during lessons, but I’ve gotten so used to their presence that I don’t really hear them anymore.

A girl in the class came back to my table and handed me a chocolate bar, mocking me lightly: – Come on, eat something, all we can hear is your stomach grumbling!

Embarrassed, I pecked her, trying to pretend I was amused by her joke. But I wasn’t laughing at all. Slowly, silently, I savored the chocolate bar. If I had been anywhere else, I would have devoured it in seconds, it was so tempting. I controlled myself, dignified, but I still picked the last crumbs from my notebook with my finger. I could have eaten one more.

In the evening, when I find time or energy to eat on the way home from university or work, I gobble up a bowl of rice pudding. And if I want to cheer myself up, a spoonful of Nutella at the end of my “meal”. It sure sounds sad, but this chocolate acts as a tranquilizer. Ling lick the spoon to the end, to make the most of the taste. I feel like I work better after that.

Then, at lunchtime, what had to happen happened. I collapsed in the middle of the lesson. Pulling too hard on the rope, I didn’t realize I was pushing all the limits my body could handle. People started to panic a bit, but I soon recovered and started working again. Some people insisted I go to the college infirmary, which I politely declined. I don’t need a doctor to know what I’m suffering from. I suffer because I have no money.

That was the day I decided to go to Crous to find a solution, a financial help. Lack of money is wreaking havoc on my health and I don’t feel ready to accept that reality. I am outraged that I have to struggle so much to eat, to eat in order to work. But once I’m out of the building, I don’t have the strength to go in. I never imagined I would end up at Crous for such a reason. I know a lot of students go there to ask for help, but that’s not in my character. For me, coming here is synonymous with defeat: I couldn’t handle it on my own. But let’s face it. I can’t do it alone, I need a little help. I can’t keep starving myself.

So I entered the building and kindly waited at the reception. A lady greeted me half an hour later after seeing a crowd of students in a hurry. In her office, I hit my stride.

– I came to see you because I am facing serious financial difficulties and I wanted to know if I could get help from your organization.

In a split second, I tell him about my life without money, about Manu and the rent, about my difficulties, about the lack I feel every day. I take the opportunity to observe it. She listens carefully and seems concerned about my story. She’s young, in her early 30s, and I’m sure she remembers her own penniless college years.

After a good quarter of an hour of explanation, I finally shut up, but she coughed at my silence as she waited for an answer. – All I can offer at the moment are meal vouchers for your meals at Crous . They are very cheap, a meal costs less than 3 euros!

I do a quick mental calculation. I can’t spend almost 15 euros a week for one meal a day. I came here hoping to be offered significant discounts for lunch AND dinner. – In other words, this is a small weekly amount for me. I wanted to know if you have any other solutions.

– In your case, I can think of only one way to not spend money on food: Restos du Coeur .

She said this slowly, very gently, aware of the psychological impact it would have on me. He did not fail. I looked at her with wide eyes. Now, in one sentence, I was at the bottom end of the French social ladder. So low that I can’t afford to eat, so low that I’m given food given to the homeless. I think I’m dreaming, I can’t believe he’s serious. But she continues to look at me, her eyes wide with understanding.

I mutter a vague thank you and ask her where I need to go to find Restos du Coeur . On a piece of paper, she scribbles an address in beautiful handwriting. She applies herself, perhaps to show me that she is moved by my story with Cosette . I greet her quickly, eager to get this over with. He shakes my hand warmly in the corridor before calling “next” in a shrill voice.

Once again, I face the November chill as I leave the building. With the small piece of paper in hand, I walk quickly to warm myself. I’m not going, it’s impossible. I cannot make up my mind to go to that place; I tell myself that I don’t need him that much after all. I almost feel like I’m “stealing” this food from these poor people who really have nothing. And most of all, I can’t relate to them, the homeless. I have a roof over my head, a job and I study. No, I decided, I’m happy with my pasta after all. After all, I’m not the first and I won’t be the last.

Chapter 7 end December 9, 2006

There comes a night in every life when you grow up too fast. Nothing will ever be the same again. Goodbye innocence. It’s one of those melancholy nights where your balance sheets ache. In this case, mine is financial. No money, bills begging for money, an apartment to pay for. Immersed in darkness, leaning back in my chair in front of Manu’s computer screen, I can barely control my finger as it frantically scrolls the mouse in search of a solution. One ad site, then another. A window, more or less hidden towards the bottom of the page and intended to be discreet, catches my attention: reserved for people over 18 years old. Two categories: “venal” or not. I am immediately tempted to choose the second one, as if I want to justify myself to someone. But the room is empty and I’m alone. Let’s be honest, money is clearly the main reason I’m on this site. Just out of curiosity, I tell myself, knowing full well that the limit has just been crossed. No special protection, I click (over 18, dammit!). In the “keyword” box, I enter my student status and my city.

An exhaustive list of candidates appears, which I scroll through with the mouse. So is it possible and that easy? I quickly scroll through the ads, which after a quick glance all look the same. The same words are repeated endlessly: “young girl”, “tender moments”, “dating”, “looking for”. I’m looking for money too, and fast. Stupidly classified under the more than dubious alibi of “massage”, the men who show up are on average more than 50 years old. Older than my own father. Dad, if you only knew… The major difference is that they have money, lots of money, and they seem willing to spend it on a fantasy that I am potentially capable of fulfilling. The rates, when mentioned, speak of hundreds of euros per hour. Is such a thing really possible? All these figures evoke my desire for possession within a second. I can already imagine with all this money in my ragged wallet, it would go everywhere! I am also talking about more hours in their company. Anyway, an afternoon in a life, I suppose, when you really need money, it’s not much. Maybe this is my solution, the one I’ve been waiting for. Comfort, and fast.

But I’ve managed without these conveniences so far, pretty well actually. My parents’ apartment in a social housing estate until the age of 18, the simplest clothes and a pack of cigarettes to roll, all this suited me just fine. So far. Of course, I was sometimes envious, like everyone else, but I had never been materialistic, perhaps due to lack of means. Never a dime in my pockets, forced to cheat on transport, a vaguely bearable life. Inconvenient at times, often embarrassing when it came to the bill, but you got used to it. I tell myself that “massages” would easily give me the luxury of choice. I don’t realize that the exact opposite is happening: I will never have a choice again.

Mixed with the dark night, often the source of senseless acts, my senses were agitated to a frenzy. The sight, at first vicious and so present in every moment. The sight of those bills that I refuse to open for a week, abandoned on the modest wooden cabinet in the living room that serves as my library; the sight of the bills my few friends hand me to pay for my coffee at the local bistro for the thousandth time. A hypothesis began to take shape, one that had surely been dormant all these years: with money, not only would I be able to learn all the time, but I would love myself more.

I’m delirious a little. My whole body cries out for this possible abundance; I can almost feel it in my fingertips. All I have to do is move my finger on the mouse, just a little pressure. My hand becomes uncontrollable, guided by this black desire, so taboo and, paradoxically, so scintillating. My arms, my head, my whole being knows that at the end of my hand lies a solution, however controversial it may be, a way to solve everything, at least for now. My whole body joins forces against my feeble wisdom, in a hurry to get this over with. Never mind the rest, we’ll see.

Suddenly, I’m in a frenzy. It’s already too late. One look at these messages was enough to make me give up completely. Don’t think, Laura, just type those damn messages and you’ll be out of the mess you’re in; it’s the only solution and you know it. Don’t back down in the face of fear, there is a way out and I’m jumping on it. I’m a person who wants to get by, I can’t tell right from wrong, I’m desperate to get out of this, whatever it takes. I’ve been schizophrenic ever since. Reading those ads split me in two: there is Laura who is fully aware that she is playing with fire and Laura who is greedy for money. There is also a ridiculous challenge: I can do it, I will prove it to myself. So I write and type on the keyboard as if I’m writing on my own life, as if I want to eradicate the lack that has grown in me a little more every day. I believe myself in control of my reason, which is already in disarray, and I believe myself invincible only with the promise of this money.

Manu isn’t here, so take advantage of that. I glance at the time and the front door, just in case. He’s still with his friends for now, so he won’t be back right away.

I write quickly, without taking time to think, so as not to imagine the world I’m venturing into. I fell; yes, in five minutes I fell. After an hour, my hand stopped, satisfied. Around forty replies were sent in my madness. A vague number that corresponds to people who, for the moment, do not really exist. The blurry image they project through their words means nothing to me. The feeling that it was all a dream never left me. I was very careful not to think as my fingers played on the keyboard. Then, to cut the daydream short, I quickly put the screen down and went for a walk.

The night was enough. From the very first hour, the notion of missing and needing other people appeared with me. In a way, they and I are the same: we all need something. Maybe I wasn’t actually dreaming; my inbox is already showing the consequences of my actions, actions I can no longer control, even in the safety of my own home. I replied, lost in a trance of need, desperate to find the damn money, and now facing my own shit. The student turns against the grown man, I have proof of that now. They want to see their fantasies come true, and I want to see mine come true.

You always remember the first message. To me, it’s Joe, a weird nickname he signs his emails to me with. Joe, better known as Joseph. Using a pseudonym seemed obvious to him; on the one hand, to appear younger and more trendy in the eyes of his future collaborators, and on the other hand, to not expose himself too much. Does he also split in two when night comes and feel the desire grow? I didn’t try to come up with a pseudonym. Too complete, too novice, I didn’t bother. I foolishly think that Laura will always be Laura no matter what.

Young man in his 50s looking for casual masseuse. Female students are welcome.

His message is oddly polite, but reading between the lines, you can feel his being sweating with envy. He asks me if I have any taboos. These words scream at me to have none, that the payoff will only be better. He didn’t ask me for a photo, but he sent me one. He is 57 years old. You can imagine what it must look like. Reality hits me now, hard and uncompromising, forcing me to become aware.

For the first time in my life, when I read his message, I feel more childish than ever, me who was always ahead of my age. This man is mature, three times my age. He expresses well-thought-out fantasies, which I suspect are buried and poorly denied. Look for an innocent girl, probably wearing a short pleated skirt, English socks, enjoying a strawberry lollipop. Then he turns off his computer, because his wife has just entered the room to invite him to have dinner with her and her daughter. And while they eat, he acts like nothing happened because he’s been hiding all of this from them for years.

Perhaps he would take one look at his daughter, who is older than the girl in the skirt, and think that she is beautiful and that her future is very promising. When she would ask him to pass her the plate, he would do it with a smile. In the evening, at best, he makes love to his wife, politely, in no hurry , holding back to give her time to enjoy. Because he loves her. Because he loves them both, from the bottom of his heart.

There was the question of price, of course, and I burned myself. Behind the screen, lies are so common and so easy to hide, and I easily slipped into the shoes of a professional prostitute who has done her part and doesn’t take bullshit. But when it came to talking money, I failed. Spontaneously, I wanted a thousand and one, but I thought it would not be believable. In time, I will learn that I have nothing to lose if I dare and set the bar really high, even if it means renegotiating afterwards when there is too much reluctance.

These men imagine, and in my case – I must admit – quite rightly, that if a girl asks a lot, it’s because she deserves it. A huge amount of money is often a harbinger of a happy surprise: perhaps a gorgeous girl who, thanks to her looks, can afford to force the prices. Cash for money, occasionally. They probably think that these are girls who like sex, who want more, naughty college students who want mature men to take care of their monotonous sex lives, to change them from the pussies of their age.

My lack of experience led me to offer 100 euros per hour based on what I had read in the other ads. Famous Joe looked delighted, because he probably did not expect such a thing. It was also probably at that point that he realized he was dealing with a novice. In the back of his mind, no doubt a few staging ideas had already come to him, pushing back the limits that had always been imposed on him by the “professionals”.

I set up a meeting after a brief exchange of emails, which I pretended to attend. We met three days later, in a hotel near the station. He’d be wearing a red polo shirt so I’d recognize him, because even though I have his photo, he didn’t want to miss me or go out of his way for anything. He insisted that he didn’t live in town and that he would have been very disappointed if I hadn’t turned up after a long walk. He really spoke to me like a child you warn when you realize he’s about to do something stupid.

I said “yes” without thinking, to get off the subject faster. But despite everything that has happened, the details are already being worked out. A mosaic is gradually taking shape in my head. In my imagination, I take her face and combine it with the body of a man in his 60s, dressed in a red polo shirt. I put everything in front of a poor hotel on the street leading to the train station, a street famous for prostitutes and drug dealing.

After shutting down the computer and extinguishing the last remnants of my reverie, I resume my mundane life in an instant. Manu is not here yet, the bastard. I decide to throw myself into a Spanish translation exercise. But I can’t concentrate. After a few minutes of reflection, I managed to convince myself not to go to the meeting under any circumstances. I played with fire a bit until I burned my fingertips, but at no point am I seriously considering going. Joe will be alone outside the hotel and I will be at home.

And yet, this stupid figure keeps appearing: 100 euros per hour. Three days of waiting. Waiting for what? I decided not to go, so why did I bother to honor my commitment to this stranger? I’m not going, period and from the beginning, period. My thoughts wander between reason and need, careful to avoid my young heart, which has no place in this story.

I look at my empty grocery cupboard. I look stupidly at my bills on the cupboard. My head hurts. I slam my translation book. Just once, no more. Chapter 8 dove December 12, 2006

It’s only been three days since we exchanged emails. It’s not so bad after all. That way I don’t take time to think about what I’m doing and I need money too much. We agreed to meet at 2 pm, for an hour valued at 100 euros. Just an hour before I leave for work at my telemarketing company . Until the last moment, I don’t know if I’m really going. But pocket hole syndrome naturally guided my steps.

Without quite knowing why or how, I found myself heading in the direction of that famous street, walking as if you were going to an appointment that you didn’t write down in your diary, but which you couldn’t forget it. I forced myself to pretend I was neglecting this date by pulling on a pair of jeans and a cardigan. But under my outfit, which I wanted to be a bib in case I ran into someone I knew on the road, no one could “guess” that I was wearing stockings, which were eating me up a bit. I laughed when I put them on – I feel a bit ridiculous in them. I also shaved in the shower this morning. Of course, I do it often, especially since living with Manu, but this time I really applied myself, going over my knees and ankles several times. “Ankles are a very delicate area. I want to please and make a good impression. The reasons for this meticulous work are still not entirely clear.

I realize along the way that I haven’t prepared any explanation if I meet someone on the street. It’s not so bad after all, I’m a good liar, I’ll find something to make up. Once near the station, I hurry. The sooner I get there, the sooner I’ll be done.

My head methodically enumerates the rules I will have to follow: once, no more. I should have smoked a joint before I left. Why didn’t I think of that? I would have been much more zen , more relaxed, I would have enjoyed the situation in the end. In the end.

Oddly enough, I have taken some precautions that seem necessary: I won’t be the first to show up, I’ll wait until he arrives first. Deep down, I still think it’s a joke. I stand outside the hotel, waiting in the December cold, watching the pedestrians, almost hoping Joe will arrive so I don’t have to endure the freezing wind. Joe, the sketch that would become reality moments later.

Logically, a lot of questions come to my mind. He told me he booked a room. Did he give his real name at the front desk? I said nothing when he suggested such a place, but it seems such a bleak choice. He has to test all his new conquests there, and if they are worth it, he makes them dream next time, taking them to more suitable places. But after all, if he just wants sex, why bother? As far as we know, he already has his own account there.

A little before schedule, a middle-aged man stops in front of the building, calmly looking around as if nothing has happened. “A man of a certain age” is what you say when you’re polite and don’t want to say the word “old”. So, in short, he’s old. I never imagined that one day I would sleep with a man of such age.

It doesn’t look like the picture at all. Despite a younger and sportier appearance, he looks 57 years old. He wears a red plaid shirt, jogging pants and sneakers; gray hair befitting his age. A large mustache, still brown, adorns the center of his face. It has no real style, but at least it is well laid out. Someone I’d obviously never turn my back on on the street, but he’s not a guy to back down either. And to think I’m going to see this guy undressed! And when I think he’s going to want to touch me! I shudder with disgust. Perhaps because I expected something much worse, I sprang from my hiding place to cross the street and join him. I also think I force myself to stop thinking.

He saw me coming and changed his expression. I couldn’t tell if it was good or bad. We shared a quick kiss, both of us obviously a bit stressed. But then his demeanor suddenly relaxed and he introduced himself very politely with a soft voice.

God, he is so old! Ah yes, now his 57 years were clear. – Hello, Laura, he said, looking at me. “Hey Joe,” I said, not knowing what else to say. I couldn’t help but shamelessly look him up and down.

Without any shame. I don’t feel particularly excited, more disgusted, I admit. His accent struck me and triggered my need to inspect him: he smells like a big peasant. His intonations, the voice that sings at the end of a sentence: he is the perfect representative of the country boy who moved to the “big city” to make a career, but who never managed to completely get rid of his origins. At this point, I wonder if he’s really going to deny it. Given his basic, if not cheap, costuming, I have a right to wonder.

His posture betrays a certain routine; it is clear that this is not the first time. He’s obviously excited about my appearance. I pretend not to notice that he’s looking at me like fried egg whites. My arrival is a godsend to him: what more could he want? A student offering her body for the first time, and at ridiculously low prices too. He trembled with impatience and congratulated himself on his wise choice.

As for me, I look around frantically. I’ve been scared to death since I found him. I really want to go inside, because the only thing I’m afraid of now is that someone will recognize me. I think he understood, judging by my slightly tense face; opened the way for me. I think he understood a lot when he first saw me on the sidewalk.

I slipped behind him through the front door. I could tell by the way he was acting that he knew how it was.

I walked politely behind him as if I were hiding. I don’t think I want to see the look on the receptionist’s face. He is not fooled, he understands perfectly well what is happening and that this room booked in the middle of the afternoon will not receive tourists who have just got off the train, tired from the road.

I hid myself so well that I did not immediately notice the gendarmes: Joe did not slow down or startle at the sight of them, in short, there was no sign to alert me. And yet there they were: two or three kepi heads chatting at the reception. Now that I was face to face with them, I would have preferred the accusing look of the unknown guard.

But I suddenly realize that I don’t care at all about the receptionist and that what could happen in the next few seconds could have a much bigger impact on my life. The gendarmes can put you in jail.

Once in front of them, I look down in panic. A familiar warmth, the kind of warmth that physically warns me that danger is near, has invaded my stomach and is now torturing my innards. That’s it, it’s over before it started. That’s it, I’m not in my 20s anymore and I’m going to get caught for a foul game that I didn’t weigh the consequences of. As I walk, a Hollywood movie plays in my head. I see myself at the police station, a blinding white light shining in my face, handcuffed, gesticulating my innocence on an iron chair. And then my parents being called to the local police station, my mother in tears, of course, and my father without looking at me for a moment, because I tarnished the family name. What a nightmare!

I walk, knowing that in a tenth of a second a policeman will arrest me. But I keep walking, chasing the man in charge of this whole business, of my future life as a naughty girl. Let’s talk about him! Joe doesn’t seem the least bit concerned about what’s going on around him. Dammit, react, the police are going to catch us!

But I do not shout, no sound comes out of my stunned mouth. Wait a minute: if the animal doesn’t blink, maybe it’s in the game too! What if he’s an undercover cop? I was cheated like a fool…

I still hate myself and the whole world when I realize we’re already in the elevator. He didn’t even suggest that we break up and meet in the bedroom, which would have betrayed a certain fear, very logical in itself. In fact, it hurts his elbow. It all makes sense a few minutes later, because something incredible happens: nothing. Nothing at all. The gendarmes saw us, obviously, we passed them while walking. But nothing happened.

Instead, we continued our journey in the elevator in silence, him probably already fantasizing about what he was going to do to me once we got to the top, and me, barely getting over the head-on collision with the gendarmes, petrified. Once upstairs, he made his way to the room without hesitation – he must know the hotel like the back of his hand.

Hastily he turned the key in the lock and invited me in like a pseudo-gentleman. I entered the room with a step that gave the impression that I had made up my mind. The sooner it’s done, the sooner it’s over.

The first thing I saw were the dirty, faded green curtains covering the two windows. What a horrible way to decorate! Who has such bad taste as to put curtains like that in a room like this? Everything else is simple. Quite large, but with the bare essentials: a bed and matching bedside tables, a wall table with a telephone. Good thing I can spot him right away, I could pounce on him if Joe gets violent. The carpet is simple, a very dark blue, almost black, I don’t remember exactly.

A click of the lock snaps me out of my thoughts. Joe locked the door. You can not! I haven’t exchanged a word yet, at least other than the banalities of presentation. – Not. The door remains open, I say.

What an affront! As soon as I said these words, I realize what a dry and dry tone. I used. Is it appropriate to be so categorical in front of a guy who you have to give your best? I didn’t realize it at the time. This is the real Laura talking, the one who says what she thinks. She gave a small studied pout, just for a second, but long enough for me to see.

– As you prefer. It was just for peace of mind. He doesn’t get mad at me and he respects my requirements. Maybe it won’t be so hard after all.

Excited and so uncomfortable, I can’t stop moving in all directions, pacing back and forth between the few pieces of furniture as if to release my stress. – Are you feeling well?”, he asks me. My tension is so palpable that the old man feels compelled to check on me.

– Yes, I’m fine, very fine,” I say quickly, to get rid of this superfluous conversation. – So you’re a student? What to study? How old are you exactly?

I can not answer. I’m too confused and too busy to look at him. His body is pretty athletic, and aside from the vomit-inducing shirt, the rest is pretty passable. In a way, he impresses me with his mature age.

He keeps asking me two or three uninteresting questions, which I stop answering, more out of discomfort than impoliteness.

I turn and my eyes fall again on the ugly curtains. Why am I so obsessed with them? Everything about them disgusts me. I mock their unwashed fabric. I realize that if it bothers me so much, it is probably because I am reminded of my situation of wretchedness and ugliness.

He crosses the room with a black briefcase in his hand, which I hadn’t noticed until then. A true businessman’s briefcase. He quietly placed it on the end of the bed and began to operate the mechanism to open it. It was a truly incongruous scene: imagine this guy playing the big pro in his lumberjack plaid shirt!

But what could he hide there? I give him a curious look. Now I expect him to bring out a real doctor’s kit, complete with tools and utensils to butcher me. Or maybe just a little gadget to spice up our date. Suddenly I’m eager to know what he’s capable of – after all, I don’t know him since Adam or Eve,

The briefcase lies open on the bed. For a moment, I think I’m in a Tarantino movie, and when I get close to see the content, I even imagine piles of money. Instead, Joe hands me an ordinary letter. – What you want me to do? Shall I read it here in front of you?

Still without speaking, he nods. It’s certainly not original, but he’s desperate to create an enigmatic situation, it’s obvious. Finally, I have to admit, it works. Confused, I take the piece of paper in my hands. His handwriting is painstaking and you can tell from the first few lines that he has chosen his words carefully.

Hello, Laura First of all, I was delighted with your punctuality and I would like to thank you for that. How crazy! Would he have written another letter if I was late?

Today we will play together. I will ask you to read my letter to the end and make it through. First, I want you to undress completely.

Time now turned into a gigantic silence 1. Joe was silent and waiting, sitting with folded arms. A real job interview. If I pass the nudity test, I’m sure I’ll be hired.

I slowly place the letter on the edge of the bed. Without thinking, I take off my blouse and, without waiting for any reaction from him, slide my jeans down my thighs. I bend into a movement I want languidly, to release myself completely.

Joe stared at me, his mouth hanging open. The beginnings of an erection can be seen under his jogging pants.

My bra, Petit Bateau panties and stockings are now the only things covering my anatomy. Standing in front of him with my hands behind my back, I show him all my private parts. I’m the woman-child, Nabokov’s Lolita, and he loves it. I am disconnected from any reality. A real torture begins for me, which I exorcise with a chuckle. I am so complexed by my body, despite its light form, and the situation is really destabilizing. He does not move; his silence has already lasted for a quarter of an hour.

He takes a deep breath and his lips begin to part. come on say something

” Ow !” he utters in a short cry, and that’s all. Just an onomatopoeia. No one can understand what I feel all of a sudden. My body suddenly swells with hope and contentment. This guy, who I don’t know out of nowhere, he succeeded with one word and a split second where dozens of others had failed: to make me realize that my body was pleasant. Why did it have to be him? I don’t have an answer, it’s just inexplicable. All I know is that for the first time I hear and accept a compliment. In that second, I saw him as a man and not as the fat, disgusting man who wants to put his paws on me. The girls probably they flock to him and yet he manages to be impressed.

We exchange a knowing smile and something strangely close to trust develops between us. – That’s exactly why I don’t like “professionals”, they can’t seem as innocent as you.

I don’t really know how to react to this remark. Does he already consider me a prostitute? Is one or two passes enough to merit this word? With his chin, he points to the letter again so I can continue reading. I do it.

Now I want you to go take a shower, I’ll take one after you. I am very glad that you came and that we are spending this time together.

I skimmed the rest of the letter. After all, it is obvious what follows; undress, in the shower, I have no idea we’re about to start a frenzied game of Scrabble. Thank you, Laura, for coming today. Nice to meet you and hope to see you again. You seem like a nice person.

A good person? How would he know? Am I a good person for agreeing to strip to my panties in front of him for money I don’t have? Yet his words betray a kindness I could never have imagined. The meeting did not go as planned. I thought it would be an hour where I wouldn’t have to think, where I would put my brain away, but I finally find myself thinking about this guy!

I take off the little surplus cloth I have left and obediently head to the bathroom.

After closing the door, I face the mirror in the cramped room. Despite my best efforts, I could not avoid his reflection. Naked, in front of the mirror, I am suddenly tempted to fall into melancholy. I am again disconnected from this “session” because I am facing myself and what I am doing. I have never really looked at myself so closely and closely. I’m strangely proud of my body after Joe’s onomatopoeia and begin to examine myself. I never liked my stomach, but now I look at it differently. However, there is a voice deep within me that tries to call me back to reality. Hell, I’m completely panicked, torn between two opposing feelings.

The shower requirement had marked a pause in the adventure, a pause that forced me to really think. Long story short, I turn on the water and adjust the pressure.

As incongruous as it may seem, I smile, yes. Because suddenly I think I’m beautiful. I went back to my childhood and the compliment of this man, older than my own father, filled me like a grandfather to his granddaughter.

The water slowly runs over my body, which I frantically soap with the cheap hotel soap. I have no reason to rub so hard, he hasn’t touched me yet. But I keep going back and forth, rubbing myself to death. Maybe I wash myself of the situation, of him, of him, of the camera, of his compliments, of the green curtains.

After I’m clean, I grab a towel to dry off, which I cleverly stuff into the hollow of my breasts, panicking at the thought that he might enter the bathroom. I hesitate for a second. I don’t know if I should go out naked or not. Just as I ask myself this question, I realize that at some point I will be naked in front of him. I might as well be the one to decide. My hand grabs the knot on my chest and unties it. The towel falls limply to the floor with a thud.

When I open the door, Joe is on the bed in his boxers. I see his torso for the first time. It doesn’t surprise me, he’s 57 years old, white hair and a slight belly on his stomach. – You really turn me on, you know? he says with a sigh.

Yes, I can imagine that. – So that’s how it will be. He pauses. – I am a person who likes to stage things. I have many fantasies about it, he says quietly. Seeing my slightly bewildered look, he hurries to explain.

– Now, I want you to leave the room, wait a moment in the corridor and knock twice on the door. When I tell you to come in, you must come in and do what I tell you. – How so? Empty? – Yes, like that, empty.

Don’t you want a hundred francs too? At the rate things are going, I’m going to end up paying for it myself! The fantasy of the naked girl knocking on the door is too much. What would happen if someone saw me? I’m losing my courage. – No, you’re not lost.

– What do you mean, right? Why not? – Why not? – Can you tell us why?

His gaze suddenly changed. I can tell by the sound of his voice that my refusal shattered the sexy image he was building. He feels he can put an end to his lascivious inventions, and even though I’m polite and well-mannered, she doesn’t seem ready to accept that.

Then you scare me. I broke his rules. I tell myself that he won’t give up on the goal he set if I don’t keep up with him.

– Because it’s hard for me. Getting undressed in front of you is already a huge step. I don’t know, I don’t know anymore, if I can go on. Are you in a hurry.

Before I came here, I didn’t think I would have to talk to him so much. I’m ready to give her my body to do what she wants with it while I close my eyes to pass the time, but I don’t want to be an actress. A dead whore for an hour, yes, but not an actress.

My reaction was sincere, and his gaze softened after a few seconds. But I can see deep in his eyes that he has no intention of giving up. Bingo.

– Listen, I understand, but don’t be afraid, believe me, everything will be fine. All you have to do is leave this room for a few moments and knock on this door…

I comply as quickly as possible; once again, the faster I do it, the faster I will see the color of the money. My money. I’ve already made them mine, otherwise I don’t feel able to go any further.

So I blankly head for the door and head out, not without taking a quick look around to inspect the place. What a ridiculous situation! Not to mention humiliating! If Manu or my parents saw me now… I barely let a second pass before knocking on the door. So I don’t give myself time to think about what I’m looking for in this damn corridor. I hurry to enter the room. Don’t make me do it again.

I stand in front of the bed where he is still sitting. – Now comfort yourself for me. Caress as if discovering your body for the first time.

Having learned my lesson, my hands move from my neck to my face. Without flinching, I bring my hands to the back of my head, slowly raising my hair, eyes closed, as if I’m trying to make him think I’m actually enjoying what I’m doing.

I open them at one point, just to see how turned on Joe is, and from there I brace myself for a possible sudden onslaught of hands on me. I’m not even close. He looks at me like he’s watching a porn movie. His eyes are blank, expressionless. I continue my little game, letting my hands slide over the tops of my breasts in the most banal of gestures. I glance furtively at my watch, which I kept on my wrist. 2:29 p.m. Only half an hour left.

This context is so unrealistic to me. I don’t fit into the troubled girl persona, money or no money. I’m too whole to pretend. I want to go home, what am I doing here? I can’t bring myself to lower my hands further, they get stuck in my lower abdomen. I’m not that good an actress.

– Touch yourself more, you must continue to turn me on.

Obviously, this does not suit him. I lose my temper again, letting my arms fall to my sides in despair. I don’t know what to do, where to put my hands. I feel like a fool and a loser in front of him, but at the same time I don’t think I care at this exact moment. 2:34 p.m.

– This cannot happen. I just can’t do it. – I understand. You’re more the type to let yourself be dominated…” he replies in an absurdly cheeky voice.

Nervously, I want to laugh again at this pathetic attempt at arousal, but I hold back. If you think about it, it’s not wrong: who wants to dominate someone they don’t want? Or even participate? Yes, actually, only one category of people: those who need money.

There was only one answer that would have suited him, spoken in a childish voice: “Yes, I really want you to be my master. Of course, I couldn’t do that. Things are not going at all as planned. I thought I would be fucked in no time Lucky me I ran into a kinky…

– Come on, sit down on the bed, he says after a minute of snorting, I’ll take care of it here. The tone is firm and things get serious. His fantasies take precedence over his personality.

Following his orders, I find myself sitting next to him on the dirty bedspread, which must have been there since the hotel opened, judging by its indefinable color, split between blue and green.

Once again, I meet his expectations without flinching; one last effort, Laura. 14.36. Now I’m topless on the bed. Her eyes, her face, her sex beg for more. Come on, take a good look at them, don’t be shy. If he continues to admire them like this, I may not need to give him the rest of my body.

– Lay on your back. Have. How insensitive. 2:41 p.m. So he puts his hand on the back of my head and gently pushes me down. It’s the first time I feel his palm on my body, the first time he touches me.

I lay back, admiring the chipped ceiling from all sides, waiting to feel his skin on mine. His hand came just as my attention faltered, and I flinched limply, not entirely surprised. It started with my belly and slowly went up to my neck. No doubt he wants to create a sensual embrace, but he can’t have the slightest effect on me. His second hand is also coming. The back and forth across my upper torso gets harder, more intense; he picks up the pace as his erection grows. I haven’t opened my eyes even once until now, trying to believe that this is all just a very bad dream.

I don’t know if I want to throw up or cry feeling his old hands on me. I’m a corpse lying on the bed. After all, he ordered a corpse, Ta. If he had asked me for more at that point, I would have slapped him.

Instead, the dance of bodies stops. He straightens up. I expect another strange request. – Sit down, we’ll talk, he says. I don’t know if it’s a joke or not. Is it in the contract that I have to talk to him? I guess since he’s paying me he can get away with anything.

– Why are you here today? The ten thousand dollar question or how to get a student into the swing of things. – Do you have a boyfriend? What are you doing in V.? The questions become very personal. I’m not…

I risk agreeing to give him the real version of my life: it would be going far beyond what is bearable if I were to leave him some hints of the life I lead. Besides, I’m not paid to tell the truth. – No, I don’t have anyone in my life.

2:49 p.m. Ten short minutes that turn out to be awful. – Is this money for you? I nod. After a pause, he says: – What you are doing is good. Is that so?

– You know, I also have people who count on me. I am divorced and have a daughter. A little older than you. I remarried, to a very beautiful woman, a little while ago. Sex with her is not really like that. In fact, I’ve long since given up trying to share my fantasies with her. It’s not easy, you know, dealing with someone who doesn’t want you anymore.

What’s not easy for me right now is listening to him figure out his life. I don’t understand why he decided to confess to me, whom he is seeing for the first time. Inevitably, if I continue to listen to him, I will begin to imagine his life, to put images of what he is like outside of this room. V. is a small town, and the possibility of running into Joe on a trip with the family is not excluded.

To think that when he gets out of here he’ll be bound to join her. I get chills all over my body. I feel sorry for his wife, wondering what she would think if she knew that her husband regularly sleeps with young girls and that on top of everything else he talks about her during sessions.

– I don’t want to know about your life.

I want to cry my eyes out. Who does he think he is, that he is taking advantage of other people, when he is not very clear in his head and in his way of thinking? No sound comes out of my mouth. I thought I could be a mechanical whore, and now someone is looking for lice in my head.

Joe answers slowly: – Do you calm me down, do you combine business with pleasure?

The height of the absurd has now been reached. I look into his eyes, at the tone of his voice, looking for any indication that he doesn’t mean a word of what he just said. Nothing. He really believes that I do all this, not just for the money, but because deep down I really like it. In his crazy mind, a woman can’t just give herself up for money, she needs another reason. And still in his crazy mind, he sure likes to think he’s not so ugly. Would it be so hard for an old man whose wife no longer wants him to admit that my only motivation is financial?

So shut up; I don’t even have anger left in me, I’m confused. 31 starts dancing on my body again with his hands, always touching my upper chest, breasts and stomach. His skin burns and bothers me, but I don’t let anything show. He doesn’t go down to the bottom of my anatomy, my sex is still untouched by his hands, which frees me from my despair.

– Next time I’ll bring you something, you’ll see, you’ll like it… Joe is already planning to see me again. I don’t say anything to him anymore, I’m not going to shout at him that there’s no problem. – Ready, you can get dressed, it’s time. Libération , it’s 3 o’clock! The end has come.

Very punctual, he gets up. He rummages through his briefcase while I quickly dress. He continues his flattery.

– I’m very satisfied, you know. The first contact was great, I was very satisfied. You are magnificent, I didn’t expect someone like you. In addition, you are sensitive and approachable, which I really appreciate. Of course, you were a bit reluctant at first, but I’m shy too, so things will go better next time, you’ll see.

An envelope is handed to me and, not wondering if custom or good manners compel me to wait outside to count it again, I admire my ass. It’s not 100 euros, as I thought, but 250 euros that Joe hands me! Two 100 notes and one 50 note. I have never seen a 100 euro note. My only concern when I see so much money is how I will get 100 euros out of my pocket without arousing suspicion. I never spend that much: €5 notes are more representative of my everyday life .

– See you on the internet. On the other hand, if you see me on Msn , don’t come talk to me, it’s often my wife logging in under my name.

Having said that, we go down in the same elevator we arrived in. The gendarmes are no longer at the reception, but at this point I don’t really care. I’m floating, this new money has given me wings. I’ll be fine now, in just an hour I’ve made enough to get rid of a few bills that are still hanging over my head.

No less than 250 euros to look at me, I really took it for fun! What an idiot, and to think he thinks we’ll ever see each other again! Never, it’s over, once and that’s it. I’m afraid he’ll realize he’s been tricked, so I hurry just in case. I also want to leave the hotel behind and forget about it quickly.

I’m so relieved that it’s over that I can’t think about anything else. I still don’t realize that Clever Joe has been manipulating me with his flattery and sweet words and that he knows exactly what he’s doing.

I only think about the money that is now mine and that will give me a period of financial respite. Next time I will find another way. Patting the pocket of my jeans where the life-saving envelope was, I smiled. Yes, once alone, I smiled victoriously. Chapter 9 lover December 12, 2006

Right after meeting Joe, I don’t feel like going to work right away. I have half an hour left. A phone call to my friends and I head to my favorite cafe, the one run by my friend Paul in the city centre.

Arriving at the meeting place, I smile naturally. There is nothing on my face to suggest what I did half an hour earlier. We exchange pleasantries, just what I needed to take my mind off the previous hour. After a good hour spent checking the latest gossip, it’s time to pay the bill.

– Girls, I’m sorry, but I don’t have money to pay for my coffee. Do you think you could lend them to me? I’ll get them back to you soon, I promise.

I can’t really take out the 100 euro banknote, not even the 50 euro one. They wouldn’t understand, I never had a penny. They know me well and know that I often don’t have enough to pay. They took the receipt without saying a word so they could split the bill between the two of them.

– No problem, Laura. Next time it will be your turn, laughs one of them.

He probably can’t believe it. Most of the time, I’m so broke I can’t even afford my coffee. I often ask her to stop by, preferably on a date in a bistro, so I don’t have to beg. However, when I get paid, I invite everyone over for a drink, just one, but one that makes us financially happy.

Do they suspect something today? I try to be myself as much as possible: happy and available. The last few months were hard, but I never admitted anything to them. When they come to my house, they ask me if I have something to munch on, and I joke that I don’t have time to go shopping.

Despite all the efforts I have made to hide my precarious situation from them, my friends are not fooled. They don’t realize the importance of this, but they see I’m struggling. I’ve been paying for my coffees for a long time, so they don’t care anymore. These situations still cause me temporary embarrassment. But this time, I remember having a very heavy, guilty feeling: the money is in my pocket. I have enough to pay for a lot of trips with what I just won.

In the evening, I meet Manu in a bar, without ordering anything for myself. I watch him finish his pint of beer: – Are you okay, dear? how was your day – A normal day, nothing special.

Do not tell! It was whatever, it just wasn’t a normal day, but I can’t imagine saying to him, “Look, it’s okay, it was pretty normal. Yesterday, before work, I was groped by an old man that I don’t know. I knew and on top of that he gave me 250 euros. All so that I could give you money for rent and bills while you smoked and gave turns to everyone! Not bad, admit it.

After he thinks the blood alcohol level is decent, we set off for our “cozy nest”. He makes me laugh on the way home, telling me silly stories. Manu is always happiest when he’s a little giddy and I think deep down I prefer him that way.

We walked back to the apartment in silence, the euphoria of the evening, of our relationship, over. We got ready for bed like a married couple of twenty years. Given the state he was in when I left the bar, I might try to turn him on a bit tonight. I admit I thought about it, just for a second.

Manu and I don’t really have sex: he has what is commonly called “nervous breakdowns”. All couples who have been together for a few years force themselves to think that this will only be temporary. In my case, I’m starting to find the long time and personal pleasures a bit tiring. For a while now, if he doesn’t come looking for me, I give up. I am a person who can be defined by the gallant term “charming”, but I don’t want it anymore. Worried, I even consulted my gynecologist, who reassured me and assured me that this kind of thing often happens when you don’t feel wanted by the other person. Exactly rightly so! Between her semi-erections and my vaginal dryness, we make a great team. Like most people, I love sex and consider it essential in a relationship, so it’s no coincidence that my relationship with him is in serious trouble. I’ve gotten to the point where I just want him to pull it for me. Before tonight. Because tonight I realized that I will never want him again.

Strangely, he doesn’t seem to care that much. His only interests in recent months seem to be limited to going out and his lessons. Without admitting it, we know that our relationship is on the duke. We accept it without flinching because we know that ultimately there is nothing we can do about it. When love is gone, it’s very hard to get it back, no matter how hard you try.

So that evening, as we watched each other brush our teeth in silence in front of the mirror, I realized once again that this could not go on. Our relationship is a big farce. Could it be because of what happened this afternoon? It certainly had a triggering effect, but the tension between us had been simmering for some time.

Will he talk to me, tell me the smallest thing? I feel deep down that if he doesn’t say anything, if he doesn’t guess what I’ve been through today, I won’t admit it. That would mean that he definitely doesn’t understand me like he used to, when he knew in a second if there was something wrong with me. I need his shoulders, his arms to protect me and make me forget, just tonight.

I slip between the sheets. Silence is so hard. Not tonight Manu, tonight I beg you, don’t ignore me and hold me. He joins me in bed without looking at me. He already seems to want to adopt the position we’ve been used to for a while: with our backs to each other. I see on his face what I’ve refused to see for months: our relationship is dead.

Now that he’s lying down and even though he’s already closed his eyes, I still have hope that he’ll start talking. I jump into the water: – Good night. – Mhh , he answers me in a sleepy voice. Yes, good night, Manu. Goodbye Manu. Chapter 10 Loneliness December 13, 2006

The shrill sound of the alarm clock wakes me from my deep sleep. I couldn’t sleep last night, I tossed and turned in our bed thinking about the day we had. I woke up, smoked a million cigarettes in the kitchen. I even tried to work on the Italian Civilization course, but to no avail. My mind was too busy. It wasn’t until around 5am that I closed my eyes on my own because I was so tired.

Manu is still sleeping. I silently watch his bare back turned towards me. I turn off the alarm and suddenly remember. Yesterday. The nightmare. The nightmares.

Ever since that night, I knew it was over with Manu. Our relationship, which began as a model of passion and complicity, slowly went down the drain on Saturday, and there was nothing I could do about it. I feel alone this morning when I wake up, alone in front of my boring daily routine. I will always remember December 12, 200, when so many things changed in my life.

But I don’t have time to think anymore. I have to get up and go to class. All I want to do is crawl into bed and cry. But that is impossible. I know that now. I’ll have to keep getting up every day. I will have to continue to live with the weight of this day. Right now, I hate myself. Even in my pajamas, hidden by a lot of fabric, I feel like my dirty body is on display for everyone to see. I feel like he’s harboring a vice, like you can’t help but look at him because he radiates so much ugliness. I feel terribly dirty. Would it have been worse if Joe had completely possessed me?

I’m unsteady on my feet. My body seems impossible to carry. In the bath, I run the water over my body for fifteen minutes, at first without moving. Then I took a sponge and rubbed it on my skin with all my might. Suddenly, it turns red due to intense scratching. I don’t care, I can’t stop. I want to wash off all this dirt and pretend yesterday never happened. Yesterday I lost everything: Manu and self-esteem. For 250 euros.

I run to catch the subway. Reality hits me: I don’t even have time to mourn my fate, I have to go to school. But how is such a thing possible? I know I won’t be able to concentrate, listen or read anything. There are voices in my head that keep telling me I’m just a whore. I sold my body for money. I gave myself to a stranger for money while my friend was at school. I’m worthless, I’m dirty, and I feel like I’ll be dirty for the rest of my life.

I quietly get dressed and slowly close the door to my relationship with Manu. I will never be able to look at him with the same innocence again. I didn’t just cheat on him, but more than that. I cheated, I prostituted myself. The word tears at my throat as I say it. But it comes back naturally, because that’s what happened.

It’s cold this morning. I walk fast to escape the freezing wind, and who knows, maybe this pace will anesthetize my thoughts. I feel discouraged, ashamed, I don’t even have the strength to cry.

The road to university didn’t help at all. When you sit in the subway, you start to think and reflect. Even if you don’t want to, you are forced to think about yourself, your life, who you are. I think, without realizing it, without wanting to. I feel like everyone can read on my face what I did yesterday. I feel myself blushing and bury my face in the large scarf around my neck.

Even if I had stayed with Manu, I’m sure sooner or later he would have understood what I did. My sin is too present in my head not to be visible on the outside. I’m tired from my short night, but today I know I won’t even be able to sleep. The fight was not enough, now I will have to pay for the rest of my life with my thoughts.

I came out of the subway upset, this review of life is much worse than it was before. One thing is certain: studies will be my refuge. Other than that, Manu was the only thing that was really worth expending my energy, devoting myself to. Now that it’s all over, I can’t afford to let myself go. I have to get on with my life. I made a mistake, but I promise it will never happen again. The proof is there: one time was enough to make me lose the boy I loved. May it never happen again.

Chapter 11 Parking December 22, 2006

“Never again! It was to be expected, after all, after paying the bills and handing over the rent to Manu, I had nothing left. I’m in trouble again and need to find a place to sleep. But how? A friend from the university has agreed to host me for a while.She lives alone in her apartment and I think deep down she’s very happy to have company.

At her house, I’m getting ready for a date. I answered one of those countless ads again: there is no shortage of female students, so I easily found a new prey.

Life went on as usual and so did I, on my own, trying to cope. While I’m looking for another apartment, I’m obviously facing a lot of expenses that I can’t cover from my telemarketing salary alone . Once again I find myself in an apparent financial mess. It’s not just a nightmare anymore: I feel like if I don’t do something, this will all become a recurring problem and I’ll never be able to get my head above water again. If I want to live in my apartment, that’s the price I have to pay.

I already have a job and courses, what else can I do? I ask this question knowing the answer beforehand. This door remains open despite all the promises I made to myself.

The first time with Joe, which in my mind isn’t really a first time because it’s so far from everything you can imagine, gives me mixed feelings. The fact that I was undressed in front of him and had to endure his fantasies blew my mind. Despite everything that had happened, I still thought I had him cataloged. In the end, it was a terrible first time, because now that I was out of money again, I couldn’t get him out of my mind.

So I got in touch with another guy. In a trance, in front of a discreet university computer, I gave in again. Still in the same frame of mind, I plan this meeting just to fill the coffers, to get rid of all the expenses I still have to do for the apartment. We set a rate of 70 euros per hour for two hours. Plus, of course, the restaurant, which he will pay for.

He is young, he is only 26 years old and his name is Julien. Maybe, I thought, it would be easier with him than with an old man like Joe. I’m also curious about his motivations, what makes him willing to pay a prostitute. It seems to me that at his age, finding a girl is not that difficult.

We arranged to meet in front of a restaurant in the city center. This time, if I meet someone, it won’t be a challenge to find an explanation. We are of the same generation, which helps a lot. People wouldn’t ask the questions they would have if they saw me with Joe.

I don’t have to wait for it, it’s already there when I arrive. One look and I understand why he contacted me. It carries with it a huge amount of frustration. Physically, he is more than ordinary: neither particularly tall nor particularly short, he sits hunchbacked. He has a terrible hairstyle, one that instantly classifies him, once again, in the peasant category : he has his hair up in a kind of brush cut that goes to the side. No style from this point of view.

His clothes also leave something to be desired, I tell myself once more, inclined to hate. Faded burgundy wool sweater, uncut jeans and musty sneakers. The overall look is ridiculous. Typical of the kind of poor guy I’d never turn my back on on the street. On the other hand, she could very well have been the target of my giggles with my girlfriends. Are we cruel? Maybe yes.

We kissed each other on the lips. He is visibly embarrassed and already seems to regret coming. When we go back to the restaurant, I hope people don’t think we’re together. Misplaced pride. I’m glad I didn’t dress up too much for tonight: just jeans and a little top, sexy but not too much.

The place is just like him: simple. No decorations, white walls, just tables lined up in order. The white, empty light is probably what bothers me the most, because it exposes us too much. So I can contemplate where we are: awful. The restaurateur did not even try to give the impression of a ” guinguette à bonne franquette “, which I would have liked. So bad taste must follow me in my experience as a prostitute, reminding me each time a little more of what I’m doing. In any case, even if I would have liked the place, the fact that I came here with a client mentally prevents me from coming back in the future. A client? Yes, a client, because I’m a prostitute.

Seats us at a table next to another couple. The restaurant is full and all the tables are next to each other. I can feel Julien tense up a little; he would have preferred a more secluded table, so as not to be noticed. After we sit down, we’re silent for a while, and I can tell he’s rubbing his hands under the table nervously, not knowing how to start a conversation. I decide to help him a little, out of pity and especially because I refuse to spend an entire evening without conversation.

– What is your job? – I work for a company on the outskirts of Y. It’s quite an interesting job and I don’t really know what to do. It’s quite an interesting job and…

It only took one sentence for me to get bored. Keeping my eyes on him, I ignore the rest and let my thoughts wander. The next day I won’t be able to remember what he said to me that night. I will only remember a long tirade, a soporific monologue that calmed him down and allowed him to hide his obvious embarrassment. This guy is really uninteresting, and so is his job.

Afraid of dying of boredom and unable to hide the fact that I’m bored to death, I start teasing him a little. It’s one of my biggest flaws in life: as soon as I see a weakness in someone, I cruelly exploit it. I have a lot of self-doubts myself, but I always manage to keep them from showing. So it’s really hard for me to understand people who can’t do that. This guy is clearly a loser, I tell myself, and unfortunately for him, it shows in his behavior.

I cut him off right in the middle of his mind-blowing speech, with no shame whatsoever: – Why did you come here today? – Shall I come here? I mean, why did I choose this restaurant? – Of course not! Here with me. Why did you post an ad looking for a “masseuse”?

I clearly upset him. My insult and challenging tone made him uncomfortable. He looked frantically to his right and left to see if anyone had heard my remark. I can already see the beads of sweat on his forehead. What an idiot! Does she really think I’m going to spend the entire meal pretending I don’t know all she wants to do is screw me? Unless, deep down, he doesn’t really know what he wants.

– Well… uh … it’s quite complicated, you know… I’ve never done something like this before, it’s the first time. Just say you’re excited. In my mind, I’m very vulgar. – So, I’m married… to someone very nice, perfect actually… but when it comes to sex… I don’t really know what’s going on… it’s complicated…

– I’m sure it’s not that complicated. Your wife is frigid, isn’t she? I didn’t use my words. He straightens in surprise, then drops his shoulders as if agreeing with what I just said. This guy has habits that I broke in a second. Hell, there’s no reason I should be the only one suffering.

– Let’s say he doesn’t really want me. At first, I thought it would pass, that it wouldn’t last, you know? We have been married for a year, but nothing has changed sexually, on the contrary. She pushes me away all the time and I don’t dare force her or talk to her about it. I don’t have many friends to talk to about this either and…

It was clear now, this guy was desperate. He had probably married his childhood sweetheart too soon and, having no friends to have fun with, turned to prostitutes to drown his sorrows. He doesn’t have much of a social life and is hoping to fill the void with me tonight. Again he goes into an interminable soliloquy, explaining that he is very lonely, that his job doesn’t interest him in the slightest, and many other things that I forget as soon as he says them. Again, I abruptly cut him off:

– A couple without sex is just a friendship, I say dryly. He looks at me like I’ve said something awful. I only half believe what I just said, but this fellow exasperates me, and in his presence I feel in a cruel mood. Yet he remains undaunted by my affront.

I realize at this point that the life of a fille de joie does not stop at sex. Clients often contact prostitutes just to talk, to get out of their boring or burdensome lives. I’m not ready to put up with this, listening to a horny man complain. I have my own problems and even if there is no pain scale, it is more than I can bear. The conversation takes a dangerous turn, and now it’s veering into something far too personal for my taste. I become “his little one”. This guy makes me think, and that shouldn’t be compatible with Laura’s face of joy. It’s not all very happy.

As the meal progresses, I learn more and more about his life and literally immerse myself in his daily routine. The worst part is that under other circumstances I would definitely have found this guy very likable. In another context, I probably would have consoled him, but now I am unable to do so. Tired of hearing him complain, I cut him off:

– Well, tell me, are you sexless? He winced. You scare both him and me. Such vulgarity and provocation! But I can’t help it. I’m tired of this guy beating the plains, so I decided to take matters into my own hands and end this evening.

” Uh …yeah…” he finally let out a breath, relieved to finally be exorcised. – Well, then it’s time to go, isn’t it? I see him panicking . – Let’s go? You mean now? – Yes, now, I’ve talked enough for tonight.

I can’t stand this endless discussion anymore. This guy contacts me for a “massage” and instead we end up in this crappy restaurant discussing his empty existence. I want to end this charade as quickly as possible. – But where? At a hotel? – Do you have money for a hotel?

– You know, I don’t know… I don’t know if I really want to anymore. – Of course you want to. If you contacted me, it’s because you want to.

He looked into my eyes like a beaten dog for a few seconds. I hurt his pride, and as low as he is right now, it’s hard for him to accept. The last thing on my mind is going home without my money after a night like this. After a few minutes, he says in a whisper, as if he didn’t need to repeat:

– I know a parking lot nearby… Without wasting a moment, he paid the bill. I got into his car and, without a word, I left for the parking lot of the famous supermarket. It’s a very dark night and it’s hard to see anything. I feel protected this way, no one will see us.

For all the aplomb he showed as he exited the restaurant, I can sense again that Julien feels very uncomfortable when he has to turn off the contact. He’s still rubbing his hands together nervously, trying to distract us by fiddling with the buttons on the car. He’s afraid someone will find us here, and I have to admit I have the same fears as him.

– You’re cold? It’s the middle of winter here, and the chill of the night is catching up with us. It’s a horrifying situation: the two of us in a car, in this parking lot, making sure no one sees us having sex. – Yes, a little.

– Okay, I’m going to turn on the heating.

I light a cigarette without asking permission. He turns on the heater and as the car warms up, he continues to rub his hands together. Faced with his indecision, I decide to take the big step. I put my hand on the crotch of his jeans. He doesn’t have an erection. I look up at him, searching for an explanation I already know. Without breaking eye contact, he says:

– I’m… quite stressed…

To stop him from talking again, I start rubbing his jeans harder. No reaction. For a good five minutes, I continue my task. I’m sure if he doesn’t get what he wants, he’ll end the meeting and not pay me. After enduring the entire evening psychologically, I cannot leave without a reward. Embarrassed that he doesn’t get a physical response, he stammers timidly:

– Maybe if you undressed… The first approach! I am surprised by this

Unexpected answer: it doesn’t match his tone of voice or manner at all. I’m stripping anyway, in this car lost in the middle of the parking lot. At that moment, I am afraid of only one thing: that someone will discover us. Obviously, Julien shares the same fear as me.

After a few minutes of looking at my naked body, he allows himself to touch it. I put my hand on his jeans again to no avail. He touches my breasts first, kneading them carefully. It’s clear he doesn’t dare go any lower, preferring to focus on my torso. He doesn’t seem to react to my back and forth movements on his pants. After a few minutes, desperate at the hopelessness of the situation, he announces:

– Say, would you like to…? I immediately understood what he wanted. You don’t need a five-year degree in prostitution for this.

I unbutton his pants and start giving him oral sex. Little by little, I could feel the excitement building in him. In no time, he pulls off his jeans and flops over in the passenger seat. He rests his body on mine for a moment, takes off his condom, and a few seconds later releases himself into me.

I can’t explain what I feel right now. Disgust, for sure. My head is somewhere else, I don’t feel anything. Julien became an “he”, an impersonal “he”. The first “he”. It’s too much, I can’t take it in me anymore, I don’t want it in me anymore. Everything becomes blurry and I close my eyes. I feel so dirty already. I grit my teeth in disgust. I feel a huge void. In my head, I keep repeating: “That’s it, you’re a prostitute, you’re giving your whole body for a stranger’s sex.

I don’t play smart anymore. No more challenges, no more exhibitionism. In the end, he wins; get what he wants I have to think about money, not to forget my goal, but the moment is too difficult. I have never felt so far from myself. I have no more tears to cry, only nausea to express my misery, bills piling up to force me to understand why I do this. Manu, where are you? How did we get here? I don’t want him to touch me anymore, why do I have to put up with this? The injustice of my situation makes me grit my teeth to keep from screaming. “It will soon be over, Laura, don’t open your eyes, it will be over soon.

It must be said that it stopped quickly. He had come, and consciousness had now taken the place of his libido: – Uh … Laura … we’d better go. I don’t look at him. I’m almost crying with joy that this won’t last.

– I’ll pay you for the two hours, don’t worry. I’ll give you 140 euros. – OK. Money smells like the money Joe gave me: fast and taboo. Absolutely not easy. – I’ll take you home, okay? I nod. start in silence. I can’t say a word.

Long before he reaches my house, I ask him to stop. We kiss quickly, feeling quite awkward. – Goodbye, Laura. – Goodbye, Laura. All the best. I get out of the car without asking for help. He starts right away.

Yes, I will need courage. To accept not only the stain, but also the idea that I am already addicted to this money falling into my hands so quickly.

I hurried home through the dark and freezing night. While Julien is already on his way to his wife, who is waiting for him in the warmth of her bed, I fall asleep alone in my bed. I’m so cold. Chapter 12 appearance December 24, 2006

On the table laid by my mother for this occasion is a multitude of dishes, each more appetizing than the other. And as usual for the last three months, I’m hungry as a wolf. Tonight there are five of us at the table. Dad brought a friend with him so he wouldn’t have to spend Christmas alone. I always get emotional when I see my father doing things like this, but I don’t understand why he doesn’t do the same with me.

The presence of this friend brightens the evening and everyone chats with pleasure. Everyone but me. I don’t enjoy partying, I just can’t do it. These supposed Christmas holidays are actually a poisoned chalice for me. Mid-term exams at the beginning of the new academic year force me to study more. I still work, poorly paid, at the telemarketing company on my two weeks off because I can’t afford to take days off. I have to earn money. But when I’m not working, I stay at home. The fact that I haven’t been going to university in the last few days has thrown me off balance. Studies are my refuge to stop thinking. Going to university allows me to leave home and have a social life. I haven’t seen any of my friends since September. My schedule is split between university and telemarketing . The rest of my free time is devoted entirely to my studies, reading and classes.

This family reunion is a farce. My father plays the role of the perfect guest, ostentatiously sharing his friend. He spoils even me, trying to project the image of a perfect and caring father. I listen to Dad talk, as he never does when it’s just the four of us. My father is a magician, he knows how to transform himself in public and put on a mask.

It doesn’t work for me. In other years, I would have accepted this little game, even if I knew he wouldn’t speak to me the next day. I would have taken the opportunity to hug him. I would have agreed to pretend that we are very close, simply because I can’t wait. But this year is different. I’m tired of begging for his love, I can’t stand being ignored like this anymore. If he really cared, he would have realized a long time ago that I’m having a blast, that I’ve lost over 12 pounds since September, that I work myself to the bone, that I suffer to the point of tears every day. Maybe if he took the time to look at me as a person, he would understand what I need to do to find money.

I have too many questions to enjoy tonight. I spoil my father’s plan: the guest sees that I’m not in the mood to brag. I don’t care about my father’s disapproving looks, I don’t want to pretend anymore. My mother tries to fill the silences as best she can. He’s probably afraid I’ll say something rude or disparaging. My dad relies on my sister to make conversation. He asks her an avalanche of questions about school, about her friends, so many that she barely has time to catch her breath. But she was delighted, feeling that, for the first time, she was really being listened to.

After an incredibly hearty dinner, it was time to open the presents. My mother loves Christmas and takes great care to respect the tradition. He put up a big Christmas tree in the living room and placed the presents at its feet. As he does every year, he also took out the whole nativity scene. No one in my family is religious, not even her, but she loves to play with it. I know deep down she regrets not being able to give us a fantastic Christmas with thousands of presents. So, as if to get even, he messes around with the decorations. I adore my mother and am moved by all the efforts she makes to make sure we are happy, not just at Christmas, but all year round. She’s a full-time mom, even though she’s always talked to us like adults. And she succeeds: when I see this crib full of little characters and the tree shining, I’m happy to be with her tonight.

There isn’t a mountain of presents for us at Christmas, we’ve always been used to getting just one. Mom always manages to find us something that means something, makes us forget that we only get one. My sister and I don’t care about all that anymore, even though when we were little we were crazy jealous when our friends at school would brag about gifts straight out of the Thousand and One Nights. Over time, I came to believe that this was a normal reaction.

This year, more than last year, I don’t expect anything special. I didn’t ask for anything in particular, so much so that I feel like I need everything. But “everything” is unattainable, utopian for my parents.

So I open the gift meant for me. I slowly tore off the apple green paper and revealed a pair of black heels. I had seen them with my mother in a shop the other day on All Saints Day and told her I liked them. I wouldn’t have thought he came back to buy them after that. I hugged my mother to thank her. Even though I know he had nothing to do with choosing the gift, I thank my dad from afar. We don’t hug or kiss.

I think of Manu. I haven’t heard from him since we broke up. My parents were relieved to hear we were no longer living together, but they never really liked him, considering him a snob. I don’t think anyone will ever be good enough for me and my sister in my mother’s eyes.

If he had known… He would have hated Manu even more for sure. First, he would have cried for days. Then her sadness would turn to anger and she would look for someone to blame. First she would have blamed herself, then Manu. When he found out how much he was charging me, without paying anything, it would make him responsible for my prostitution. He would have gone into a rage. He would have tried to find answers, but to no avail. In time, all of this would be just a bad memory, and she would help me forget. But she would spend the rest of her life with this wound, forever resigned. No, she never has to know.

The evening passed quietly, without outbursts or arguments. I decide to go to my room quite early. I want to get up early tomorrow to revise. In the afternoon I return by train, because from December 26 I will work at the telemarketing company . I don’t have time to hold my breath, but one day it will bear fruit, it’s inevitable.

I quickly go to bed, waving to the congregation. Once in the room, I study a text in Spanish. I can’t help it, as soon as I find a minute I review. I know I will pass the exams without problems, I have worked way too hard for it. But I can’t help it, I’m a perfectionist, everything always has to be perfect. And work prevents me from thinking about anything else.

The next day, I board the train back to V. And as usual, I don’t have much to say about the two days I spent with my parents. Chapter 13 Oppression January 7, 2007

Unfortunately, my experience with Julien didn’t stop me. It had the complete opposite effect. The new ads on the internet never stop and sometimes it seems to me that the world is full of unsatisfied people who will never be satisfied. I don’t spit on her though because these strangers and their wild desires are temporarily helping me solve my financial problems.

So I get in touch with an older man, almost certainly out of fear of running into a penniless indecisive like Julien. This time, the guy’s name is Pierre. All I know about his life is his profession: businessman in a well-known company. This made me feel more confident because it implied a really reassuring financial situation. The decision is quite difficult, and this business is like Russian roulette. I might as well make sure, as much as possible, that I get paid. We arranged to meet in the town square in the early afternoon. He prefers that we meet downtown and then go to his house, where, he says, “we’ll be quieter.” At first I refused: there was no way I was going to end up in someone’s house I didn’t know, where anything could happen to me. But after thinking a little, he managed to convince me: we will be safe from anyone’s eyes, because his apartment is empty. He too wants to remain anonymous and doesn’t want to risk being seen in a hotel in the city where he might meet people. So our last email ended with him discreetly picking me up and us going to his house in his car. I tell myself that in the end I will know if I can trust him when I see him. I realize the danger I’m putting myself in by doing this, but I need the money. I always want more now.

At the appointed time, I head to the famous square in the center of Y. I put on one of my favorite dresses: gray, with a puff on the shoulders. It accentuates my waist and shows off my legs a bit, which I’ve tucked into a very fashionable pair of boots. I am very elegant in this outfit and I know the effect it has on men. It gives me a childish air that attracts attention. It is clear that I dressed her for financial reasons: the better I look, the more he will be willing to pay. Besides, today is a beautiful and sunny winter day. I woke up in a good mood and just wanted to look good. For me, not for him. As I drive, I can already see men staring at me and admiring my dress without saying a word. Yes, today I know I’m pretty.

In the distance I can see a few busy stalls and a crowd gathered around the food display. I forgot! Today there is a market in the main square where producers sell their local products to curious tourists. This is in itself a good thing and a bad thing: with so many people, it’s easy to get lost in the crowd. However, I also run the risk of bumping into people I know, and that feeling quickly turns into immense fear.

I decide to step aside from all the commotion so I can quickly spot the man named Pierre and pull him after me. He told me he would wear a black suit with a red scarf, something visible but also appropriate for the bad weather.

Watching the passers-by, I start to get impatient after five minutes. I feel uncomfortable and clap my hands together nervously. I’m convinced that people around me notice my strange behavior, which makes me even more paranoid.

Suddenly, I hear someone calling my name behind me, someone with a very familiar voice. I recognize him immediately and my blood runs cold. – Laura! Laura! Laura! Laura! Laura! Laura! I admit I thought about not turning back, coward, and running away. Instead, I turn my head in a slow, natural motion.

– Mother? What are you doing here? I stammered, trying to control my inner panic.

My mother. Here in the square in the center of the city. While I wait for a client who will pay me to let him own me. I’m petrified, like a kid who just stuffed his fingers with jam before dinner. I stutter, knowing that if I don’t say something intelligible right away, Mom will get suspicious and realize something is wrong.

– Did you know that the whole family from Nantes came to visit us today? Do you still remember this? We thought it would be nice to all come here together to show them a little Y.

Oh yes, very nice indeed. Behind her are my father and the famous representatives of what she called “the family”. I completely forgot about it: the fair, my family being there this weekend, my parents possibly being able to come to the damn fair. Nice picture: my mother, father, uncle and aunt, and two or three other strangers whom I have not seen more than three times in my life, but whom I recognize as part of my genealogy. I’m stuck, I need to come up with an excuse right away. I try not to look around for the unknown Pierre, but I can’t help but look left and right.

My mom must feel like I’m not really listening to her, but she has no idea why. Excited by this unexpected reunion, she decides to express her joy to our family behind her. I’m afraid that if someone calls my name too loudly, a suit and a red scarf will turn and address me.

– Hey, look who’s here! It’s Laura! – Ah, it’s Laura! What a surprise! How you have changed! A real woman! Were you coming to meet us? my aunt enthuses.

I care a lot about my aunt, even though I don’t see her very often, but today I didn’t care at all. I wake up in the middle of a big family gathering in a public place, while I, the prostitute, am waiting for one of my clients. Also, what a great idea to make an appointment here in the middle of the afternoon! I was stupid, but now it’s too late to complain, we have to get out of this situation as quickly as possible.

Suddenly I see in the crowd a red scarf fluttering in the wind. The man carrying it has his back to me and is heading towards the center of the square. He was probably waiting for me at the edge of the square too, and not seeing me coming, he’s trying to make sure he didn’t get caught. He is in his fifties, wearing a suit and looking very dapper. I knew instantly he was my man.

I was interrupted in my stupor by my aunt, who was still waiting for an answer. – Laura, are you dreaming? She and my mom turn to see what I’m staring at so intently. Fortunately, Pierre, the businessman, disappeared into the crowd.

– Uh … yes, I’m sorry, just a little, I say with a smile to cut their questions short. I’ve been waiting for some friends for a while, I thought I saw them but I was wrong.

Suddenly, I pull my mother and my aunt by the arm away from where the man was standing. As if we were three good friends. I see dad and the rest of the family following us, talking.

– Oh, of course, this little girl is busy, it’s normal at her age! Well, we won’t bother you anymore, Laura, we’re going back to shopping! Do you know how beautiful this city is?

He can’t stop talking. My aunt is a real talker. My old businessman had to flee. The prospect of losing money due to an unwanted meeting with my family haunts me. Even though two worlds that don’t mix have come together today, I need this money to get me to the surface. I am aware that I am playing with fire, but a voice inside me keeps telling me that I cannot do otherwise.

I can’t help it, my eyes start darting wildly back and forth. My aunt ignores me, but my mother notices my impatience.

– Come on, we’re off again, have a nice afternoon with your girlfriends, dear. Come to dinner tonight if you want. We can pick you up after shopping, you spend the evening with us, and tomorrow you get on the train home. I know it’s a bit long but… Or maybe you have something planned…

– I’ll see, mother, how nice of you. I still don’t know what I’m going to do. I have to work tomorrow, you know…

Actually, I’m already working. I say goodbye to my seemingly endless family. My aunt gives me a long hug, murmuring that she hopes to see me tonight, that I’m very pretty, and so on… My father, on the other hand, waves at me without paying me any real attention. Does my skin smell of vice and sin?

I jump up to the step, but in my head I run at full speed. I try to discreetly look around to catch a glimpse of my man, I know my mother is still watching me. I wish he didn’t run away when I was so glaringly late.

Looking around for a scarf, I suddenly spot him at the other end of the square. I’ve done such a good job of alienating my family from him that they’re now on the opposite side of the market from me, so I have to be discreet again. I am determined to get that money today. Meeting my parents was a cold shower, but I don’t have time to think about it, I don’t have time to reflect.

I finally reach the businessman, slowing my pace so as not to attract attention. Man does not wait for someone in particular, I did not describe myself, and at this moment I do not regret it. He steps in front of me. I stay right behind him and push past him. Once I’m on his level, I whisper to him like a real drug dealer:

– It’s me, Laura, follow me. Don’t look back, keep going, my family is here. I said that in one breath. I feel the pressure around me, I want to get out of this oppressive situation as soon as possible.

I feel him walking behind me, dutifully following my steps. I keep walking like a champion athlete for a good five minutes without even looking back. When I’m finally sure we’re no longer exposed, I stop to catch my breath on a deserted street.

Now I can see it from the front. He is quite tall and not bad looking. With the suit on, he can be seen trying to imitate James Bond on the way back. Quite successful in terms of class, less so in terms of execution speed. If I look more closely at his body, I would say he is over 50 years old now. However, he definitely looks his best in the suit. But the second I laid eyes on his face, I was disappointed. His eyes are a very pale blue, which in itself is quite charming, but they are devoid of any energy. This guy looks like he’s lived ten grueling years and now he’s got nothing.

Between him, disguised as a graceful businessman, and me, as a sexy young student, we make a beautiful couple: a father with his daughter, whom he would have raised well and taught her to dress elegantly , but certainly not a 19-year-old prostitute with her client. – Hi, Laura. What a rush!

He speaks so slowly that I can’t even see the end of his very short sentence. – Hi, Laura. Pierre, isn’t it? – Yes, that’s right. How about we go and sit in a bar for a few minutes to recover from our emotions? Then we will continue on our way.

A street corner bar is our refuge. Firstly, because neither he nor I want to keep running around the streets, and secondly, because I want to quickly hide from people. I saw too much for one day. We sit at a table in the back.

After we order, there is a few minutes of silence, which gives me time to survey the place. The waiters match the place: handsome, very fashionable. However, they look at us strangely, whispering to each other. I frown at first when, as they bring us our drinks, one of them doesn’t respond to my “thank you” and smile. In an instant I understood the reason for this coldness. The young man realized that we were not father and daughter, despite our clever disguises. I imagine him snapping at me as he goes back behind the bar to prepare coffees for other, more decent customers, “Wait a minute, I swear! She’s a whore, and he’s either her pimp or her client! It’s so obvious!

Is it really that obvious? Pierre doesn’t seem to have noticed anything, and I dare not tell him. He begins the conversation quietly. – Shall we finish our coffees and go back to my place?

Yes, the sooner the better. Halfway through a sip of coffee, I nod in agreement. What I’m sure of after just a few minutes with him is that he’s too soft to do me any harm. However, I remain on guard, as the saying goes, you have to beware of sleeping dogs.

– We will be quieter than at the hotel, because there is no one at my house at the moment. You’ll see, you’ll like it, it’s a beautiful place. I am the owner…

After Julien, I’m not going to be fooled again. I don’t want to hear anything about his life and I let him know right away. For reasons like these, I don’t want to go to coffee shops with customers: they encourage a conviviality in which I don’t want to indulge. I wouldn’t be a good escort.

Five minutes later, we’re walking outside to his car. While he plays Formula 1 behind the wheel of his luxury car, I dream of the place he’s taking me to: a big, beautiful house with a big garden in a remote suburb where there are no neighbors around . One day, I will have the same house.

With Pierre still silent, I have more than enough time to panic and start assessing the consequences of my action. After all, I don’t know where I’m going and I don’t know what I’ll run into. I took a risk this time: who knows, the gentleman who speaks slower than his shadow might suddenly turn out to be a cocaine addict who, after he’s had enough, will jump on me. Um, seeing him like that, who takes a good ten minutes at a deserted station to check if the road is clear, I doubt it.

When it stops after only a quarter of an hour’s drive, we are in front of huge luxury buildings in a sought-after area of the city. Very modern, they frame and define the heart of V-town. From above, there must be a superb view. Pierre gets out of the car. His endless steps are aging him, despite his dynamic business suit. The road to his apartment is as long as it is difficult.

We finally get to his floor. The sumptuous corridors are clean, empty and spotless. Everything the rich like. It was like being in a real private hotel. We are in front of his door, where he tells me that the sample key is waiting for us. I want to rip it out of her hands and turn the lock myself. I am already fed up and I have a feeling that my time in his presence will seem very long.

Fortunately, I am momentarily distracted from this bleak spectacle when we finally enter his lair. Pierre the snail crawls upright towards the kitchen, leaving me for a few moments to admire the view of his interior. The room that first catches my eye is the living room: fantastically large, white, a true rap video cliché. The sunny day brings out the luxury furniture: minimalist overall, the few decorative items on the shelves are African ebony figurines. Taste and goodness in a very large package.

I am torn between an inevitable modesty in the face of this opulence and a strange pride, not without relief: don’t lie to me, he earns well. All that matters now is that I don’t end up in an ambush surrounded by lustful whores.

I don’t have time to enjoy my lot – it’s all relative – when Pierre arrives in gastropod mode with a tray of glasses. He places it on the coffee table in the living room, then turns to me and says: – I thought you’d like a snack before…

His sentence hangs in the air. Both he and I know what’s coming. I inspect the food. He brought me a glass of milk and a slice of gingerbread… Shit! This guy really takes me for a child, cultivates the woman-child fantasy all the way. I didn’t realize the fantasy I was creating for clients. Or is it just him? Because of my childhood clothing? Pierre sees me as a child, but one he would be happy to touch. There is something wrong with this photo. I accept the snack without a word, already taking gingerbread to satisfy my hunger. I drink the glass of milk.

Pierre sits with one hand on his hip in a totally unnatural way. He watches me nibble on the slice of cake, smiling, proud of his child feeding himself to keep his strength up. I suddenly let go of the cake, looking at him. I’m about to light my cigarette when Pierre tells me:

– On the other hand, I don’t smoke. My only response is to spit out the smoke and look him in the eye. He was confused by this and, not knowing how to react, preferred to focus on something else. – Some music? he says suddenly.

Armed with the remote, he turns on the hi-fi system, which doesn’t seem to be working.

The hi-fi system, which doesn’t seem ready to respond to his commands. He gets angry for a few minutes, then goes and looks into the problem himself. The height of ridiculousness: the rich businessman buys equipment simply because it’s expensive, but doesn’t know how to use it. His attempts to create a languid atmosphere are pathetic. Everything he meticulously planned fails. I don’t even smile anymore, this guy bores me.

Finally, after several minutes of effort, the music begins. I recognize it immediately. Luz Casal . This singer with her heavenly voice rocked my childhood and adolescence. She is my father’s favorite singer. He’s literally part of the family: we know all his albums, not just the ones he’s recently become a household name for. I’ve never questioned whether I like her music or not: her records are endlessly played at home. It was introduced to me at an age where you don’t question your parents’ tastes: you like what they like because you value them. Therefore, Luz Casal comes to mind logically when I think of home, of my family.

Pierre could not have made a worse choice. I have a very special relationship with this woman, an unattainable relationship that he cannot claim. Sitting cross-legged in front of his coffee table, mouth full of gingerbread, I am outraged that he should usurp the harmony that exists between Luz Casai and my family. Again today – once too often – my private life became dangerously mixed with my life as a prostitute. I know within myself that Pierre has nothing to do with it, and that, not knowing me, he could never have guessed. But even so, I can’t help but hate him now, just because he made me think.

My eyes must be throwing real black swords in his direction, because the businessman has been staring at me for some time, trying to pierce my thoughts. – I hate this singer, can you please stop the music?

Surprised that I had suddenly snapped out of my silence, Pierre made what sounded more like an order than a request for a favor. There was silence again.

Surely to avoid any conversation, he approached me, slowly of course. As he progressed, I could feel his excitement building. The room reeks of sex with every step he takes towards me. I don’t move, I can’t bring myself to touch him.

I watch him walk towards me. When he reaches me, between his legs is literally in front of my eyes. He holds this position for a few seconds, obviously enjoying it. He unbuttons his suit pants and pulls them down his legs. This situation makes me nauseous. I know I hit my limit today. I make an inner promise to myself not to give him anything. It’s too late for him, I stupidly hold him responsible for my sadness and prostitution. So far, this meeting has not gone according to plan at all. He got it all wrong. Even his fluttering eyelashes exasperate me with their laziness.

Finally he offers me his hand to get me up. Standing in front of him, I realize how tall he is: I’m as tall as his mouth.

Pierre takes off my dress. I’m now in my underwear in front of him, my legs tucked into cheap stockings. It doesn’t matter to him, he likes me, I can tell by his panting. He takes me to the bedroom and gently pushes me onto his huge bed. He takes advantage of my lying position to get rid of his shirt. Leaning towards me, he turns me over and places me on my stomach. I let him do it to me like a blow up doll.

– I’m going to give you a massage, do you like it? – Um… yes, yes, yes…

Pierre lays his whole body on top of mine. I collapse under his weight. I release myself with an upward push of my butt, which scares him. Released, I resume my normal breathing. He places his body next to mine and starts caressing me. He left my bra on and I guess it’s because he doesn’t know how to take it off. I wanted to run away. A dilemma forms in my mind: maybe I should leave after all if I don’t feel him. A glance at his radio clock tells me I barely have twenty minutes left. The attraction of money causes me to make a decision. I am prepared to wait for this money, which I believe I have earned.

His hands move over my body at the expected speed without surprising me, too slow for me to notice the passing of time. I’m completely immobilized: if someone came in right now, they might think I’m dead.

For exactly eighteen minutes he rubs against me without trying anything else. My silent reluctance must be too threatening for him to dare to venture. He doesn’t utter a word, content with this contact. I close my eyes, it’s what I have to do. When the alarm clock, with its red light, finally displays the saving time, I jump out of bed without saying anything. Pierre obediently gets up and doesn’t even sigh at my haste to get out.

I silently look at him and tell him to follow me into the living room. He puts his paternalistic hand in his wallet, like a father deigning to give his daughter a few dollars so she can go out and have fun with her friends. Take out 150 euros for two hours. Quite a large amount for what was consumed – almost nothing. Despite everything, I firmly believe that the money was hard earned and is rightfully mine.

Although I’ve been sure of it ever since I met him in the market, I know I’ll never see Pierre again. He is now too closely bound up in my mind with a feeling of disgust. And, above all, an unwanted meeting with my parents. Reasonably, I know this fate could have befallen anyone, but my thoughts stubbornly associate him with it, making him responsible. He’s the reason I went to the downtown square this morning, the reason I had to lie to my family (whom, until now, I’ve only “not told”).

Pierre offered to take me home, but I refused; there was no way I was going to spend another minute with him. Even if I have to walk for two days to get back to V., I will do it. I pocketed the money, almost ripping it out of his hands, and ran out the door without asking for anything else. Leaving Pierre alone in his luxurious castle, I left without looking back, muttering an inaudible “goodbye.”

– Will we be in touch soon, Laura? – Um… Yes. I don’t want to say a word. But I prefer to lie, to avoid long explanations and, above all, so that he does not get angry with me. I know my lie is protected: this guy only has my email address, nothing else.

Once at the foot of his building, in the open air, I stop for a moment and look up at the sky. Okay, I’m totally hooked. I’ll have to lie to my parents when they ask how my birthday was and decline their invitation to dinner so I don’t have to face my father’s gaze. The look of someone who knows, of someone who can guess everything.

Now I feel like a real prostitute. I became a whore. Because I know I will do it again; that Julien, Joe and Pierre won’t change anything. I became a prostitute who from now on relies on her clients’ money to stop worrying about the end of the month. I am a whore who, for a few hours, knows how to forget about the hands resting on her body. A part-time hooker, a student whore, a computer whore. In the fresh air, I regain my color. Slowly, heart racing, I make my way to the nearest bus stop.

Chapter 14 Nervousness January 14, 2007

Walking in the cold, my coat pulled up to my chin, I run to make sure I’m not late for my first university exam. I’m stressed today because I have a literature test. I’ve read all the books, of course, but I’m way behind: I couldn’t buy them, given their prohibitive price, and had to wait until they were available in the university library.

This happened just last week and I had to swallow three books in quick succession. I had learned my lessons foolishly beforehand, for without having read the works they obviously made no sense to me. So last week was full of adrenaline. I was running between work, studies, transport to get to university, to which was added the stress of exams. But today, for the first test, I am in a state of anxiety. I run through the corridors of the university to reach the building where the exam is held. When I arrived, there was already a small crowd outside the lecture hall. When you’ve been running since you jumped out of bed, once you stop moving you suddenly realize how tired you are. Only nervousness keeps me going.

Two days before, I had seen a client. This time, I had decided to save some of my loot for a little treat: I was going to do some shopping. That’s the problem with fast money. You always want more.

So I went to see a guy. All he was looking for was someone to “do some housework in a small outfit”. As exams approached, I still needed money, but I was less prepared, nervously, to stand being touched. So I spent two hours at this guy’s place, ironing his shirts in his underwear, that’s all. He gave me 100 euros.

On the subway to university, this fresh story came back to me and I suddenly felt dirtier than ever. I know very well that this exam period is not the best time to develop self-esteem, but I couldn’t help but hate myself, telling myself that I am not able to do it. Prostitution became a drug as soon as the salary from my telemarketing job wasn’t enough. When I realized how much money I could make, I even considered giving up the phones and going into prostitution exclusively. I would only have to work a few hours a month to earn triple my current salary.

But this telemarketing job , as boring and poorly paid as it is, is still, along with university, the only thing that keeps me in touch with reality, with real life. If I just kept my job as a prostitute, I tell myself that I would soon be falling headfirst into a network with a pimp at the helm. He’d make me drop out of college and I’d become his full-time golden egg-laying goose.

Outside the amphitheater, the pressure was mounting. I had to calm down if I didn’t want to lose my temper in front of the exam paper. I calmed down as best I could: my reaction is normal, it’s my first university exam and I’m so passionate about my studies that I feel like there’s a lot at stake. The week is punctuated by midterms and I have to keep up the pressure. The only test I’m not afraid of is the oral test, because it’s always been easy for me to express myself. I just need to get rid of literature; after i pass this test i will be more relaxed.

I rummage in my coat pocket for the rolled tobacco. All I have left are crumbs. So, as usual, I ask my friend from university if she would be kind enough to lend me a cigarette. Luxury, a real cigarette before an exam, can only be a good sign!

The classroom doors open and I walk in, determined to show what I can do. Chapter 15 The meeting January 24, 2007

Paul’s bar naturally became my stronghold. I discovered it a long time ago, long before I was a student. The decor is made of dark wood, in colonial style. There are a lot of photos of actresses from the 40s on the walls, and even though most of them were unfamiliar to me, they quickly became familiar. I don’t go back that often though, because I want to have the same magic in my eyes every time. From time to time, Paul gives me a nod as I pass him and we exchange a few words. In the beginning, I used to take refuge there when I finished my “professional” meetings. Then I started coming here more and more often; before or after work, for a coffee or an impromptu chat with friends I had met by chance.

Its importance in my life took a radical turn only the day I took refuge there after my first meeting with Joe. Since that day, the bar has evoked for me a sense of relief, of gentleness after emotional and physical violence. It is the place where I drown my dark thoughts and melancholy and forget about my whole life. It is a place of transition between hotels and my apartment: there I formed a real cocoon.

Over the years, I became friends with Paul, the waiter. I enjoy his presence. I talk to him without fear, but without ever going into details. Partly because I don’t want to: I’m not the kind of girl who tells the story of her life to the first person who walks by. Second, Paul is a pretty shallow person. He wouldn’t have been interested in any of my stories except my stories about sex. Nothing annoys me more than a person you’re talking to who looks around desperately looking for something to hold their gaze on. Considering how little I trust him as the “solemn keeper of secrets for life and death,” I’ve permanently erased from my mind the possibility of confessing anything about my forbidden games. The disclosure of such a secret is still unthinkable. I don’t want to have to justify myself in front of him, I don’t want to have to face his gaze which, without going so far as to judge me, couldn’t help but pity me. Come to think of it, I don’t think he would have believed me.

Paul is a lady killer. Excessively selfish, he gives into everything that enters his bar. Quick conquests. It beats them, then leaves them in a puddle for days or even hours later. He even tried his luck with me at first. I think he set out to seduce every pretty girl that walked through the door. He talked to me quite a bit, but it’s clear that I’m not interested: in my mind, he’s too closely related to my life as a prostitute. He sensed this and quickly deleted me from the loot list. I don’t think he was really interested in me. In his eyes, I would have been just another conquest, and he was not willing, for me or anyone else, to row in his favor. He’s not the type of guy to work hard for a girl. I also keep telling myself that being so geographically close to my mysterious meeting places, one day he will understand, if he really wants to, what I do and where I go.

At the height of my life as a prostitute, this place became my second home. I admit the clientele has a lot to do with it too. Most of them are around 30 years old: fresh businessmen or fallen artists, sometimes models, this bar exudes youth. They all mingle happily in the bar, turning the din of voices into a harmonious din.

I’ve always felt more mature than other girls my age, and in the course of conversations with complete strangers – but complete strangers in my thirties – I realized that this is the age group where I feel the best. I was forced to mature faster than everyone else as a child, and my parents always raised me to be as responsible as possible. Therefore, it was difficult for me to endure all the childishness at school. Although I sometimes amused myself, the speeches of my colleagues often made me sit up and take notice. Appellant “You don’t know what? My boyfriend at the time was in his thirties and had owned a car for a while. So nothing out of the ordinary for me. I couldn’t bring myself to attend their weekend slumber parties or their first experiments with so-called soft drugs.

I usually came to school for my lessons and left just as quickly. I rarely mingled with the other students. Without being arrogant, I naturally distanced myself from the group. I enjoyed their presence for a day, but I never “dug” or tried to see them outside of school. It was the same with the boys. For as long as I can remember, boys my age have always bored me to death, apart from Manu, who is about the same generation as me. When I was old enough to flirt, I never considered them as potential lovers. I prefer accomplished men who are no longer in a post-adolescent crisis or searching for an identity.

Sometimes I regret that I matured so quickly, because at school I felt alone, misunderstood, out of phase in relation to time and experiences. I think like a thirty-year-old woman, but my thoughts are ten years older than me. After all, I wish I could have fun like a girl my age, superficially, without constantly thinking like a responsible adult. Sometimes I feel tired of my own nature, but I can’t help it: I must admit that I will never be one to enjoy childish things, even temporarily. I lost my naivety a long time ago.

This is one of the reasons why I immediately felt at home in Paul’s bar. I come alone almost every time, sure to end the evening chatting with new people.

Tonight, when I arrived, I found the place packed. A rock concert was organized and a bunch of giddy customers turned the bar into a real dance floor. The good mood is contagious and I find myself smiling as soon as I cross the threshold. Paul sees me and rushes to pour me a glass of wine, to “put me at ease,” he says. In fact, I know he wants to cum in front of the guys at the bar who were staring at me for a long time while I was kissing him. It’s his way of saying, “Hey guys, I know her…”.

It had an effect. Two men immediately tried to start a conversation with me. – Hello, do you come to this bar often?”, one of them asked me, not in a very original way. – I’ve never seen you here and I know I wouldn’t miss a beautiful girl like you!” says the other, inspired.

What creativity! Their approach reeks of low-grade flirtation: they can smell a man’s sexual desire from a hundred yards away. I kindly answer their questions. I even allow myself a few flat initiatives, just out of politeness. The two kites know each other well, and before my eyes the discussion turns into a competition. Who will take the young lady home tonight? It depends on who will say the phrase that will bring the biggest smile to my face. I try to remain cordial, but I’m dying to leave them there, to make them understand once and for all that they have no chance with me.

Suddenly I notice him behind the two men. He stared at me for several minutes. Brunet, a few strands of hair hiding his eyes, which I suspect are green. He wears a striped cotton shirt with the sleeves rolled up. A very casual outfit, but even so, from the moment I noticed him, I couldn’t take my eyes off him. He is a fascinating man. He looked at me sympathetically. It’s not the first time I’ve seen him here. I saw him several times chatting with Paul over coffee. I smile, thinking that I won’t be able to tell him the famous “Do you come here often?

He gives me a look that I don’t have time to understand. Two seconds later, he’s next to me, grabbing my waist in front of my two flirting companions. Needless to say they head off quite suddenly, shame on me for getting me so wrong. There was silence, punctuated by short coughs that betrayed their embarrassment.

– Ah…hello, one of them managed to stammer . Two pleasantries later, they were already far away.

Savior turns my body towards his without letting go of my waist. The situation is frighteningly erotic and I feel a shiver run through me, making the hair on my arms stand up. I can’t take my eyes off him as he stares at me without saying a word. It’s not exactly what you’d call beautiful, but it fascinates me. I could have gone on like this for an hour, but after a good minute I decide to break the silence:

– Thanks, they were getting pretty annoying. – Yes, that’s what I thought too.

He points to a table that has just been vacated. He orders us two glasses of beer and, lo and behold, we spend the evening together, laughing a lot and chatting about our little lives. His name is Olivier. He doesn’t do much in life and seems bored with it. He has the look and lifestyle of a bohemian. Lacking a time machine, this guy seems resigned to the idea that he can’t go back to the 1970s. He was born in the wrong era.

The night is light and I feel perfect. I don’t know why things seem so easy tonight. And I can’t even explain how sometimes you feel so comfortable with a stranger… that you tell him very intimate things. I tell him about my family, my studies and Manu. He listens to me carefully and tells me moments and experiences that marked him in childhood or recently. It’s a healthy, fair exchange where everyone gives. Everything is done with a smile on the face and even suffering is mentioned as a constructive endeavor.

As the night progresses, so do the drinks. We begin to get more and more drunk, which aligns us with the logic of drunkenness, which is to nonchalantly and shamelessly reveal our lives. I have the strange feeling that I can tell him everything, even mostly what I hide from everyone else. Several times I catch myself wondering how he would react if I told him about my debauched life. He is the one who opens the ball of unlimited confessions.

– You see, after thirty years, I have the impression that today nothing can shock me anymore. Sad, isn’t it? The stakes are too high and my secret too heavy to carry alone. – Nothing can shock you? It is not like that? – I mean, seriously. – I’m sure I can shock you.

With the help of alcohol, I become more and more adventurous. I know I’m playing with fire, but a strange instinct makes me trust him. He remains silent for a moment, as if searching for an answer. He realizes it’s something I still don’t want to confess. So he tells me:

– “If you are sure, I will listen to you.

He senses my indecision. Revealing my hidden life means trusting him completely and relying on his loyalty to keep the secret. But I don’t know him! How and why should I trust him? Looking at him deeply, I can guess that he won’t say anything. However, a glimmer of lucidity still haunts me.

– Do not worry. It’s just between the two of us, I promise. So I take the big step. I turn the words over and over in my head to get them into proper verbal form because they have never been spoken out loud. – Do you know where I was last week?

He nods. Obviously he doesn’t know. – I was with a man in his fifties who paid me to touch me. I am a prostitute. I spat it out without thinking. When he was done, I took a step back, as if I had just heard someone else speak.

For a second, his eyes become sharper, the top of his face frowns, but remembering the promise he made, he hurries to put on an expression that is meant to be neutral. – I understand, he says simply.

Don’t put a hand on my shoulder, don’t make any gesture of compassion that would have exasperated me.

On the contrary, he tries to understand and asks me a lot of questions. The rest of the evening was the same as the beginning: my revelation did not spoil the evening at all, on the contrary, it brought us closer to each other.

Paul shakes us out of our reverie, which has lasted nearly six hours. Six straight hours where there was nothing around us. I hadn’t seen the time pass at all and thought it was a joke when I saw Paul arrive, mop in hand, ready to clean up before closing time.

– We’ll have to leave, we’re closing!

We both burst out laughing, realizing I had lost track of time. H stands up and offers me his hand to lead me outside. Drunk and hilarious, I greet Paul with an evasive wave. Outside, Olivier leads me home, supporting my waist as my walk zigzags . From the beginning to the end of the trip, I laughed inexplicably, brought on by the excess of alcohol. Once at the door, he checks that I have my keys and can open the door properly. Then, with a slow movement, he kisses my cheek.

I look at him with a smile and go upstairs to sleep, alone but happy. Chapter 16 escalation February 4, 2007 My birthday is fast approaching. I will be 19 years old. “Everyone thinks it’s a wonderful age. But I don’t care about the number on my watch.

I’m 19 years old. Two love affairs – one ongoing – a literary baccalaureate in the pocket, a year of college that goes better than I expected and a hidden life as a prostitute. Not bad for only 19 years old. Only 19 years old. And yet, I feel ten years older.

I’m almost 19 years old and still in dire need of money. The balance sheets are not good, not by a long shot. My little cell phone plan has been confiscated by the phone carrier. I have financial priorities, like rent, which I’m already struggling to pay. Most of the time, I cheat on the subway to get to university, unable to afford a luxury transport card.

I try to look on the bright side of things. I am passionate about my studies. I have been a student for four months and I really like it. Even when I’m tired, I go to classes happy, aware of the chance I got to study (almost) for free. My thirst for learning is unquenchable and I am sure that I have found my calling in the study of modern languages. My teachers encourage me, and one of them even told me recently that he sees in me a future agrégée in the field of foreign languages.

In addition, we received the results of the mid-term exams in January. I passed with an average of 15! I couldn’t believe it when I got my transcript in the mail. This proves that there is justice. I didn’t work for nothing.

My tight budget obviously prevents me from buying all the books I need. The library has become one of my favorite places where I like to wander and kill time with my precious books. But it’s not very big and was often looted before I got there, at least as far as the books in the program were concerned. But these repeated minor inconveniences don’t make me lose my natural poise, they just slow my learning. I envy the young students who go straight to the local bookstore to order books in the original language, holding out their credit card with a serene smile.

I’m also dying to have a laptop because it just becomes indispensable. This idea was born for the first time in the telemarketing company . One of the staff told us that there would be a raffle for a laptop. I can only imagine my reaction to this announcement. I’m on the internet all the time, looking at computer sales pages and drooling over the wonders of technology. Theoretically, I chose the one I liked the most, knowing full well that my parents would never be able to buy it for me, not even for my birthday.

I feel helpless in the face of my everyday life. A little over a month ago, I met Joe for the first time. Within a month, I had three important clients in a row, who helped me temporarily get out of the red, bringing me over 600 euros. Thanks to them, I was able to solve my biggest financial problems, the ones that have been brewing for a long time, but I still have to pay rent, bills, etc. I can’t see the end. I can’t see the end. Too many things to think about, to sort out. I feel overwhelmed.

I’m back to my online ads.

First I contacted an amateur photographer. The guy made me wear the most improbable outfits: not even in my wildest dreams could I have imagined such outfits! As the session went on, the guy looked more and more suspicious. He becomes demanding, almost violent in his comments if I don’t do what he wants.

– Come on, Laura, don’t sit like that! Do you think you can make someone want you like that? Don’t be such a whore! Be more sexual, yes, like that, with your mouth open, very good!

I adjourned the meeting. As I cashed in the money, I realized that it wasn’t nearly as much as I could have made by having sex with a stranger. Also, I’m not at all comfortable with this concept: photos leave traces. I am not ready to take such risks. I want to be as discreet as possible. The guy calls me back several times, even suggesting I have a threesome with another girl.

– You’ll see, she’s a student like you, you’ll get along great, I’m sure of that!

The mere thought of another poor girl ending up in the same shit as me makes my blood run cold. He sensed my reluctance and thus increased the prices, which became more and more attractive, reaching incredible amounts for a young woman like me. However, I’m sure if I accept, I’ll fall into this guy’s clutches. He has all the characteristics of the perfect pimp: sweet and protective one moment, violent the next. He seems to be part of a very large network on V. If I let him affect me, I will never get rid of prostitution. I see no future in her, and neither can any prostitute.

Being so close to the maelstrom of these networks makes me shudder: I feel both fragile and helpless in the face of these manipulators, but also strong in being able to keep my head on my shoulders. So far, I have been able to detect the danger in time and not accept anything. I managed to avoid the pimps, but how long will I last? Once you become a prostitute, no matter what happens, you are in an environment where people know and recognize you. I don’t have any money in my account and it seems that the deeper I get into this hidden life, the harder it is for me to manage. Every time I have a financial problem, I am tempted to turn to prostitution. The vicious circle is there, teasing me and pulling me into its vortex: the more money I make, the more I spend and the more I want.

I am aware that I have been “lucky” so far. Nobody forced me, I didn’t fall for some rabid lunatic. Sometimes I shudder when I realize this: maybe I’m waiting for something much more shocking to happen to me before I end this double life. And if that trigger doesn’t happen? What if the limits are pushed back little by little, so gradually that they don’t feel the danger approaching? Will I one day become one of the so-called “professionals”? Will I have the strength to handle it?

I rarely allow myself to think about this. Not in denial: I’m fully aware that I’m playing with fire. I’m just trying to protect myself. At this point I haven’t found any other way to make quick money, so I might as well try not to think too much about what’s happening to me.

All these negative reviews feed my schizophrenia. I feel myself splitting in two as I think. Not all white, not all black, not all white; neither complete hooker nor complete student, my life contradicts itself at every moment. The rest of the time, I strongly believe in the future. I see myself with a small family, in a nice house, with a job I love, away from all this shit. I know I have the resources to get back on track. I’ll get over it, that’s for sure. Later, I will carry with me this secret feeling of success, of victory. Where few girls have succeeded, I will be an example.

Later, I decided, I will be a good person. At this point in my life, I can’t afford that.

I began to think more and more seriously about Joe’s solution. Since our first meeting, he hasn’t left my side. I get emails from him every day, which I automatically delete without even reading them. New to the profession, I can’t get used to the idea of seeing the same clients again. I soon realize that it is precisely these clients that we must rely on, because they are our lifeline in the most precarious moments of our lives as prostitutes.

I guess I’m just stupidly hoping for a Pretty scenario Woman , with a Richard Gere impersonator to get me out of all this hell. I keep telling myself that it won’t happen if I keep meeting the same clients over and over again. So I look elsewhere for a rare gem, avoiding Joe like the plague. It makes me smile that even for one client, I dream of some kind of Pretty Girl.

But Richard Gere is late, and when I get another letter from my landlady asking for my rent within a week, I tell myself that I can find clients anywhere without a problem. It’s less obvious with clients I know to be trustworthy. Often the ads exude a perversity that knows no bounds and prevents me from contacting them. Joe is different. The last impression I have of him is that I took him by the foot. He cheerfully paid me for practically nothing: he just rubbed his hands on my body. His fantasies now seem quite manageable. I forget all the odious sensations that accompanied this meeting, all the embarrassment and disgust I felt. I still can’t see it, but that’s exactly where the danger lies: remembering only the envelope full of money.

The letter from my landlady was followed the next day by the salary slip. I grimaced when I saw the total amount of my salary: radishes, that’s what I get for this teleoperator job.

I contacted Joe that same evening from an internet cafe , initially just asking him for updates. This guy must be living in front of his PC because he answers me in a second.

In the second email I told him that I would be happy to see him soon and that the sooner the better as I needed the money very quickly. Clearly, he hastened to accept, pressed by his desire. But, out of politeness and courtesy, he still asked about me. In my reply, I told him that my birthday was coming up and maybe we could meet that day. Without hesitation, I have included as an attachment the web page of my dream computer.

I realize this may come as a shock to many people. I tell myself that since these perverts want my ass, they will pay dearly for it. But I cannot resign myself to the status of a “prostitute”: for me, I am better than that. And money is the only way I can prove it to myself. I will soon be 19, and this year more than any other, I need support and comfort. I stupidly think I can find it in a computer provided by a customer. How stupid can I be!

The email he sends me afterwards is not as fast. I am aware that I discouraged him somewhat. But how can he think for one second that I’m contacting him again because I like him? I’m only interested in his money. He answers me anyway, asking me why I need a computer. I explain to him that a computer would greatly simplify my daily life as a student. I say a lot more than that, melodically, because I know I’m dealing with a protective father and he can be easily pitied. I received his reply a few minutes later:

Laura, Sounds like times are tough for you right now. I completely understand why you need a computer. Which model are you interested in? Do you have a particular preference?

I know now that the deal is in the bag. I’m not even ashamed. I think at that moment I am ready to accept anything from him, convinced that our next meeting will be my last experience as a prostitute. He goes ahead and arranges a meeting within three days. On my birthday. Chapter 17

Fall February 7, 2007

At 13:00 I wait for him in front of the same hotel as the first time. We will spend a few hours together, because after that I have to go to work. Pierre’s episode still haunts me very much, and my eyes dart frantically in all directions. I try to watch everyone pass by without being detected, hoping that Joe will arrive soon. Ironically, I only feel comfortable when I’m alone with him in the room. I know that no passerby is fooled into seeing us together on the street.

I remember that one day I talked to a prostitute, without telling her about my “shadow profession”. She told me that on the street she keeps in touch with her “colleagues” by phone every half hour. As soon as one of them gets into a car, she warns her colleagues to intervene if they don’t see her coming back. Students, most of whom operate via the Internet, are ultimately far more at risk alone in a bedroom than on the sidewalk.

I see him from a distance, still armed with his magician’s kit. We kiss and he tells me: – Go up to the room in front of me. – Why should I do this?

– Since the last time I was with the cops, I’d rather we try to be more discreet. You never know. Ask at reception for keys. I didn’t know your last name, so I gave you mine. Of course he doesn’t know my name! And he has no way of ever knowing it.

– Then go upstairs and settle in, we’ll meet you there right away. By settling in, she means putting on the sexy clothes she asked me to bring with me. I nod and head to the reception. There is a young woman. He looked at me with a professional smile on his face.

When I reach the front of the hall, I put my ear to the ground to see if I hear anything inside. I’m sure I hear moaning, but now I’m getting suspicious. Maybe someone is waiting for me and wants to hurt me. I literally press my ear against the white wood of the door. Nothing, I quickly conclude that my limitless imagination is playing tricks on me and I need to stop being paranoid. I turn the key in the lock.

When I open the door, the green curtains are the first to greet me. Just like the first time, I found them ugly. The room may be smaller, but the setting is the same, so my benchmarks remain more or less the same. For now, things haven’t really changed. Oddly enough, this calms me down.

I discover a laptop sitting on a small table in front of the bed. A pornographic film is on full screen: I’m relieved to know I wasn’t dreaming: the moans are coming from there. There is a note on the bed. Again, Joe hasn’t changed. Leaving letters for his expensive mistresses is undoubtedly one of his fantasies.

Laura, I am very happy to see you again today. I want you to take a shower first. Then I’m going to knock on the door three times. I want you to say, “Come in, master.”

Then I want you to lie down on the bed. I want you to say to me, “Good morning, master, everything you see is yours. How ridiculous! He regains his dominance fantasies. I’m starting to get scared, the tone of the meeting is moving away from last time, when Joe had been very attentive.

At no point in the letter does he mention the computer. “Only this time, Laura, it will be the last,” I tell myself.

I slowly approach the car to observe it. I’m starting to wonder if it’s for me or if Joe is just teasing me. I feel he is capable of anything. I stroke the keys slowly, full of envy, but still wondering if I’m really ready to accept anything to possess him. What if this computer isn’t for me? What if he ultimately decides not to give it to me? My mind is now focused only on this possession, my desire turned into an immeasurable need. I want that computer at any cost.

I decide to take a shower to clear my mind. A pleasant surprise awaits me in the bathroom: there is no mirror. I don’t think I would have been able to face my image today, on my 19th birthday, when I’m about to sell my body to buy a computer. I take a quick shower. I’m still drying off when I hear Joe knock on the door. I stand in the middle of the room, naked, and I say to him:

– Come in, master. I couldn’t help but laugh when I heard myself say that. I imagine him smiling with pleasure behind the door. Instead, he came in, looked at me for a few seconds and said dryly: – We’re not kidding.

I’m sure he feels that given his expensive gift, he can afford to be more demanding of me. “Okay honey, don’t play smart today… Play your game, there’s a computer in the game…”, I say to myself. I am truly obsessed with this device. Joe interrupts my reverie:

– Lie on your stomach on the bed.

Now I do it without flinching, without even daring to open my mouth to speak. In this position, Joe can see my body perfectly, especially my ass, which I hate. It’s mid-afternoon and the light shines through the green curtains, which in itself isn’t particularly surprising given their quality. I really don’t feel comfortable.

My body is larger than the width of the bed, so my head and legs stick out at the ends. Joe notices this and tells me: – Put your head down and put your hands under the bed.

I do this without really understanding where he’s going, just hoping he won’t ask me to put my left leg over my head and do a handstand. I feel a piece of cold cardboard under the bed. I pull the box towards me to get it out of hiding so I can look at it.

A laptop. My laptop. I can’t help but smile at the sight of him. Suddenly, I become demonic in my head: now that I’ve got my gift, why should I sleep with him? But how could I imagine for a second that Joe would let me go like that?

Joe is not that stupid. He must have seen the spark of malice in my eyes, because he tells me suddenly – Of course, you can open it later.

So I’ll go all the way, I can’t get rid of her. I just realized he’s going to pay me for today too. I smile at my future wealth. I’m also really excited: this computer is the most expensive gift I’ve ever received. I haven’t received much in life without expecting something in return. Joe is obviously giving to me financially, but today he gave me a glimpse into another aspect of his personality that was previously unknown to me: his humane, generous side. At least that’s what I tell myself.

The vicious circle is established: I am being manipulated, but I do not realize it. Joe knows what he’s doing. He wants me and he knows he has to bait me with money. The boundaries between us were once again forced. Joe pulls the reins back.

He asks me to sit on the bed next to him. Turn up the sound of the movie you just paused on your computer. It’s an amateur sadomasochistic film showing a naked woman in her forties, rather plump, burning her body with a candle. She is tied to the chair she is sitting on, wax dripping down her breasts, and she screams to death. The more she screams, the more the horrible man responsible for her pain enjoys. In the end, she seems to enjoy it too. The images pass before my eyes without registering on the retina, and I actually find it very difficult to watch these scenes.

I regularly watch pornographic films. Out of curiosity, to increase the excitement, I sometimes watch them with friends or my boyfriend, like everyone else. Sadomasochism is completely different. I don’t think I’ll ever understand the appeal of films in this category. After two minutes, the scene already seems unbearable and I have to look away. I turned into an ice cube watching these images. Joe, on the other hand, is having a blast.

– Honestly, Joe, I can’t look, he’s not my type at all. – The problem is, it’s mine, so I’m not asking you to look.

His tone is radically different from last time. She absolutely despises me: I’ve been reduced to the level of a cheap whore who is only there to offer her ass and keep her mouth shut. – I suggest you tie your hands to the bed.

I immediately linked to the video. Does he want to burn me too? And I who thought I’d be safer with him in the hotel room!… Joe softens a little. – Don’t worry, Laura.

Gently, he approached me. He slowly tilts my body into a lying position and then pulls me to my side. Then he gathers my wrists behind my back and ties them to my sweater, which is lying on the bed. The knot is not very tight, which makes me feel a little better, I can break free if I want to.

Joe doesn’t seem ready to let me do that. He grabs a string out of nowhere and ties my ankles, also behind. Then, to be more secure, he ties my feet and wrists together. I think I’m like a piece of cold meat at the butcher shop. Why am I letting this happen to me?

Then he pulls a vibrator out of the briefcase. It’s not the first time I’ve seen one in real life, but this one looks bigger. At the sight of him, I shudder and let out a moan of fear. Joe doesn’t react. She couldn’t care less now that I’m tied up.

Captive. I’m at his damn mercy now, he walks over and stuffs a tissue into my mouth, which he completes with a blindfold around my head. In two minutes he made me immobile and speechless without me being able to react. I feel helpless and I repeat with anguish: “Even if it hurts, I won’t be able to scream.”

With the help of lube and his supernatural object, Joe manages to turn me on physically. Then comes the horror and pain. The first blow is unspeakably painful.

I let out a scream that was muffled in the fabric. It doesn’t stop, on the contrary. I screamed inaudibly “Stop!”, tears streaming down my face from the unbearable pain. As much as possible, I bring my thighs together to make him understand that he needs to stop. I squirm so much it’s impossible for him to hold me or insert anything into me. Besides, my moaning must begin to be heard from outside. Panicked in the face of this trance, he finally undoes the blindfold and bonds, giving me new freedom. As soon as the last knot is untied, I jump to my feet. I slowly turn around, my hair completely disheveled, my breathing still ragged. I must look like a fury. Now I’m looking directly at him. I feel like a crime.

He just looks at me sheepishly, fully aware of my psychological state. But once again, he’s enjoying the situation. At the sight of my reddened and bloodshot eyes, make the innocent: – Well then? I thought you liked submission…

Even he doesn’t believe that anymore. I don’t answer him, instead I throw my clothes on and start dressing with dizzying speed. Who knows what else he’s capable of!… I’ve seen enough for today. Forever, actually. – You left? We agreed on two hours. You have one more hour to spend with me.

Afraid he might turn violent, I decide to make up an excuse. They probably won’t believe me, but it doesn’t matter, I have to go. With trembling hands, I find the strength to babble at dizzying speed:

– Today is my birthday, so I’m not going to work. My friends are waiting for me in a cafe to celebrate with a drink. Besides, I’m in the middle of an exam, so I won’t be able to hang out with them for long, because I have to go home afterwards to review.

I make up as many excuses as I can, telling myself that of all the lies I’ve told, there has to be one that sticks. My body and head are on the verge of an anxiety attack, I need to get out of here fast before I go crazy in this miserable hotel room. Money or no money, I’m out of here.

Joe then uses the last arguments likely to convince me to stay a little longer. Play the excuse card. – You don’t have to take it like that, Laura, it was just a little fantasy. – A little fantasy? Well, it’s not mine at all…

I stopped there, seeing no point in talking to her anymore. I was dressed and putting on my coat when Joe said: – Don’t you want to take a shower? I reply dryly: – No, I’m leaving.

I broke several orders at once, and he doesn’t know how to react. I don’t want to give him time to think about it, I already have my hand on the door handle. I retrace my steps for a second, aware that I forgot something. Without looking at him, I grab my laptop, tuck it under my arm, and head out the door as fast as I can.

Joe catches up to me in the corridor. – Welcome, Laura, you forgot that too.

He hands me an envelope. Same as last time. I open it… and find 400 euros inside. He puts his hand on my head as I raise my face to him. My features are tighter than ever. He strokes my hair and says: – It was good, I liked it.

She says it in a “good girl” tone, which makes me nauseous again. I basically ripped the envelope out of his hand and ran without looking back.

I left the hotel out of breath. Tears roll down my cheeks, but they almost turn to ice in the winter cold. I can’t be alone again. I head straight for my favorite bar, the one that welcomed me when, after the first time, I didn’t feel like going back home anymore.

Paul is there behind the counter, wiping down his hundredth drink of the day. He sees me rush in, my cheeks red from the cold and my eyes bright. I have no intention of confessing my misfortunes to you; no one ever has to know. I don’t look normal, and he wouldn’t believe me if I told him everything was fine. My face shows extreme panic: the only way out is to pretend this disorder is pleasant.

– Laura, is everything okay? Is everything okay?” he asks me as I sit down on a high stool at the bar. – Yes, everything is fine. Something crazy just happened to me! I can’t fool him this time. “Quick, invent something. – I just won this laptop at work! Isn’t that great?

Ah, that’s a great excuse! I’m doing great. I show him my hard-earned prize. To myself, I am giving the flag for the best liar of the year. Paul congratulates me, obviously delighted for me. I order him a coffee and, without having to ask, he tells me the latest neighborhood gossip. Perfect, to speak or think would have been a terrible effort for me at this moment.

After a few minutes, I interrupt him: – Paul, tell me, do you mind if I take a shower? – No, not at all, make yourself comfortable.

I couldn’t stand another minute of Joe’s scent on my skin, and since I was given the chance to wash off, I jumped at it. I head through the back room to the upstairs bathroom, computer still under my arm. Dirt and shame are embedded in my body and it will take a lot of rubbing to remove them all.

I let the water run down my body for a long time and used half of the shower gel. When I came out I still felt as dirty as ever. Suddenly, everything changes. I see the computer in the corner of the room and something crazy happens that I couldn’t have imagined a second before: I smile. I’m just happy to know it’s mine now. Joy takes hold of me and any fears I may have had upon leaving the hotel melt away easily. I feel light and ready to face life again. Besides, it’s my birthday and I don’t want to ruin my day with dark thoughts – I have plenty of time to grieve later. I didn’t think I would smile this afternoon.

I pack my things, say goodbye to Paul for the last time, and leave the bar, my mind seemingly at ease. I’m heading to work. I don’t even think I’m scornful for enjoying this item. Happy birthday, Laura. Chapter 18 Love March 2007

Although nothing materialized between us, Olivier and I continued to see each other in parallel with my forbidden extracurricular activities. Our relationship is platonic. In any case, it is not an official relationship. I try to convince myself, to calm my impatience, that I prefer this situation. We both fear what might happen if we try to kiss. A few times a week we meet after work and very often in Paul’s bar where we met.

I don’t know how he makes a living as he seems to always be available for dates and regularly proposes them on his own. I think he needs to get unemployment benefits. A comparison with my former partner Manu is inevitable. I’ve gone from a housekeeper to someone who certainly doesn’t have a lot of money, but takes me out to dinner whenever he can. Without even taking the “kiss” step, I know how important it is in my life.

We never talk about my underground life as a problem to be solved. Olivier seems to have bought into the idea that he’s interested in a girl who sells her body to pay for her education. I confess that I have long since lost the thread of clear and precise thinking about this part of my life. Olivier doesn’t ask me anything either. He probably has other demons to fight before he faces mine.

We spend whole days together, walking around V., or long evenings talking at my house until dawn. We get along easily, sometimes we disagree, but our relationship is incredibly human: one always tries to understand the other’s thoughts before criticizing them. We also have a lot of fun together. His laughter is a delight to my ears and eyes. A second before it explodes into the air, I guess it’s ready to jump up to his lips, which pull back into an impromptu grimace before finally relaxing completely. I look at him then and forget to laugh too, captivated by this surprising image. This guy is not handsome, but in my eyes he is magnificent. Far from perfect, and that’s what makes it so noble. He stops joking to admire me in turn, and the silence is natural and beautiful.

I still can’t believe how quickly we became so close. I’m not looking for a long explanation, her life and dating doesn’t always have one. Many times I functioned this way, letting myself be carried away by events, accepting them as they came and trying, as much as possible, not to complain.

One evening, he called me to invite me to dinner at his house. I gladly accepted, his presence becoming more and more essential to me; I literally missed it as soon as I put it down.

The evening passed without surprises, in joy and good mood. We were glad to see each other again, even if we saw each other the day before. The discussion follows its usual course: a din of nonsense, a flurry of jokes mixed with more serious topics. Then, at the end of the meal, Olivier takes his glass of red wine in hand and slams his knife against the edge of his plate with a hushing noise. His face is quite serious, and as it’s a look I don’t know, I stiffen a little in my seat.

– Laura… He’s still searching for his words, is that a good sign? I don’t answer, I don’t care. – I do not care.

Then he slowly stood up and kissed me. It is the most beautiful declaration of love I have ever received. I’ve heard my name called so often these past months, distorted by the angry wishes of strangers. I really wished I’d never heard it again, so much was it pushing my schizophrenia to the limit, forcing me to juggle my new imaginary friend, my brain’s new roommate: Laura the hooker.

But this is where it finds its place and reason for being my entire identity. I’m not a prostitute in her eyes, I’m Laura. This kiss clarifies what we’ve been afraid to admit all these weeks: we’re passionately in love. After Manu, I didn’t think I would fall in love again so quickly, given my hidden life. I obviously don’t have any feelings with my clients and as a result I felt like I had become numb to all emotion. Tonight, Olivier proves me wrong. With this kiss, which is insignificant to many people, I feel alive again, I accept myself as a loving being and I am no longer just an object in the service of strangers.

The weeks that followed were the most intense of my short life. Olivier and I were never separated from each other and we went through life together without asking ourselves questions about the future. I continued to see clients simply because I still needed the money. I’ve become more and more picky about my lifestyle and I can afford to buy things that I couldn’t have imagined six months ago.

The first time we make love, something very revealing happens. In the middle of our lovemaking, Olivier stops to look deep into my green eyes. Suddenly he breaks the silence to say: – Laura… He swallowed, as if trying to work up the courage to speak. – Laura, what are you doing here?

– I’m here with you. Make love, – No, Laura. Now you let me pull it for you, it’s not the same. I backed off. – Laura, I’m not giving it to you. I make love to you I stop completely to think for a few moments about…

To what Olivier just told me. After so many months of only having sex with my clients, I didn’t realize that I had developed certain reflexes to protect myself. To wait, not to move, to close my eyes: all these are obviously not compatible with a lover.

Olivier gives me a long hug and I fall into a deep, peaceful and serene sleep. The next day, we make love with wonderful gentleness.

Olivier does not turn a blind eye to my forbidden life, on the contrary, on the contrary. Over time, it became my diary: I always tell him the time and place of my meetings, in case something happens to me. I don’t get how weird this relationship is. He literally allows me to cheat on him and what’s worse, he helps me with my organization. We don’t talk about it afterwards because he doesn’t need to hear what happened. I don’t see him as a masochist and I don’t see myself as a sadistic girl either. We just want to share everything, and if to do that he needs to know the names of my clients and the times I have appointments, I’m ready to tell them.

One day, I agree to meet a new stranger near the train station. I have to meet him at the end of the afternoon and before I leave, Olivier and I go for a coffee in Paul’s bar. As I swallow the first hot sip of my coffee, my cell phone starts ringing. It’s the man on the other end of the line.

– Is it about Laura? Yes, I would prefer to meet in the parking lot in front of the station around 9pm, is that ok? I know it’s later than planned, but I have something to do until then. – In front of the station? I’m not sure… This guy is getting suspicious.

– I’m not sure I want to meet there at this time of night. Olivier lifted his head and was now listening to the conversation. – But no, don’t worry, Laura, I’ll be in the car, I’ll pick you up and we’ll leave quickly. We can’t spend the whole evening there!

This conversation must stop immediately and this meeting must be canceled. I’m not going to meet a stranger in his car near the train station at this time of night. – I’ll have to cancel, I’m not available at this time.

I hung up without waiting for a response from him. Olivier didn’t take his eyes off me, but I avoided his gaze. He realizes something is wrong. – Is everything okay?”, he finally asks me. – Yes, everything is fine. I am canceling this customer.

He hadn’t even had time to smile when my cell phone started ringing again. I should have expected, this weird guy isn’t going to quit anytime soon. We stare at the shrill sound of the phone. We realize who’s calling, and for the first time in our relationship, I feel my forbidden games come between us.

Answer. Yet again he. – Laura, why did you hang up? I’m sure we can meet later, or another day. I mean, we can come to an agreement, right?

I stutter that I’m not free and hang up again abruptly. Olivier’s eyes light up with anger, he’s about to explode. I take both of his hands and cover them with kisses. We both feel the pressure of the situation, waiting for the phone to ring again.

Our silence is effectively broken a few minutes later. In a gesture of extreme violence, Olivier grabs the phone and picks it up, shouting a “hello!” furious.

I have no idea what the customer said. I guess he was startled by a hateful male voice. All I see is Olivier yelling at the guy to never call me again, that he’ll find him personally if he tries to contact me again.

I realize I’ve gone too far. Yelling, losing his temper and not knowing what to say, Olivier let out the anger he had been building up, unconsciously or not, for the past few weeks.

After a few seconds of insults, he puts the phone back on the wooden table, in a violent gesture. He looks at me for just a second, then looks away to focus on his coffee. We never bring it up again, and I keep my prostitution a secret. No diaries, no plans together, they become his girlfriend again, and he decides to turn a blind eye to what he should never have known.

Our passionate relationship was quickly ruined by this episode. Olivier can no longer pretend. As for me, I can’t stop: I always want more money. At this point in my life, losing Olivier is the thing I fear the most in the world, but I continue to see clients. Prostitution was also part of my daily life and I convinced myself that I couldn’t do without it financially.

One morning when I woke up in his apartment, I found the bed empty. The place was still warm and it wasn’t very early. Olivier was in the kitchen, looking out the window, thinking. He was sipping his coffee slowly, his eyes lifeless.

I tiptoed over to him and ran my hand lovingly up and down his back. He doesn’t react. Then comes what I’ve been dreading for days. – Laura?

The same “Laura” he used to declare his love for me, to help me rediscover my identity. But this time it sounds terribly different. That “Laura” is a semicolon, that “Laura” ends our story in that dark kitchen at dawn.

That’s all that can be said. I left the same day, packing my things that had been scattered in the mess of her apartment. It wasn’t until I got outside that I let the tears roll down my cheeks. For the first time, I don’t delete them; they deserve to run down my face.

Chapter 19 Panic March 25, 2007 Supported by Paul’s bar, I have a nice, shallow chat. I haven’t been back here since I broke up with Olivier a week ago. In fact, he carefully avoids this place.

For the first time in my life, I feel alone in the world. I made the choice a few months ago to confess my dark secret, and now I feel like I can no longer bury it as deeply as I used to. It presses too hard on me.

Paul is considerate enough not to mention Olivier: perhaps out of respect for our silent suffering. Or maybe he just doesn’t care. So a light and uninteresting conversation naturally becomes our main exchange of lines.

This afternoon I decided to get out of the house, after a week spent ruminating on my pain in the solitude of my apartment, immersed in work. I know I have to forget and move on, but it’s a lot harder than I imagined. I need to get back to a “normal” life, although I can’t bring myself to call it that anymore.

The door suddenly opened. The bar is not very big, and the customers who come in are inevitably chosen by the customers’ eyes.

I recognized him immediately. My blood runs cold, I’m petrified. He’s with his girlfriend, who may even be his wife, and to make matters worse, there’s also his child. A smiling blond boy with big blue eyes and beautiful curls. I just glance quickly at his wife. I can’t help it, I have to detail it. She is brunette and quite tall, a little chubby, but very elegant. He holds the little one’s hand and smiles at him. She must be a good mother.

I quickly turn to the bar, my back to the door. I don’t know what else to do. – Hi Paul, says the guy. – Hello, Mathias! What have you been doing? Long time no see! Ah, you brought the whole family today!

Hell, they know each other! It’s hell! A month before, this guy contacted me for a “massage” in a hotel for two bucks. Now I find him in this bar, my bar. I don’t dare get up from my chair, not to make eye contact with him, of course, but also not to realize what’s going on.

Meanwhile, Mathias hasn’t even noticed I’m here yet and is talking to Paul, while behind me I hear Goldilocks chirping in the distance to her mother. Mathias has only seen me once, so maybe it’s understandable that he doesn’t recognize the back of my neck. After all, they are just a pleasant mistake that he quickly forgot . I recognize them all, I know their faces by heart, because I watched them a lot. I recognize their voices and regularly walk back down the street thinking I heard one of them.

Now he’s literally leaning against the bar and touching me on the shoulder. I have to get out of here, I have to get out of this bar as fast as possible. I get off the chair with my head down and trip over my bag a bit as I put my feet on the floor, which makes him turn around.

Our eyes meet. His mouth hangs open. He knows he’s seen me somewhere before, and searching his mind for a second, he found out where. I can see the horror and panic in his eyes when he sees me here. We’re only stuck for a second, but it feels like an eternity.

As I grab my bag and prepare to leave, Paul asks me: – Are you leaving already, Laura? You haven’t even finished your coffee! – I just remembered that I have something to do, I have to go, I stammered, getting tangled in the bag strap.

Wait a minute, come here and meet Mathias, one of my best friends!

“No, I already know your colleague, and quite well indeed. Paul can’t understand the panic I’m feeling right now. If he touched my sweaty hands, he’d know something was wrong. Mathias, for his part he frantically looks at his girlfriend crouched behind him, who is thankfully too busy playing with her offspring.

– Hello, nice to meet you, Laura, I say, reaching out to shake her hand. – Mathias, nice to meet you too. You can be sure! Our fingers, stiff as stakes, they come together for a quick, vague handshake. Our restless gazes seek a diversion. Paul notices our awkwardness.

– Are you feeling well, Laura? Don’t you want to stay a little longer? – No, I have to go, I’m sorry. Oh yes, I’m sorry. Without asking anything else, I head for the exit, muttering an inaudible “goodbye”. I see Paul’s look, he doesn’t understand, he just shrugs and starts wiping his glasses.

I run for a minute or two without stopping to get the bar and the moment out of my mind. My run ends at the corner of a street and I take a big breath of fresh air. I suddenly feel like screaming and crying at the same time. It’s all too much: my two lives have merged, my two personalities have merged. So far I’ve managed to work things out, but you can’t ask too much. I had to face Mathias’s family: everything I refuse to imagine when I’m with a client materialized without me knowing today.

It is no longer possible. I must leave this town at all costs. Chapter 20 Expropriation March 30, 2007

I promised myself I’d never see Joe again, but he got under my skin. I informed him of my imminent departure to Paris. I stupidly thought he would leave me alone. Was I clear in my mind? “For your departure to Paris, you need money, you can’t leave without anything in your pockets. Come on, just one last time, it’s not much and it suits us both.”

I recently got his mobile number and he got mine. I gave it to him under pressure, and now I realize what a mistake I made. To say that he calls me regularly would be a lie: he literally harasses me! He really likes me and I fit his fantasy of a sexy and naughty college girl. And now they offer me something crazy.

Nothing less than 1,000 euros for five hours. It’s very tempting, indeed. But five hours is a long time. What is he going to do? I immediately think of the amount of money at stake. I have never had such fares before, and the money would enable me to get to Paris with more peace of mind. I could take my time and find a respectable job that suits me, not a quick job in a dime bar. In my mind, there’s no way I’ll end up in a mess like V again. It’s clear that I’m running from this town, I don’t want to have to hide and calculate and lie anymore. In Paris, I will behave properly.

We arranged to meet at the same hotel as usual. This place calms me down, after all. In spite of everything that happens, a trust, I stupidly admit, binds me to Joe. He may have made me scream in pain and humiliation the last time we met, but at least I know him and I don’t think I’m risking my life when I go see him. I know that despite all the things he might do to me that will make me cry when I think about them in bed at night, he won’t strangle me or stab me. In short, I am already under his influence. He pays well.

At first, we kept in touch by email. He became more and more insistent about setting up another date and I could feel his furious desire in the few lines he wrote to me. He kept suggesting times for us to meet, and I told him that they didn’t suit me. To pretend I was trying, I would also suggest hours, but at times when I knew he wouldn’t be able to come. I’ve asked myself many times why I play this game, why I didn’t delete it from my inbox. I can’t help it, I see him as a spare wheel, someone who can help me financially if I run out of money.

And now I need money because I want to go into exile, run away, feeling that my life is leaning dangerously towards something I will soon be unable to control. The main problem is obviously money. I have no money, not even to pay for my train ticket.

But I have everything organized: a friend of my mother’s will host me when I get there, until I find a job and an apartment. I managed to obtain a fake medical certificate authorizing me to miss university classes. A friend from the university will teach all my classes and I will come to take the exams at the end of May. As for my job, too bad. Anyway, I wasn’t going to make a living in a telemarketing company . Those around me were warned of my imminent departure. My father sighed, preferring to ignore me rather than yell at me. He feels like he’s reliving my last year and dropping out of school. But there is no question of giving up my studies, I continue remotely, the university is my only way out. I am so attached to this idea that I am more motivated than ever to succeed.

In short, this exile is my last chance to free myself from the prostitution in which I am losing myself. As soon as I have the money for this damn plane ticket, I’m leaving.

But I have no money. Ironically, I need to see Joe again to get out of my life as a prostitute. So I gave in to his suggestions and in an email asked for his phone number. After a few days of thinking, I called him. – Joe, I’m Laura.

– Hi Laura, how are you? I don’t want to make a big deal out of it. So I cut the conversation short and went straight to why I called. – Five hours, Joe, not a minute more. Five hours for 1,000 euros.

I think he was surprised that I got straight to the point, but he responded quickly. – Well, that’s perfect, Laura. Five hours is perfect, and 1,000 euros is good for me. Shall we meet as usual in front of the hotel? Let’s say Wednesday at 1pm?

– Yes, Wednesday is good. I will be there. – Don’t forget to bring some sexy clothes. I hung up right after that. Every time he

Once he asked me to bring sexy clothes that didn’t cover too much of my body, because my jeans and t-shirts didn’t turn him on too much, not enough. What he wants is a student who plays grown-up in women’s clothes. He likes that.

On Wednesday we met in front of the hotel. He asked me to go in first. I sensed he had a plan in mind and assumed there was a letter waiting for me on the bed as usual. Bingo, there really is a note on the bed: Hello, Laura.

I am very glad that you agreed to come and I am sure that the meeting will be perfect. As usual, I want you to take a shower first. Then you walk out of the bedroom and knock on the door. When I answer, you enter.

These are the usual requests: the shower, the door, nothing really new. In a way, that calms me down. I put the letter down and headed for the bathroom.

I took a shower and let the hot water run slowly over my body. I feel sluggish and lack energy. I don’t feel strong enough to fight back today.

After a thorough wash, I return to the bedroom. He is there, lying on the bed. Without a word, I continue to follow his instructions and leave the room. I knock on the door and, without giving him time to answer, panicked at the thought that I might run into someone in the corridor, I enter.

He doesn’t move or speak, a sign that I should pick up my reading where I left off. Today we’ll stay in the room for about half an hour and talk, then we’ll go to a place I want to show you, just outside the hotel.

A place? What place? Even though this hotel reminds me of disgusting times, I know it. The places Joe can go outside of this room are unknown to me and therefore dangerous. Besides, I have no desire to be outdoors with him. I don’t want to expose myself. My head is like a scale, with reason calling me to leave and the 1,000 euros shining in the background. None of this bodes well.

It is a sex shop that I know well, where we will both have fun and feel good. I look at him with questioning and somewhat scared eyes. – Come and sit with me on the couch,” he says.

So this is what he calls “discussion”. He’s going to use all his rhetoric to convince me to come with him to this creepy place, and I can see the picture.

– Listen, it’s a great place and I’m really excited about it. It’s a stone’s throw from the hotel, there’s no danger of being seen on the road, it’s very close.

– Joe, I don’t feel well at all, there will be people there and I don’t want to be seen. I am not calm. No, seriously, I don’t like it at all, I’d rather stay here.

– But no, Laura, don’t worry. It’s fine there, there won’t be any problem, I assure you. No one will see you. It’s a room in the back of the store where only regular customers go. It’s a very dark place, no one will see us there, you can trust me. There are videos that we can watch together, it’s very interesting. I have been there regularly with women and it has always gone well.

He knows that you have to be very careful with me, that I will refuse. Obviously I am not familiar with such places and the only image I have of them is gloomy. I can’t imagine what awaits me and that’s the problem. After a few minutes, he finally tells me:

– Look, let’s go and then we’ll see. If you really don’t feel comfortable, we go back to the hotel. You know, I understand you perfectly, I am also a very shy and modest person.

I sobbed, but a voice whispered to me: “1,000 euros, Laura, and then you’re out of here. Leave all this shit behind you. Without this money, you’ll never leave again.” – Well, that’s okay. But as soon as I want, we’re going home,” I finally say.

So we head to the sex shop. It’s right next to the hotel, on the corner of the street.

As we enter, the doorbell rings. I turn to face the store cashier. He is between 25 and 30 years old and so handsome that I look at him for a moment. What guy! On the street, under different circumstances, I might have gone over and asked for his phone number. But here, in this place, accompanied by Joe, who could have been my father, I’m blushing.

He noticed me too. I saw in his eyes, for a second, that he liked me, but that look suddenly turned to disgust. He was judging me, probably thinking I was just a whore who comes to sex shops to get fucked. He certainly blames himself for liking me for a moment. I have a strong character and I never give up, but I have to admit that I feel lower than the earth. This guy reflects back to me everything I refuse to see: the image of Laura in her second life, the image of Laura the prostitute who is maintained by old men. Yes, in his eyes, I’m just a whore. But he is the cashier of a sex shop!

Joe pays the entrance fee, a ridiculous amount of a few euros. He quickly moves to the back room, hidden by large black curtains. More curtains. I am there every time I meet with a client. They confirm that what they are doing is wrong, it is dirty. I sneak inside the room, avoiding the saleswoman’s gaze, who is no longer looking at me anyway.

The place is very dark and it takes me a few seconds to get used to it. At first all I smell is a wild smell, a smell of human flesh. A shiver runs through my whole body. When I finally manage to make out my surroundings, I see in front of me a large overhead projector showing a porn movie with a vulgar blonde screaming in pleasure. About twenty chairs are placed in rows in front of the screen. At first glance, there are just over ten people in the room, all men, either slumped in chairs or standing and masturbating. I stop myself from groaning in disgust. The room is quite large, as far as I can see, all decorated in black. Everything looks a bit like a night club: you can see that the place has been designed to give the impression of a trendy place. The result is not good: you know very well when you enter this place that something fishy is going on.

– Come on, take a chair, says Joe, we’ll watch the movie together.

I don’t know what to do anymore, I don’t know what to do. Being around these guys gives them an opportunity to see who I am. What if I know one of them? I can think of no acceptable justification. Being in a sex shop and choosing a movie is fine, you earn a reputation as a bit of a naughty girl. But being in this room leaves me with no alibi.

Like a 6-year-old girl, I timidly obey the orders of my paternalistic representative. I sit in row two, having studied the available seats, which don’t put me too close to the other men. Joe, on the other hand, sits back and observes. He looks at the customers of the sex shop as he glances at the film. I feel his eyes on me. I’m the only woman in that place. Customers should think how lucky they are today: they could fulfill their fantasies with a real woman.

I try to watch the movie without thinking about anything, but it’s just impossible. The screams of a blonde on the screen, the moans of pleasure from the boys, I can’t ignore all these noises. I don’t want to close my eyes. As much as possible in such a situation, I want to remain in control of myself.

Joe comes up to me and says, pointing to a man in his fifties: – You can let him approach you. I told him everything about you, he won’t hurt you, I know him. And that’s okay.

This time he’s talking about another guy of the same age in the front row. He points the finger at them without getting upset, they’re way too busy with their video anyway. So he knows everyone, and what’s worse, he tells them about me! I feel a horrible trap closing in on me. I relied on Joe to protect me, but he’s the one responsible for me being here. I mutter a small “OK” as I continue to look around me as if to spot where the danger will come from first.

– Enough, I’ve looked at enough pictures for today.

Joe said that as if he was taking me out of an activity I enjoyed. In absolute terms, and given the situation, I would undoubtedly have preferred to stay for five hours watching that erotic video. I know that when I stand up and follow him, the serious stuff will begin. I’m shaking with anticipation.

– Did you bring your things? – Yes, I say, pointing to a plastic bag that I got rid of as soon as I arrived, putting it on the wall. – Well, go and change now, you can use one of the cubicles over there.

He points to a compartment I didn’t notice behind me. There are three identical ones, lined up against the wall, opposite the mini-cinema.

I take my clothes and enter the cabin. There is only room for one person and the only thing there is a simple chair. The white light blinds me a little when I walk in, after the near darkness of the room. I pull out a low-cut black nightgown from my bag. I quickly change, fearing that someone will enter the cabin and try to touch me. When I look up, I see that the speaker is dotted with holes at various heights, but I don’t immediately understand their purpose.

When I walk out, arms crossed over my cleavage to try and hide some of my skin, Joe is waiting for me outside. He’s a bit impressed with my outfit, I usually don’t make much of an effort to bring sexy clothes.

– Very good, very nice nightgown! Now listen to me carefully, you will go back to the cabin and wait a little while. When they come, you will do what you want.

What do you mean by “they”? I don’t understand what he’s saying. I don’t have time to figure it out. Joe gently pushes me into the cabin and closes the door behind me. I sit in the chair, unsure. The next thing I know, a tool is sticking through a hole. So that’s what I’m for… They’ll all come, waiting for me to touch them even more. But where did I fall? I feel naive that I thought everything would pass quickly.

I hear moans of pleasure outside. I step back and immediately turn the cabin latch to lock myself inside. Throwing myself back, I feel something on my shoulder. Another sex game. Then a third, then more. Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t touch them all, there are so many.

Suddenly, I feel nauseous in front of this absurd picture. I hold my head in my hands and crouch so I can’t see or smell them. I am nothing, nothing more than an object, a mere masturbation machine. It’s a nightmare, it can’t really happen. If this is the price to go to Paris, I don’t want anymore, I want to go home now.

I look up at the top of the cabin. I see the eyes of a man looking at me. I understand the perversity of this type of device. I turn my head away from the piercing eye. My gaze meets another. They all look at me, begging, eager to feel my hands or mouth.

I lower my face and wait, hands pressed to my ears, shutting myself off from the world. I scream inside. I hum a song in my head so I don’t hear their moans anymore. I’m on the verge of a nervous breakdown. I’m not crying, I’ve reached a stage of inner pain so deep that it won’t let me shed any more tears.

I don’t know how long I spend like that, with my head buried in my knees, but when I pick it up, the sexes are no longer there. I’m frantically going back to check. It’s a terrible situation. How long have you been jamming? Ten minutes? One hour? I am completely unable to even give an estimate.

Now I have to get out of this hellish place, but I’m afraid the perverts are waiting outside and will pounce on me. At the same time, I can’t stay in this cabin forever. After a moment’s hesitation, I carefully turn the latch.

To my great relief, no one is waiting for me at the exit except Joe. He wears a delighted smile, probably one of the eyes that followed me happily into the cabin. – So, what did you think?

I don’t answer him: he knows very well what I thought. I am frozen and shaking with fear. The most absurd thing about this whole story is that I am totally dependent on him. There is no doubt that he was the one who asked them to stop. His eyes betray a sense of absolute power. Something in his eyes gives me an idea of what’s to come. If I don’t act immediately, I’ll probably be caught by all these men. So, driven by the energy of desperation, I grab my things and run. Joe and the other men looked at me with a dejected expression. He’s trying to talk to me, but I can’t hear anything. I barely have time to leave the sex shop half-naked, with my things in my arms. Joe is already behind me.

– Calm down, Laura. I still give you 500 euros. I walk, losing my balance. I feel like I’m going to pass out. I feel like I’m drugged, drunk, I can’t stay on my feet, my legs can’t carry me anymore. But I still have enough survival instinct to grab the envelope.

We return to the hotel in silence. I can still smell men on my body. We make our way without saying anything. If they talk, I slap Joe or spit in his face. I hate myself for not realizing he was just a stupid, vicious old man. I want to end it, forever. All I can think about now is to take my money and go far, far away. I feel so dirty, I want to cry, but I can’t anymore.

Once in the bedroom, I tell her: – “I’m not staying. Give me the money now. – Go and take a shower, I’ll leave the envelope on the bed. See you on Thursday, what do you think?

After what he just put me through, does he really think I’d agree to see you again on Thursday? Even if the 500 euros is not enough to take me to Paris, I never want to see him again. There is no way I will ever plan another date with such a jerk. I better not tell him, we are alone in the room and now that I know he has no limits, I don’t want to challenge him. He can still hit me.

– Yes, see you on Thursday.

I have to take a shower, I can’t stand this smell anymore. Alone in the bathroom, I forbid myself to sit on the floor, otherwise I would never get up. I hear the door slam, Joe is gone. After a quarter of an hour of scrubbing my skin and hair like a maniac under hot water, I put my clothes back on and leave the bathroom.

An envelope was waiting for me on the bed, as agreed. I open it, tempted by the money I’m counting on to console me, if only for a second, for my misfortune.

It contains 100 euros. I check: only 100 euros. He tricked me with 400. Tears well up and my crying ends in a scream. I grab my phone like a fury and dial his number so fast, my vision blurred by tears, that I make a mistake and have to dial three times, which drives me even more crazy. My hands are shaking, I scream wildly as I slam my small fist against the wall. His cell phone is not answering. H must be long gone by now.

I shake the envelope down, still hoping to find what’s right for me. I can not find anything. I even move the desk and shake the sheets violently. I look around frantically, trying to convince myself that I must have left the rest of my money somewhere in that awful room. Absolutely nothing. Instead, there is a letter on the bed, which he must have put under the envelope when he left.

It was scribbled in haste, probably while I was taking a shower.

Laura, as you can see, there are only 100 euros in the envelope, instead of 500 euros as I expected. I’ll give you the rest on Thursday when we meet. I just wanted to make sure I would see you again before I left for Paris. Trust me, you will get your money’s worth. Good day, Laura.

I throw the letter on the floor, furious. Paris is gone, the new life is gone, I’ll have to stay here. I will never get out, my life is locked in prostitution forever. Now the roles have reversed. Today, I am the one who is cataloged. Chapter 21 Escape April 2, 2007

It’s Thursday and I walk back past the hotel, I can’t believe it. Joe didn’t show up, of course. My anger did not subside and after half an hour I was already stomping on my feet and cursing him alone in the street. Passers-by return, but I don’t notice them, I’m only thinking about one thing at the moment: to get my money back.

When I got home, I left an explosive message on his still unanswered phone, yelling that he better call me back and give me the money. Radio silence for three days. Three days I spent dejected about my fate , crying every time I thought of Paris. I see the Eiffel Tower in the fog and all my beautiful projects falling apart.

Three days later, my phone rings: – Laura? I recognized his voice immediately. My blood runs cold. – Damn Joe, you made me laugh, I want my money now! I screamed into the phone. Fortunately, I’m home alone. – I know, Laura, I know. Wait, let me explain…

– What should I explain to you? You’re a bastard, you’re going to give me my money back right now! – Laura, I’m not home now. I had a heart attack, I’m recovering in the south, near Perpignan. Let me take a break from my insulting streak.

– I wanted to transfer money to you, but my wife blocked my accounts. I think he suspects something. Old Laura would have believed her without hesitation. The new Laura, who was born the day she was arrested, is no longer fooled by these lies.

– I don’t believe you, Joe, it’s not working. Give me my money back. – Laura, I’m telling you the truth, I’m very sick, I have cancer. I won’t live much longer.

That phrase froze my blood. I have to admit that I felt a little sad when I heard the news, despite everything he’s done to me. The feeling didn’t last more than a second though, I hated him again. Continued:

– Listen to me, Laura, I’m leaving here tomorrow. We need to meet again so I can give you your money back. I’ll give it back to you, I promise. Besides, I really want to see you again. I’m closing now. I can’t believe it anymore. I will never believe again. Chapter 22 intrusion

April 17, 2007

Two weeks after the Joe episode, I returned home with my arms full of groceries. At least once, I’m tired of missing out on everything. There is also another reason. I’m hosting a friend in my apartment and we decided to have a meal like kings: tandoori chicken and wild rice. The last thing I want is for him to realize I don’t have anything in the cupboards. We are in for a treat and my lips are trembling with anticipation. I am in a great mood and resist the weight of the plastic bags by singing.

When I get home, I get rid of the food in the kitchen and rush to find my temporary roommate. While I prepare the food, he tells me: – Someone tried to call you half an hour ago on the landline. I told him to call later. – Did he say who it is?

– Not. Well, he said he was an old friend. Apparently he hadn’t heard from you in a while, so he wanted to know how you were doing. – Well, if it’s important, he’ll call back.

An hour later, in the middle of lunch, the phone rings again. I get up to answer. I recognized his voice immediately. Pierre. The gentle entrepreneur. James Bond in slippers. – Laura, I’m Pierre. – How did you get my number? I say dry.

Everything immediately comes to mind: the snack, the cigarette I smoked, my bag open and free of access. I don’t try to find out more, to understand why he waited so long to call me: the result is there, he has my landline number, which means he also has my address. I am nervous with panic and the first sounds that come out of my mouth are menacing:

– Never call me on this number, did you hear me? – Yes, but it’s your fault. You say you’ll call me and you don’t! I want to see you again, Laura!

This guy is crazy and now it shows that I have been obsessed with him all these months. I’m totally freaked out, this man could be downstairs right now talking to me, he could be calling me from my street, my block…

– Look, it’s very simple, if you don’t leave me alone, I’ll call you at work and I’ll be happy to tell you how you’ve been hooking up with prostitutes for 19 years! Call me one more time and I’ll ruin your life.

The threat paid off. A silence falls between us. I hung up before he could say a word.

The next few days are spent in constant fear of finding him downstairs when I go out. I keep looking back at the people on the street, convinced that I saw him among the passers-by. I know he hasn’t given up because every time I check my answering machine, the answering machine’s voice tells me how many times it has called, for example, “This caller has tried to contact you 26 times today without leaving a message.” . 26 times! How crazy! After hearing my answering machine for the umpteenth time telling me that Pierrot le fou has appeared again, I decide to call the last number that called. I get a call from a girl who tells me that Pierre Machintruc is not at home and that I should call tomorrow morning. I understand that he is giving me all the phone calls from work, and now that I know his last name, I am determined to give him a hard time. Stupid of him. He probably thinks I don’t dare mess with him.

So the next day I calmly dialed the number, I had a plan. I ran right into him. I felt his face fall at the sound of my voice.

– Listen to me carefully, Pierre. I just want to warn you that if you ever, ever try to contact me again, I will call the police immediately. – Why would you do such a thing? – Because when you found out my name you should have made sure I wasn’t a minor.

He gasps. I hear him say a little “shit”. He begins to stammer, in a suggestive tone: – I’m sorry, Laura, but I wanted to see you again…

I am at the end of my strength. I’ve been cheated out of a huge amount of money by Joe, my move to Paris is in grave danger, and I don’t need a bloody apathetic businessman pissing me off anymore. I start screaming into the phone, pouring out all my hate on him:

– I’m going to sue you for harassment! I know your address, I know your phone number, I have everything about you and I’m going to use it if you come near me again! – But you’re a whore, Laura.

The scoundrel. It was worth it, apparently the threats weren’t enough. I decide to put my plan into action. – So you don’t know they are protected by the police? It’s not true with the student prostitutes, but it doesn’t matter, Pierre is far too scared to go check.

– So you never, you hear me, you will never call me or write an email again, you are out of my life the same way you entered it: in two seconds!

I hang up the phone in his nose. I don’t need to wait for his approval to end the conversation. I know I got rid of him. I decided: with money or no money, I promise to leave this city as soon as possible. Chapter 23 Exile April 19, 2007

I can’t sit still in front of my Spanish text. It’s 5pm and this is my last class at the University of V. Last night I got my train tickets to Paris. I leave tomorrow on the 12.47 train and will arrive in the capital two hours later.

Looking at my copy, I have an overwhelming urge to cry. I can’t believe tonight it’s all going to end. In an hour, I’ll be just another student on the run. No matter how many times I tell myself that, in the present state of things, I have no choice, that my going to Paris is essential, I experience this abandonment as a failure. Once again, I haven’t finished my year of studies, it seems that destiny is catching up with me, that I am not made to sit in a classroom and listen to a teacher. And yet, things have nothing to do with my last year of study in this particular case, but I can’t help it, I feel like a coward that I have to go.

The tickets were expensive because I didn’t have a discount card, but if that’s the price I have to pay to be safe, I’m ready to break the bank. The hardest thing to bear is still dropping out of university. I just can’t bring myself to do it. I like student life, I like going to university every day and learning. Even though I had to do everything I did, I always felt at home on campus. But I’m not giving up on my studies. I am determined to finish this year no matter the cost, with or without frequency. I gave too much of myself this year to throw it all away on Saturday at the last minute. All these clients, all these problems, were basically just to keep studying, not to give up.

So I had to find someone serious and reliable to mail my courses. A friend from university immediately came to mind. I don’t know her very well, we are just classmates. Naturally, we sit next to each other in almost every lesson and get along quite well, even though we’ve never seen her outside of university. I had to find an embarrassing excuse to explain my departure, a family business. It seemed the most plausible. I was ashamed to lie to him, but then again, there was nothing else I could do. In exchange for a cash advance for stamps and photocopying, he agreed to send me the lessons.

Classwork doesn’t count towards the final result, and with my medical certificate, teachers can’t blame me for missing meditations. Even though I know I’m not really dropping out of university, I’m sad. The little world I dreamed of in September has collapsed. I feel like crying because I feel wronged, I feel like crying because my hopes have been dashed. I will continue with distance learning courses, but will I succeed? Am I strong enough, disciplined enough?

Yesterday I submitted my resignation at work. Again, I felt a twinge of sadness, not because I was giving up a job I loved – quite the contrary – but because it was still an escape. It allowed me to get out of the house, immerse myself in my work and stop thinking about my life. I generally got along well with my colleagues, and they often helped me when I didn’t know how to do something. My boss didn’t really want to know why I was leaving. They must see dozens of students come and go every year, so it’s nothing out of the ordinary.

I don’t know what awaits me in Paris. Maybe nothing will be better, maybe I won’t even last two weeks alone there. I know at first it will be a real struggle again. I’ll have to run around looking for a job. I’m also going to have to get used to living with someone again, especially someone I don’t know very well. And above all, I won’t have anyone to help me, to support me, to console me if one day I don’t feel up to it. I am ready to face all this, because it will be with a healthy future in mind, something better. Prostitution, on the other hand, gave me nothing but the worst.

I told my mother’s friend, who is supposed to host me, but she can’t pick me up from the train station. As she lives in the suburbs, she told me which RER to take to get to her house. All this is temporary of course, she is just helping me. I need to find another place to live quickly, anything from a shared apartment to a room service. Even though I am completely demoralized, I have a feeling that nothing will be as hard as what I experienced here in V.

In front of my copy, I don’t listen to the lecture. I should be enjoying my last few hours in this majestic lecture hall, but my head is full of dark thoughts. I’m thinking about tonight, about the bags I’ll have to pack myself. To the classes and the books I will need to take with me to continue learning. I’m so attached to them that I wouldn’t leave them behind for anything in the world, even if my suitcase weighed a ton. Clothes aren’t that important either – I’ve given up shopping this year. Since September, more than ever, I had to learn to prioritize things.

I am keeping my flat until the end of the month as I have paid the rent. It will be empty, but that’s a shame. My father will come later with a friend to pick up the furniture. I also told my landlady that I was leaving, which obviously didn’t make her too happy, but I assured her that I would find her another tenant very quickly. He never liked me and I can understand why as I was often late with my payments despite my best efforts. I put out an ad at the university to let people know that a studio apartment is available. In V., that shouldn’t be difficult, even at this time of year. Basically, I don’t care. I have a lot of other things on my mind right now.

There are only ten minutes left in the lesson. People are already getting restless, anxious to get home. I wish I could keep my seat and not have to leave. They can’t understand. I can’t imagine for one second what I had to do this year to deal with my constant problems. The general uproar drowns out the voice of the teacher who, resigned, decides to end the lesson. After a certain hour, he must realize that the students’ brains become hermetically sealed to all knowledge and that they need fresh air.

People jump to their feet as soon as they hear the teacher say “see you next week”. I myself, driven by a certain habit, carelessly throw my course sheets into my bag. Then I slowly get up, put on my jacket and leave the classroom as if it were a normal day.

Outside, I hug my friend from university who is in charge of sending me her lessons. He wishes me luck with a trace of compassion in his eyes. I lied to her about my reason for leaving, but I am entitled to her compassion.

Deep down, I tell myself that I’m not such a coward that I’m leaving. On the contrary, it is a wise decision; too much risk if I stay in V. from now on. My place is no longer here. If I stay, I’ll never get out. If I leave, I’ll have a chance to rebuild my life. Everything here has become impossible.

I winked at my friend and headed to the subway like it was the end of a normal day at school. Chapter 24 early April 24, 2007

It’s incredibly hot in Paris for April. I packed my suitcase in a panic because I couldn’t take all my light clothes. I don’t really care. It’s hot and I’ve achieved my goal of leaving V.

We hit the road again as planned. My two priorities are to find a job and then, once I’m settled, to find an apartment. I gave myself two weeks to find a job, anything. After that, I’ll have to accept my failure and return to V. I can’t take advantage of the hospitality of Sandra, my mother’s friend.

The thought of having to go back to V. freezes my blood and gives me a double motivation to find something as soon as possible. I haven’t stopped for a week. Armed with my resume, I scoured restaurants and classified ads to find a job as quickly as possible. I didn’t want to give the horrible thought of finding a job a second chance. Until now, I have been strong, supported by the immense hope that Paris is my country of exile, where no one knows me as a prostitute, where I can start over and start a new life.

Sharing the apartment with Sandra, my mom’s friend, is going well so far. She welcomed me with open arms, happy to have company in her apartment. At one point, she was very close to my mother, so she was excited to meet her daughter. Now, at fifty years old, this woman wears the sufferings of her life on her face. She works all day as an accountant at an appliance company and hates her job. She often comes home tired, exhausted by her colleagues and the mountains of numbers she had to juggle all day. Still, I think she’s cute, especially when she comes home from work and puts her dyed blonde hair up in a bun. She lives a quiet life, she lacks nothing, but she is far from rich. Her apartment is by no means luxurious, most of the furniture is reclaimed, but she managed to make the place cozy with warm colored fabrics.

We often have dinner together and he even helps me write cover letters to find a job. One evening, she confided in me that she too had struggled like me in her early years after university. I wondered if she ever considered prostitution as a solution. Oddly enough, if she had, I would have found some comfort in her because she would have given me the feeling that I wasn’t alone.

I feel at home with her, even if I miss my little independent life in my own apartment. He set up his living room to receive me, folding the sofa bed. Every morning I politely put her back, wanting to cause as little disturbance as possible.

Since my arrival, I haven’t been able to really focus on finding an apartment. Since I don’t have a job, I can’t guarantee that I will be able to make a file, because it would be a waste of time. I prefer to take things step by step, knowing that I don’t have much time . Despite everything, Sandra’s kindness encourages me not to stay too long. I know from experience that relationships between two people fall apart faster than you’d think in situations like this, where one person owes the other something. I’m already so uncomfortable depending on someone that I’m not going to make her uncomfortable with my presence either.

Anxiety returns. Alone in Paris, far from family and friends, I have no support. I had to make a quick decision: return to V. and admit my failure, or take action here in Paris. I chose the action. The idea of having to go back to V. paralyzes me. I’ve seen a lot worse in my life, I can handle it.

So far, no one has called me back for a job. It’s been a week and I’m starting to panic. My pockets are empty and I’m not sure I’ll be able to get through the week with the little money I managed to bring.

I am also trapped in my past. Joe is still harassing me. He leaves me messages every day asking me to return to V., saying that he is offering me the train ticket. He says he must see me again before he dies. His rates are so exorbitant as to be unbelievable. I filter all his calls and bypass all his vices: if my phone rings without showing a number, I just don’t answer it. I have to admit that, more than once, I was tempted to leave it all alone and go back to smell that money again.

In my need to put my past behind me, I realize more and more that I can’t do it without talking about it. At night, I can’t sleep. I turn in bed, images of horror flash before my eyes. I often cry, realizing that I will have to deal with this experience for the rest of my life. I want to talk, but who? I scoured student prostitution forums but never found the answers to my questions. On the contrary, some of the girls who frequent these sites chastise me for daring to advance the idea that prostitution is a real scourge among students. I say such nonsense, so far from what I have ever felt, that very quickly I don’t even connect anymore and deny that this channel has the power to help me psychologically free myself.

When I couldn’t sleep, I found no refuge except in writing and studying. My evenings and nights, when everything is quiet, I dedicate to telling my story and my emotions. I write for hours without thinking about anything else. Little by little, I realize that I am exorcising all the unhappiness that grinds me inside. The more I type on my computer keyboard, the one Joe gave me, the more insight I gain into my life. I’m starting to have a glimmer of hope, to tell myself that one day I’ll get out of this. Maybe I won’t be a whore anymore.

I’m also working harder than ever on my lessons, even more than when I was in the classrooms at V. I don’t want to screw it up. I don’t want to ruin everything, my future seems so uncertain. This week I received my first lessons in the mail, which filled me with joy. My friend from university has not forgotten me. I’m holding on to hope as best I can: if I manage to find a good job in Paris, I’ll put some money aside and enroll here at university. I’m sure I’ll make it. My tumultuous life made me angry, I know what it’s like to struggle and I don’t want to go back to that. Sometimes I cry when I see an exercise or a text I don’t understand. I tell myself that my father is right, that I never did things right. Maybe not, but I did what I could with what I had, almost nothing. You can blame me, you can judge me, but I can’t turn back time. On the contrary, I always lived only for my future, I prostituted myself just so I could continue studying. You can blame me, yes, but I never gave up.

Today, I can’t afford to be depressed, I have too many things to do and undertake. Too many things to accomplish. Chapter 25 Addiction June 17, 2007

The last month in Paris was intense. The job search paid off after two weeks, right within the limit I had set for myself. I eventually managed to get a job as a waitress in a chic restaurant in central Paris. I’m still living with Sandra, and the commute between work and her apartment is exhausting, but at least I’m making some money. In the subway, taking advantage of the long journey, I read the lessons I put in my bag before leaving in the morning. I force myself to stay focused, despite the fact that my eyes are closing on their own. My schedule is not stable and sometimes I finish late at night when there is no subway. The first time, I took a taxi. I didn’t really have a choice as I don’t know my colleagues very well and I couldn’t see myself asking them to host me. When I saw the amount on the machine, I promised myself that I would never do it again. I can’t decently spend all the money I earn on taxis to get home.

Once again, I’m faced with a vicious circle: I have a job, yes, but I won’t be able to keep it any time soon if I don’t stick to the evening hours. So I scour the classifieds looking for a place to live. I thought I’d seen the worst of the V. in terms of prices, but Paris is hell. I can’t find anything in my price range, not even a utility room. Shared housing is sometimes more affordable, but many guarantees are required, sometimes even more than for an apartment. I guess landlords need to put more pressure on tenants to pay on time: the more tenants, the greater the risk of not seeing the money.

At first, Sandra kept telling me: “But don’t worry, you can stay as long as you want, you don’t bother me at all! When it became clear that I needed to live close to my place of work, she started helping me as much as possible much he could. He asked around to see if anyone had a spare room. Nothing, not even a cage in which I could take refuge.

Her kindness gradually turned into mere politeness. Seeing that my search for an apartment was going nowhere, he began to distance himself more and more from me, which is normal. We no longer dine together and he speaks to me only vaguely. As expected, my presence is starting to affect her. I feel like I’m disturbing his daily routine. Her apartment isn’t very big, and the fact that I’m in the living room doesn’t help at all.

One evening, as usual, I came back very late from work. I was exhausted and wanted to go to bed immediately. I found her in the living room with two friends, chatting over a glass of wine after dinner. At the sight of me, Sandra makes a kind of grimace that says it all: she wished I wasn’t there so she could enjoy her friends in peace. I feel sorry for her and try to make myself small, hurrying to the bathroom to take a shower. When I go out, her friends have already left.

– Are your friends back? – Yes, we couldn’t continue talking in the living room because that’s where you sleep. I’ve exceeded the limit of what she can handle. Without a word, I go to bed after unfolding the sofa. I know I’ll have to leave tomorrow before Sandra kicks me out in exasperation.

At work, I ask a colleague who has a large apartment in Paris if she can host me. We get along well and I know he won’t refuse me. I hate situations like this. – Not for long, just long enough to find something suitable.

She agrees with a smile on her face. That’s what happens a lot at first, people say yes, they’re happy not to be alone in their own home, but after a while they realize they’d rather be home. In addition, in Paris, where apartments are often very small, people get stepped on quickly. I know this solution is only temporary and I will have to find another one quickly. For her, but also for me. I can’t, I don’t want to depend on others anymore.

I pack my bags that evening when I get home. Sandra hugs me, surprised at the speed of my decision. She is probably also saddened by my situation and maybe feels guilty. But I know that once I’m gone, she’ll do what she couldn’t do for a month: sink into her couch and enjoy solitude again.

My repeated troubles often bring me back to my dark thoughts. What would happen if I let it all go? What if I had accepted Joe’s offer? I would get out of this mess. I know that in the end this solution is not a solution at all, it is only temporary. It shines with all the money it has to offer, but when you get up close, it turns dirty and dangerous.

I call my friend from university, who sends my lessons, to give her my new address. Once again, he doesn’t try to understand. Good, because I can’t make up a new lie. She is in the middle of revision and is starting to panic about the upcoming exams.

– Laura, you’re going home to take your exams, aren’t you? If you want, I could host you. I say yes, of course, thanking him for the offer, which I will have to take up, as I have nowhere to stay during exam week in May.

So I have to negotiate with my boss at the restaurant to work twelve hours a day for two weeks to make up for the week I’m away. With all the overtime, I can take five days off. It’s exactly what I need to pass my exams.

I tell my mom that I’ll be back, but I won’t have time to go see her and dad. She’s obviously very disappointed, but deep down I know she’s proud of her daughter, who never gives up and takes responsibility.

Exam week is coming to an end. All I want to do is lay in bed and sleep for hours without having to worry. Despite everything, I don’t stop, working late into the night with my friend. We motivate each other. The human body is malleable, and knowing that the academic year will soon be over keeps me from getting tired. I want to do so well this year, it would have been so unfair not to, after everything I’ve been through. I studied too much, revised too much to crash at the last minute. I won’t allow myself to do that. I gave everything this year, including my own body. Failure is out of the question.

At the end of the exams, I jumped on a train to Paris, after warmly thanking my friend for her welcome and support. He didn’t ask me any questions, probably thinking that my private life was my business.

I went straight back to work, again at a frantic pace. I don’t even have time to think about the results or the papers I have turned in. I’ve done everything I can, now I just have to wait.

A few days later, in front of the computer, I wait for the results to appear. I’ve been thinking about this date for two weeks. I enter my student number and it will tell me the results in seconds. I’m shaking, I’m stressed. What if I failed? Maybe I failed to convince people with my essays. My tiredness and exhaustion may have shown in the lines I wrote…

The result appeared suddenly. I passed with honors. Crying with joy in front of the computer screen. So all the hardships we went through this year had not been in vain after all. Chapter 26 Hope for the future September 5, 2007

Well, I passed my exams and I’m still in Paris. I’m 19 years old and a new year is starting. I continued to work at the restaurant all summer, trying to save as much money as possible. I’m still living with my partner and, contrary to what I thought, things are going pretty well. I give her as much as I can for the rent, which makes it a little easier for her expenses. Our apartment is nothing like the one Manu and I had. It’s hard for her too, but she understands me.

I communicate a lot with my parents on the phone: our relationship has changed a lot. I think I grew up faster than anyone else last year and it shows in my demeanor. I feel supported. I know from my mother that my father was impressed by my success in exams and my courage. They never understood why I left and I hope they never will. I also know they regret not being able to help me financially yet, but their moral encouragement spurs me on. I’m proving to myself today what I’ve always known: that they will always be by my side, despite my choices.

However, I am still looking for a place to live. I will enroll in my second year of university in Paris and I need to work in decent conditions. I don’t want to go back to V. There, I know, everything is written in stone. And I don’t want to take advantage of my colleague’s kindness anymore. The restaurant has offered me a permanent part-time contract, which I intend to accept. With this guaranteed salary, I suppose things should be easier.

But it turned out to be harder than I expected. From visiting the studios to visiting the maids’ rooms, I realize that my app doesn’t measure up to the others. I don’t have a guarantor, and even with a permanent contract, landlords prefer to entrust the keys to an apartment to a young person who will have someone behind them in case of need. Which I don’t have. Apparently my parents don’t earn enough. I’m not kidding.

So my future remains uncertain. My head is full of dreams, but society constantly brings me back to reality. I want to continue my studies, I want to continue learning, but the obstacles are always there. Will I be able to find an apartment? Will I be able to alternate work and studies? Above all, will I be strong enough not to fall back into prostitution? The money that can be made from sex is too fast, too important, for me not to think about it. I know what I want, but I also know that it is not always in line with reality. High hopes, but small means.

Afterword By Eva Clouet (1) Student prostitution in the internet age

“In France, almost 40,000 female students would become prostitutes to continue their studies”. This information, revealed by the SUD- Étudiant union in the spring of 2006, during the movement against the “equal opportunities” law, is intended to draw the attention of the French government to the “reality of student life”. In its demands, this student union highlights the difficult living conditions that many students currently experience (the rarity and high cost of housing, very tight payments at the end of the month, the difficulty of combining paid work with university work, etc.) and points out the contradictions of the answers proposed by the public authorities to fix these problems.

Beginning in the fall of 2006, the media (especially print and television) picked up on this topic, highlighting the issue of student economic insecurity from a new and glamorous angle. In a pre-election campaign context, the figure of “40,000” sounded like a millstone in a puddle. Curiosity, surprise, indignation,

In our societies, prostitution – regardless of the form it takes – remains an extremely stigmatized practice, and the image of the prostitute(2) is still, in the collective imaginary, often associated with a “marginalized” person, because “desperate enough to -sells his body”. So, when it comes to students, the discomfort increases. The image we have of the prostitute – a foreign woman waiting for a customer on the sidewalk(3) – seems incompatible with the images we have of our students. And yet, as Laura pointed out, student prostitution is a reality in our country. Then how is it that in France, a great world power whose education system – although criticized and criticizable – is often given as an example, some female students become prostitutes?

Although no serious study has so far been able to put a figure on the scale of the phenomenon – the figure of “40,000” is not based on any scientific work and is therefore an estimate – Laura’s story and my study of the world of student escorts put in the light of a series of elements, offering some keys to understanding the vast problematic of student prostitution.

1) STUDENT PROSTITUTION, A HETEROGENEOUS REALITY

Currently, there are as many prostitutes(4) as there are places of prostitution and ways of prostitution. In this context, the anthropologist and political scientist Janine Mossuz-Lavau explains that, at present, it seems more appropriate to speak of “prostitutes” (in the plural) than “prostitution” “because the situations are so diverse(5)”. Each place (studios, bars, clubs, internet, massage parlors, service areas on the highway, forests, vans, etc.) has its own prostitution reality , with its own actors, with its own codes, with its own particularities, with its own rates, with its own clientele, with their own constraints and their own problems. Student prostitutes are obviously no exception to this diversity. For example, while some female students choose the street as a place of prostitution(6), others prostitute themselves on campus or through “small advertisements” and receive their clients in the residence halls, others prostitute themselves in the alcoves of the famous “bars of hostess ” (or “cork bars”) or “massage parlors”, and others – like Laura – use the Internet to pay for their sexual services. Student prostitution is therefore not a homogeneous reality, as it covers a diversity of forms and practices.

However, the democratization of access to new means of communication, such as Minitel in the 1980s, and today the Internet and mobile telephony, has apparently intensified the development of “amateur” (as opposed to “professional”) and “occasional” prostitution. “, in which the student category has a certain visibility.

Among the many faces of student prostitution, this afterword aims to shed light on a particular form of prostitution – Laura’s own – namely voluntary (chosen) prostitution, practiced independently (without a pimp) and occasionally by students using the Internet. The Internet and the student “escort”.

As far as prostitution is concerned, the Minitel of the 1980s, with its famous “pink messages”, and now the Internet, offer significant advantages, both for customers (demand) and for those who want to prostitute themselves (supply). In addition to the wide offer and periodic updates, the Internet allows, at any time and in any place, to meet people discreetly and at low costs, because it offers “a comfortable and safe anonymity(7)”. In addition, the Internet obviously makes the action of the police more laborious: “Prostitutes who work on the Internet do not risk much because, even if they may be worried about recovery, they are not a priority for the police(8)”. In this context, many former street prostitutes and other “anonymous” prostitutes – including students – open their own business.

On the Internet, the most visible paid sex offers are those of “escorts”. Originally, ” escort ” consisted of “escorting” a client, i.e. accompanying a person (usually a man) to parties, restaurants, theaters and so on. In this context, the sexual relationship is not part of the contract, but remains an implicit intention, considered as a private act between the escort and her client. This ambiguity justifies the fact that escorts are often compared to “luxury prostitutes” because they respond to a specific demand. “They demand charm, beauty and distinction, but also intellectual qualities that enable them to accompany their clients, who are often socially well-off men(9). Today, the “escort” business still exists, mostly through through agencies. But the term “escort” is now used by all prostitutes working on the Internet, regardless of the “level” of their services. As a result, the term “escort” hides a variety of realities: “former street prostitutes driven from street, professional women with a busy schedule, foreigners exploited by networks(10) or “night beauties”(11) casual(11)”.

Escorts, whether they are “professional” or “amateur” like Laura, apply and communicate through ads on specialized or generalist sites that include a section called “venal dating” or “adult dating”. We find, for example, the escort’s measurements, her age, the region or city where she works, her availability, her rates, and sometimes a short paragraph detailing her services and “manners”(12).

A number of escorts also have their own websites or blogs(13). These custom sites, generally with a basic design and interface, often look the same. First, a window opens stating that the user must be of legal age to continue the investigation. Upon entering the site, a text, often written by the escort herself, provides a more or less detailed presentation of her. Some describe themselves simply physically, while others talk about their interests, marital status, reasons for prostitution, etc. This text also allows the escort to present her expectations of the transaction and the client’s behavior (meeting conditions, tastes in sexual practices, type of man, etc.). Next, there are several headings that specify the nature of the service offered by the escort. In general, there is a list of possible services and those that the escort refuses to provide; rates (per hour, per evening, per night or more); availability (“working hours”); and finally the contact page, where the escort enters her email address and/or mobile phone number. The ” photo gallery ” often illustrates the blog and presents the escort in various poses. We can see that very few “unprofessional” escorts show their face in the photos. In general, those who choose to hide their face do so mainly to preserve their identity, because those around them do not know that they are prostitutes and/or that escorting is not their only activity. Often these women have another “official” activity (student, for example) and occasionally prostitute themselves (several paid dates per month).

For these “occasional prostitutes” – whether they are secretaries, housewives, lawyers, job seekers, students, etc. – prostitution is their only activity. For these “casual prostitutes” – whether they are secretaries, housewives, lawyers, job seekers, students, etc. – prostitution remains a secondary activity. From this point of view, casual prostitutes are generally independent (they work for themselves, on their own account), and prostitution is a personal choice, more or less conditional, but still rational. Malika Nor(14) points out that independent casual prostitutes are generally unknown to social services (which is why no organisation, institutional or voluntary, has a precise idea of what student prostitution is). The author adds that this type of “voluntary prostitution is generally motivated by money, either because this activity turns out to be extremely luxurious and profitable, or because for these people it is only a complementary source of income or necessary for a minimum level of subsistence”.

The choice of prostitution – the possibility of leading a “double life” – is undoubtedly facilitated by the Internet. According to Yann ‘s analysis Reuzeau , “today, many prostitutes start on the Internet. Many of them would not have done so without this “cheating” virtual opportunity […], because the great novelty of the Internet is that it opens this profession to absolutely anyone. A basic computer , an internet connection, two or three photos, a quarter of an hour and that’s it, you’re an escort(15)! In fact, according to Laura’s own account, it was while browsing the internet that she quickly and easily came across a multitude of of explicit ads. Pushed by the need for money and curiosity, while feeling “protected” behind the computer screen, Laura found on the Internet “the solution she was waiting for”: “comfort and fast…”.

At first glance, it may seem surprising to find students who engage in prostitution. However, we know that this population is far from “rolling in money” and many of them have a “job” in addition to their university duties(16). Furthermore, most of the jobs offered that are compatible with a student’s schedule are not very lucrative or even low paying. Therefore, it is not so surprising to think that “for a young person in a fragile economic situation, the temptation is great when you see the attractive power of the sums at stake in this type of activity(17)”.

2) WHO THE STUDENTS ARE WHO PROSTITUTES ON THE INTERNET?

It is difficult to establish a “typical profile” of students who prostitute themselves on the Internet. However, the first thing that stands out is that almost all online ads are placed by young women. Furthermore, if we look at the press articles that appeared on the subject during the year, the authors make no reference to the prostitution of male students. For many, prostitution is only a “women’s issue” and by extension, student prostitution only concerns female students. It is true that student prostitution ads are virtually invisible on the Internet, but this does not mean that male student prostitution does not exist(18). In this regard, rather than thinking of prostitution as “reserved” only for women, we must question the reality of this difference between the sexes. If women are overrepresented on the supply side of prostitution and men are overrepresented on the demand side, it is because prostitution is rooted in a complex system of unequal gender relations. In this system, women’s sexuality – which is socially constructed – remains under the control of men’s “impulses” – which they claim to be “natural” when in fact they are socially constructed. Awareness of these mechanisms of dominance and power of the male class over the female class is essential to understanding prostitution and the problem of student prostitution.

That being said, we know that the majority of college students who engage in prostitution are women. Moreover, according to the various journalistic sources gathered on this topic, the female students who prostitute themselves essentially do it because they need money and because they do not have time to do a sufficiently profitable job in parallel with their studies. To explain the choice of female students to become prostitutes, the media emphasizes their economic insecurity in relation to the increasingly high cost of living. These are the reasons that led Laura to become a prostitute. Like many students at the public university, Laura comes from a middle-class background, and her standard of living depends largely on that of her family. However, according to institutional criteria and definitions, her family is not “in need” because both parents have full-time jobs and earn incomes considered “sufficient” to meet the needs of all family members. In reality, however, even with two minimum incomes, many of these “average” families must learn to “tighten the belt” in order to live decently.

However, economic insecurity – related to the student’s social environment(19) – cannot in itself explain why students choose to become prostitutes. In fact, not all students “in financial difficulty” are prostitutes! And not all student escorts have a vital need for money(20). In this context, the image of the “poor student” depicted in the media must be nuanced.

3) WHY STUDENTS DO THEY CHOOSE TO PROSTITUTE?

According to my study, prostitution among female students is a response to a series of more or less significant disruptions in their lives. The reasons and motivations that led them to make this choice may vary from one experience to another, contributing to the diversity of students who engage in prostitution.

For some, like Laura, prostitution is primarily a “utilitarian” pursuit – earning money to further their education. For others, it represents a kind of “forbidden fantasy” that allows them to break away from traditional family values. Through these diverse realities (which are not exhaustive), we can identify three patterns of rupture: social and financial ruptures, ruptures in relation to family morality, and ruptures in relation to gratuitous love relationships. Obviously, these patterns are not fixed, and some students combine two or three of these breakdowns.

A) Social and financial breakdowns – Students prepared to do anything to succeed

In order to finance their studies, to pay the rent or to get by, some students choose to become prostitutes. One of the reasons for this practice is undoubtedly the impoverishment of the student population. Guillaume Houzel – President of the Observatoire de la Vie Étudiante (OVE) – says: “For several years now, we have seen an increasing pressure on the purchasing power of students. With the increase in real estate prices, their housing costs are increasing… but not the value of scholarships(21). According to the Dauriac report (22) on student economic insecurity, 100,000 higher education students live below the poverty line, which is set at around €650 per month per person. According to OVE, over 45 000 students currently live in extreme poverty and 225,000 struggle to finance their studies(23).It should be remembered that this poverty affects a certain category of students, namely those whose parents are unwilling or unable to support them financially and who, as a result, have to fend for themselves – or almost – to meet their needs and continue their studies.

Like Laura, working-class and middle-class student escorts face a number of social and financial setbacks in their current student lives that compromise—to a greater or lesser degree—the pursuit of higher education. However, for these students, academic success is essential. In addition to personal satisfaction, pursuing higher education gives them the opportunity to set their ambition – to “do something with themselves” – and secure a more “comfortable” lifestyle than the one they have known in their families. However, neither these students nor their families have sufficient financial resources to fully realize this ambition. In this context, prostitution seems to be an alternative way to “follow [their] dreams”.

Numerous authors1(24) agree that students are not equal when it comes to financing their studies and that the advantages – especially economic – that young people from affluent backgrounds enjoy and that those from less privileged backgrounds lack result in unequal access to higher education. The state, aware of this “inequality of opportunities”, established a system of financial assistance for certain young people (scholarships based on social criteria, merit scholarships, housing allowances, etc.), thus offering them a “fundamental tool for the social elevator ( 25)”. However, it is obvious that this system is not without flaws (we remind you that Laura is not entitled to scholarships) and only partially covers the needs of students. During five years, mandatory expenses – registration fees. social security, accommodation, meals at the university restaurant, etc. – increased by 23%, while university grants and housing allowances increased by only 10%. Given this situation, it is imperative for many students to have a paid job in addition to their studies.

In 2003, 45.5% of French students had a paid job during the academic year (excluding summer holidays(26)). Laura, who works fifteen hours a week in a telemarketing firm , in addition to the twenty hours of university courses and the time she devotes to revisions, tells us how much having a “student job” prevents her from studying. She is tired all the time and is playing with her health. This reality echoes the work carried out by the Observatoire de la Vie Étudiante (Student Life Observatory), which points out that having a paid job during studies increases “the risk of failure or dropping out”(27). These risks result from the competition – especially in terms of time – between the “student job” and the demands of university work. According to OVE, this is the context in which the notion of student job insecurity should be understood. From this point of view, prostitution allows female students from poorer social backgrounds to continue their studies under favorable material conditions – daily needs such as rent and food are covered – leaving them enough time to work on their courses and hope to pass the academic year.

While the strategy may seem logical, it raises questions about the price these middle- and working-class female students must pay to access and graduate from higher education. Clearly, the social elevator and path to “success” is far from equal for all! b) Breaks from family morals – Students who want to get out of chains

For some female students, prostitution is not directly related to the need for money, but rather to the desire to break away from traditional family values and fulfill a “forbidden fantasy”.

Currently, even if sexuality is not “free”, since – like any social interaction – it is part of a certain number of relationships (gender, class, generation, cultural, etc.), it is perceived as, a priori, less and less codified(28). In this sense, Michel Bozon points out that one of the major changes in the relations between the generations between the 1960s and the 2000s is that “the parents’ generation has given up setting restrictive standards for young people(29)”. The possibility to experience “real youth” has gradually become widespread, and the “private autonomy” of young people is generally accepted. In this context, parents no longer condemn the fact that their children have an active love life, which can sometimes take place right under their own roof. Obviously, this observation does not apply to all contemporary families. Some families retain traditional values – related to religious morality – and exercise more control over their children’s sexuality.

In these conservative families, the youth’s entry into sexuality occurs under the supervision and control of relatives (and possibly elders). Parents set the rules by which their children – especially girls – can have access to this statutory activity of adulthood(30). In this context, children’s meetings and outings – especially in adolescence – are often strictly controlled by parents. Similarly, the topic of sexuality remains taboo and is rarely broached in family discussions.

For students from this type of family, prostitution is seen as a way to break free from family values and norms. Through prostitution, these students detach themselves from the parental model, thus asserting their desire for autonomy in relation to their own family. From this perspective, they want to take control of their own lives – at least their intimate lives – and participate in the construction of their personal identity.

C) A break with love and gender relations – Disappointed and disillusioned students

For some student escorts, prostitution is a way to fill an emotional and sexual void. Often these young women have been let down by their previous relationships and “free relationships” where they feel they were not valued at their true worth. They “gave themselves freely” to men who failed to meet their expectations of commitment and mutual recognition. In such relationships, they felt “betrayed” and “abused”, without respect or consideration for themselves.

However, these female students wanted to remain sexually active and improve their sexuality by learning new practices and experiences. In this context, their practice of prostitution makes sense. The money involved in the sexual relationship helps clarify the situation. These student escorts know that the encounters they have in their prostitution do not exceed the terms of the “contract” and that there is no point in hoping for “a story” beyond the venal encounter. So they can experience the encounter intensely and focus on their own sexual pleasure without worrying about what happens afterwards.

4) WHAT CAN WE MAKE OF THIS?

Regardless of the reasons and motivations that lead students to prostitution, this practice cannot be considered a harmless act. Laura’s adventures illustrate this point. Similarly, while the choice is a personal one, it is also – like any choice – part of a particular context. You don’t become a prostitute by accident. The need for money, the desire to get away from it all, or disappointment in relationships with others are not sufficient on their own to explain why some students turn to prostitution.

According to a study on “the risk of young people becoming involved in prostitution”(31), there is a “basic terrain” in which a certain number of dysfunctions related to the personal and social history of the individual “germinate”, which lead some young people to prostitution. This investigation shows that “dysfunctions” are of various types and self-influencing . These may include “biographical accidents” (physical, moral and sexual violence), problems of identity and identification with parental models, a certain degree of social isolation, psychological fragility, social disqualification from the family to which they belong, distorted social representations of the ways of success or even the fact of having – in their network – knowledge that belongs to the world of prostitution.

The choice to become a prostitute is therefore not the result of a single factor, but rather of a combination of various personal and social ruptures, in varying degrees of severity. Paradoxically, for some, prostitution becomes an alternative that gives meaning to their practices and life choices. Students’ involvement in prostitution occurs in a certain context, at a certain moment in their lives. Although this activity allows them to get out of a “difficult” situation, it is not without consequences. To date, no study has been conducted to follow the lives of these people or to establish the consequences – individual and social – that these practices can have in the long term.

5) SOLUTIONS?

Resorting to prostitution – whatever form it takes – reveals a certain social malaise. We have seen that this practice is at the heart of social relations where male and economic dominance reigns. Faced with this state of affairs, we can only hope that attitudes will change to reduce existing inequalities. We know that education is one of the keys to changing attitudes. However, the means made available by public authorities to change attitudes in these areas remain insufficient (or even non-existent).

In our society, the subject of sexuality is still largely taboo and is still imbued with sexist beliefs and stereotypes that lock women and men into differentiated and hierarchical gender roles. Modesty, the possibility of sexual continence, moderation and the absence of desire are still considered “natural” qualities in women. On the contrary, desire, aggressiveness and activity are defined as characteristics of the male individual(32). If more institutions – and more individuals – took the gender dimension into account in their analyzes and actions, sexuality could be viewed in an egalitarian and libertarian light.

For almost ten years, the various governments in power have wanted to “transform” the universities, citing as an official reason the desire to combat the economic insecurity of young people. However, the various proposed reforms (the LMD reform, the “equal opportunities” law and his famous Contrat Première Embauche (First Engagement Contract), currently the law on university autonomy, etc.) only reinforce the gap between students from working-class backgrounds and those from affluent backgrounds. If the government’s plan really aimed at equality for all students, a series of concrete measures would be implemented: the aid system based on social criteria would be improved (students like Laura would then receive scholarships), the number of places in student dormitories ( cité -U) would have increased significantly, “student jobs” would be properly paid and better adapted to the needs and skills of each student, etc. But the government’s plan is not just about equality.

But when it comes to issues of gender equality and wealth equality, leaders are still cautious… 1 Eva Clouet is 23 years old and studying for a master’s degree 2 in sociology – “Gender and social policies”.

2 By convention, we will use the term “prostitute” to refer to men, women and transsexuals who offer sexual services in exchange for payment.

3 In February 2006, 138 second-year psychology and medicine students at the Nantes university campus were surveyed on student and non-student prostitution. The results of this survey showed that, according to this sample, the “typical profile” of a prostitute in France was “young (84.8% of respondents), female (97.8%), foreign (82.6%), who hang around on the street (71.3%)”. This “profile” is an echo of the one circulated quite regularly in the media – when talking about prostitution networks in particular – emphasizing the most visible form of prostitution (picking on public roads). However, according to the work of the “prostitution mission” of the association Médecins du Monde (Nantes branch), street prostitution represents only 40% of the total prostitution in France.

4 Persons who belong to a social category recognized as such; for example, students, middle-class youth, etc. 5 Janine Mossuz-Lavau and Marie-Élisabeth Handman , La Prostitution à Paris, Paris, Éditions de la Martinière , 2005, p. 13.

6 On this topic, see the testimony of Sélénia , a student who prostituted herself for a year on the streets of Toulouse, in E. Philippe, ” Étudiante , je me climbing prostitute “, Esprit Femme ( mensuel ), February 2007, no. 21, pp. 56-57.

7 Pascal Lardellier , Le Cœur Net – Célibat et amour sur le Web, Paris, Belin, 2004, p. 65.

8 Extract from the “notes d’intention ” of the author and director Yann Reuzeau for his piece Les Débutantes – Prostituées en quelques clics , performed between November 2006 and February 2007 at the Manufacture des Abbesses in Paris. 9 Christelle Schaff , Prostitution en France: l’enquête , Éditions de la Lagune, 2007, p. 50.

10 Of course, not all online prostitutes are independent: many work for “agencies”, some under pressure from pimps, especially with the establishment of “tours”, real slave networks. “Touring” Prostitute: Refers to a prostitute/escort working for a pimp. The pimp puts her up for a period – of varying duration – in a hotel in a large Western city, where he receives a large number of customers each day (often more than 10 a day), and then moves her to another city. Recruitment networks (mainly in Eastern Europe) and recruiting are done via the Internet. The words “on tour” indicate that the prostitute is “on tour”, making the “tour” of major Western cities. In May 2000, a complementary office was created at OCRETH (Office Central de Répression de la Traite des Êtres Humans ) to fight crime related to new technologies. OCLCTIC (Office Central de Lutte contre la Criminalité tied aux Technologies de l’Information et de la Communication – Central Office for Combating Information and Communication Technologies Crime) is responsible for combating minor crimes as well as crimes related to pimping.

11 Matthew Franchon and Andréas Bitesnich , ” Salariées le jour , escort girls la nuit “, Choc (weekly), June 28, 2007, no. 87, pp. 26-33.

12 In the jargon of escorts, “taboos” refer to sexual practices that the escort refuses to do within a commercial relationship. Instead, the phrase “no taboos” refers to an escort that accepts all kinds of practices.

13 Blog : A website that consists of a collection of posts arranged in chronological order. Each post (also called “note” or “article”) is an addition to the blog, like a diary or personal journal. The blogger (the person who manages the blog) posts a text, often enriched with hyperlinks and multimedia elements, which every reader can generally comment on.

14 Malika Nor, La Prostitution , Paris, ed. Le Cavalier Bleu, 2001, p. 54.

15 This voluntary, amateur prostitution is also the subject of his last play. It features Marion , a 19-year-old medical student who, in order to continue her studies, occasionally prostitutes herself on the Internet. Yann Reuzeau , Les Débutantes – Prostituées en quelques clics , theater play (2006), performed between November 2006 and February 2007 at La Manufacture Des Abbesses , Paris.

16 According to the Observatoire de la Vie Étudiante (OVE): In France, 47% of students have a paid job in addition to their studies and 15% of them work at least six months a year, at least part-time. 17 Christelle Schaff , op. quote p. 140.

18 For my study, I met a young student who had been a street prostitute for two years and now uses the Internet – considered “less risky than the street” – to find clients. He doesn’t have an ad or a blog, but he logs on to gay dating sites to make new contacts. In his view, the under-representation of men – and therefore students – as “providers” of “paid sex” is a matter of supply and demand. “The male demand for ‘free’ heterosexual sex is greater than the supply – hence the institution of female prostitution to ‘make up’ this gap. On the other hand, the gap between the demand and supply of ‘free’ male homosexual sex is smaller. Therefore, there are fewer male prostitutes than female prostitutes because the demand competes with “free sex”.

19 Sprijinul din partea părinților și a altor membri ai familiei reprezintă aproape 44,6% din resursele studenților [figura CRL-DOC, 1992] – Olivier Galland și Marco Oberti , Les Étudiants , Paris, La Découverte , 1996, p. 67.

20 În studiul meu, am întâlnit două escorte studențești al căror scop principal nu era câștigul financiar. Ambii au fost (ușor) susținuți financiar de părinții lor. 21 Jean-Marc Philibert , “Despre prostituție câștigă cadavre bancs de la fac”, Le Figaro, 30 octombrie 2006, p. 11.

22 Jean-François Dauriac a fost succesiv director al lui Crous la academia Créteil (din 1992 până în 2001) și apoi la academia de la Versailles (până în 2004). În 2000, Claude Allègre – pe atunci ministru al educației – l-a întrebat pe J.-F. Dauriac să întocmească un raport privind situația economică a studenților din Franța în vederea punerea în aplicare a unui “Plan de bunăstare a studenților”. Jean-François Dauriac , Notă de synthesis du rapport au ministre de l’Éducation nationale , de la Recherche et de la Technologie sur la mise en œuvre du plan social étudiant , Paris, 2000.

23 Jean-Marc Philibert , op. citat – Franța are în prezent 2.200.000 de studenți.

24 De exemplu, Pierre Bourdieu și Jean-Claude Passeron , Les Héritiers : les étudiants de la culture , Paris, Éditions de Minuit . 1989; Raymond Boudon, L’Inégalité des chances – La mobilité sociale dans les societies industrielles , Paris, Armand Colin, 1979; François Dubet , ” Les étudiants “, în F. Dubet și colab., Universités et villes , Paris, L’Harmattan, 1994; Stéphane Beaud , 80% au bac… et après ?, Paris, La Découverte , 2003; M. Euriat și C. Thelot , “Le recrutement social de l’élite scolaire en France”, Revue française de sociologie, XXXV1-3, iulie-septembrie 1995, pp. 403-438.

25 În 2006, ajutorul pentru studenți sa ridicat la 6 miliarde EUR, de care au beneficiat 2,2 milioane de studenți. Sursa: Laurent Wauquiez , Les aides aux students: comment refresher l’ascenseur social, Paris, 2006.

26 Claude Grignon (Președintele Comitetului științific al OVE), Les étudiants in dificultate : Pauvreté et précarité – Rapport au ministre de la Jeunesse , de l’Éducation nationale et de la Recherche , Paris, 2003. 27 Claude Grignon , op. citat

28 Thomas Laqueur , Thomas Laqueur , La. Fabrique du sexe – Essai sur le corps et le genre en Occident, Paris, Gallimard, 1992.

29 Cu toate acestea, părinții supraveghează practicile sexuale ale copiilor lor, în special privind riscurile de infecții cu transmitere sexuală sau sarcină neplanificată. – Michel Bozon , Sociologie de la sexualité , Paris, Armand Colin, 2005, p. 54. 30 Michel Bozon , ibidem, p. 16. LAURA D Cu colaborarea lui Marion Kirati Scump Studii

Student 19 ani Ocupatia: prostituata Martor postfață lângă Eva Clouet

“Unul cuvânt pe această pagină și totul începe … Fuziunea dintre hârtie și cerneală, dintre tine și mă… Iubirea, una transcenzând-o pe cealaltă, cealaltă răspunzându-i. Momentul cele două devin una; Scrisul, aventura noastră, această carte. Acel moment în care mă mișcă. Realitatea cuvintelor, a faptelor, a groazei scrise… Oroarea unui Student care deformează timpul… O carte despre Laura, dar Laura este mai mult decât o persoană… Ea este prea mulți oameni deodată, trebuie să deschidem ochii, să reacționăm…”

Acest cartea a fost scrisă în colaborare cu Marion Kirat, o traducere veche de 23 de ani student. Introducere Nu închide ochii

Acum Stă în fața mea cu boxerii pe el. În lenjeria mea intimă, îl privesc Uită-te lung la mine. Știu că în mai puțin de un minut mă va întreba să stau lângă el și că după aceea corpul meu nu va mai fi al meu timp de o oră. O oră pentru 100 de euro.

Meu numele este Laura, am 19 ani. Sunt student la limbi moderne și sunt m-am forțat să mă prostituez pentru a-mi plăti studiile.

Sunt Nu este singurul în această situație. Se pare că există alți 40.000 de studenți ca mine. Totul a urmat o logică bizară, fără ca eu să-mi dau seama cu adevărat de asta Căzusem.

Eu Nu m-am născut cu o lingură de argint în gură. Nu am cunoscut niciodată luxul sau bogăție, dar până anul acesta mi-a lipsit degeaba. Setea mea de învățare și Convingerile m-au făcut întotdeauna să cred că anii studenției vor fi cei mai mulți frumos, cel mai lipsit de griji. Nu m-am gândit niciodată că primul meu an de facultate s-ar transforma într-un coșmar care m-ar face să fug din orașul meu natal.

La 19, nu te prostituezi pentru bani de buzunar. Nu-ți vinzi corpul cumpărați haine sau cafea. O faci când trebuie și te convingi că va fi ceva temporar, suficient pentru a vă plăti facturile, chiria și hrană. Prostituatele studente nu sunt ca cele pe care le găsești pe stradă. Sunt Nu sunt dependenți de droguri, nu sunt fără acte și nu toți provin din săraci Fundaluri. Pot avea pielea albă, pot fi francezi și pot veni din familii cu mijloace modeste. Ceea ce au toate în comun este dorința de a studiați într-o țară în care este nevoie de tot mai mulți bani pentru a face acest lucru. Povestea ta sunt pe cale să citească are loc într-un mare oraș francez. L-am numit V. pentru a proteja părinții mei. Nu trebuie să știe. Ei nu trebuie să știe niciodată. Eu sunt aproapele lor fiica model. Încăpățânat, dar nu neglijent.

Of course, people can criticize me for not keeping a crap job to get out of the crap. Most student prostitutes, as was my case, have a small job on the side, but still can’t get out of the red. Prostitution and its astronomical rates are too much of a temptation when you’re strapped for cash and need to find it in a hurry.

This is my story and although it was not easy for me to tell it, my main motivation was to lift the veil on the hypocrisy surrounding student prostitution. The precarious living conditions of today’s students can no longer be ignored. For now, too few people are aware of the existence of this scourge.

The purpose of this story is to raise awareness, to change things so that underprivileged students never again have to sell their bodies to pay for their education. So that we are no longer shocked only by the traffic from other countries, but also focus our efforts on the cases in France.

And so that, finally, this never happens again, so that we never turn a blind eye. Chapter 1 Convocation of the meeting September 4, 2006 I walk leisurely through the university campus in V. Today is no ordinary day because I am enrolling in LEA, Spanish and Italian.

Two weeks ago, I received a letter telling me that at 2.30 pm I had to go to the university secretariat to submit the application file and get my student card. I was overwhelmed with emotion and rushed to gather all the necessary documents. It’s a lot of paperwork, but I managed to get through it. The most exciting part was the integration of the baccalaureate file, because it marks the end of an era. I also went to take some hasty photos in the subway, where I have a big smile, a winning smile.

When I woke up in the morning, I carefully studied the subway route so that I could reach the university on time. I really didn’t want to miss the sign up. I even cheated on public transport because I didn’t have enough money to pay for my ticket. I promised myself that I would not do that again this year and buy a membership, even if it is expensive. I am convinced that the university will change many things in my life.

In the subway, I couldn’t sit still, excited to discover the place where I would study and spend so much time. My Walkman , to which I am usually plugged, had failed to quell my heightened excitement. I even triple checked to make sure I had all the documents I needed to sign up. I couldn’t imagine being there and being told, “Sorry, miss, but your application is incomplete and you can’t get your card. You’ll have to come back again.” No, today was the day I became a student, not any other day.

I was so nervous that I almost missed the stop. At the last moment, the cheerful voices of a group of young people brought me out of my reverie. They were scrambling to get off the train, which reminded me that I was going to get off there too. I will have to get used to my new status: I am now a student, not a high school student. I am 18 and a half years old.

I arrived at the campus at 14.00 sharp. I didn’t really know where to go when I got out of the subway, so I followed the group of students. Realizing I still had some free time, I walked around a bit to get an idea of the place. I looked at a map displayed outside the subway station, but I didn’t want to get lost, so I looked to see exactly where I was. The campus looks like a real village. There are even signs pointing to the different buildings. On the map, I spotted what will be my future place of study: “Faculty of Foreign Languages, Building F”. Building F, that’s where I’ll be studying this year. At that precise moment, I can’t wait to meet her, to walk up and down her steps like a regular, to know which shortcut to take to get there. I can’t wait to be a part of that world.

I decided to take a quick look before signing up. I couldn’t go home without seeing where I would be studying for my bachelor’s degree in the next three years. Once there, I squinted into the September sun, remembering last summer. The building is pretty basic, but I don’t care. In my eyes today, it is synonymous with the future.

I chose modern languages a bit out of spite, I admit. I wanted to go into marketing and go to a school that would give me exceptional training. I have always been a dynamic person who likes responsibility. I like the constant stimulation and the challenge that a sale can present. I think I also wanted to have a very clear view of the world of work as quickly as possible. I wanted to be as well prepared as possible for my future job. I was looking for a total break with the high school environment, which was a burden to me, with its protectionism and infantilism. And let’s be honest, after business school it’s often much easier to find a job than after university. And a well-paid one, too.

But this dream is impossible for me at the moment. Schools are way too expensive for me. And taking out a loan requires a multi-year commitment that I can’t afford. Basically, I don’t even think my application would have been accepted. Beyond full repayment, I can’t even make regular monthly payments at this point. So I gave it up and now study modern languages strategically. I am confident that after I get my LEA degree in Spanish and Italian, I will be able to go on to a business school, where mastery of modern languages is essential. Plus, Latin America has seen considerable economic growth in recent years, and with my Spanish and Italian, I’ll be ready for the onslaught. And who knows, maybe I’ll outdo everyone else with this extra cultural baggage? As I stand in front of Building F, my head is full of dreams.

I always had clothes on me and food on my plate. But I never experienced the ease and carefree nature of money. My father works as a laborer and my mother is a nurse. Both earn only the minimum wage in the economy, with two children to raise. Enough to make it to the end of the month, but never a surplus. I am not entitled to any scholarship because I am one of those countless students who fall into the fatal category: very far from what one would call rich, but not poor enough to receive student aid. After adding up the two family incomes, the government decides that my parents can support me. There is no way out: I have to make do with what we don’t have.

I cut my walk short because I really want to get to the secretariat on time. I can’t resist anymore, I want to have my student card in my hand. I was about to run away.

Once there, there was a line of people all the way to the outside of the building. I waited patiently, like the novice that I was. But they told me that at 14.30 it was mandatory. This was my first taste of student life, which often consists of waiting for hours in front of administrative offices.

Just as I was heading to the line, two girls in different colored t-shirts literally pounced on me. – Hi, are you in first year? – Yes, and you?”, I say with a rather surprised smile.

One of the girls looks at me strangely. It’s not the answer he was expecting, and he apparently has no intention of engaging in conversation with me. Very quickly, however, he answers me with a smile: I am easy prey.

Their only reason for approaching me is to get me to sign up for student social security. I quickly realized from what they were telling me that they were doing this work before classes started and were paid on commission. It is evident that they are in competition with each other, or even at war, because, without using violent gestures, they constantly interrupt their conversations and almost hug each other to get in my face. I don’t really understand what I should do, everything is so new to me. They talk fast and stupidly, and I only catch one word out of two. They both try to make a convincing presentation, and their speech becomes totally incomprehensible. I just revel in this surreal spectacle while feeling sorry for them. They do what they do to make some money and I would bet my life that they are as meek as lambs.

– So, have you made a choice? The two fighters look at me, the fight is over. I use my judgment to decide. I didn’t listen to them. – The thing is… I already have social security!

Yes, obviously, that’s a good excuse. One of them, obviously disappointed and considering that she had no more time to waste with me, left immediately. The other one let me go after a few minutes, trying one last time to make me believe that sometimes two welfares are better than one, and that mine might not be the best, so if you reconsider the choice for a moment, you would realize that… blah blah blah _

In the face of such meaningless pleading, I step aside to join the queue. It’s 2:30 p.m., the time of my appointment, but I certainly can’t get past everyone, even with very good explanations, to get into the secretariat. So I decide to wait quietly and take a seat behind a huge man. I look at his citation, identical to mine. Write “14:00” in red marker right in the middle of the sheet. 14 o’clock! But how long has it been there?

From the sidelines, I hear the voices of the regulars, the “veterans” of the fourth or fifth year, who complain about the immobility of the queue. It has to be the same every year. But never mind, I have neither the desire nor the energy to be upset today. So I don’t throw a tantrum or join the general protest.

After half an hour, though, I’m starting to wonder if I’ve been forgotten. I intercepted a man wearing a university badge. – I’m sorry, but I had a meeting at 2:30 p.m. I’ve been waiting for almost half an hour.

As we spoke, I waved the summons in his face. Without even looking at her, he replied contemptuously: – Yes, miss, just like everyone else here. – So what are you going to do? Should I keep waiting? Am I really going to come today? – We do what we can.

“We’re doing our best…” That’s not an answer! I’ve just had my first run-in with university administration and it’s not exactly a victory or a relief.

Faced with such an evasive answer, I decide to wait. I reproach myself for not having brought a book with me; I would have passed the time intelligently. I rummage through my bag though, but nothing, not even a newspaper or a stupid leaflet to read. I regret sending the two girls for a walk so soon; I could have at least gotten them a brochure, that would have kept me busy for five minutes.

Stupidly, I dressed smart today. I wore very old heels, like I was going to an important meeting. But now, standing in line, I hate myself for making such a choice. If I dared, I would go barefoot.

After an hour and a half of waiting, I finally reach the secretariat. I look at all the busy ticket offices to see who can free up a seat for me first. I mutter words, I’m tired today. The good mood is gone, I just want to get my card and go.

Finally, a young woman beckons me. I rush towards her with a smile on my face, happy to know that I will soon be done. She looks at me like I’ve made an embarrassing joke that only I can laugh at. He’s not exactly the type of person who would do anything to cheer you up!

Then comes the tricky part with the bill. – Do you pay by check?

Yes, my mother wrote me the check last week. A blank check. I can still hear her saying to me, “Laura, be very careful not to lose it! Imagine if someone found it! I’ve always been careful with money, and as soon as I had that check in my hand, I realized the power it had. I carefully put it in a bag, which I then placed in the locked drawer of my desk. I am the only one who can open it, and even if I trust my friend, who I live with, I prefer to take precautions. You never know.

– Yes, by check! – So, since you don’t have a scholarship, but you have social insurance for students, that gives us a total of… 404.60 euros!

What a ridiculous amount! I hand him the check, trying to hide my grimace. Without a word, she stamps and scribbles marks on all my documents and points me to the student card office. Everything was ready in two minutes.

The card man was no friendlier and almost snatched my degree certificate from my hand. In a mechanically controlled gesture, he prints my student card on plastic, hands it to me, and tears off the next sheet.

I don’t care anymore, I finally got my student card. That’s it, a new page opens in my life! I’m confident, serene, holding my future in my hands, on this stupid piece of plastic. Laura D. Year 1 LEA. Spanish. Class. I go back to the subway, I feel calm. Chapter 2 Requirement

September 8, 2006 I cross the threshold of my apartment, where I live with my friend Manu, after a day’s work at the restaurant. We have been dating for a year and moved in together two months ago.

This in the conditions where at the beginning of the year I was desperately looking for a solution for my home. I had no money to my name and my parents could not help me financially. Besides, they don’t live in V. Ever since my baccalaureate results, I knew I would have to study there myself. Manu was already living there since the beginning of his physics studies and I was excited about the idea of joining him in the city. So I started looking for an apartment. I scoured Crous and his classified ads to find a maid. I quickly realized that a real apartment was far too expensive, if not unaffordable. All I wanted was a roof over my head, but even that seemed out of reach. I wasn’t expecting anything fancy. In any case, my finances would not have allowed me to do so.

I was at a standstill. Since I didn’t have a scholarship, I didn’t receive any help from the state, and my parents couldn’t afford to pay 200 euros a month for rent. I didn’t even get housing benefit. Other than finding a job or dropping out of school, I didn’t see any way to get by. Crous favored students with subsidies for accommodation in student rooms. Many students work at the same time, but it is often the same students who fail exams or drop out mid-year. I couldn’t stop my studies, I knew my future was at stake. Quitting for a job would have meant giving up my ambitions.

I continued to frantically search for a miracle in the pages of free newspapers where there were ads. At the same time, I even went to shelters to take an interest. I tried to convince myself that this was my only chance to study and that once I got there I could try to find something else. But the idea of spending the night in a hostel made me shudder, it seemed so humiliating.

I was desperate that I couldn’t find a satisfactory solution. One day, when I was crying out of anger, Manu jumped at me. – We could live together! Would be awesome! We could both find an inexpensive rental and be together all the time!

His eyes shone. I liked the idea, but financial difficulties held me back. – Manu, I can’t, I don’t have money! I barely have money for a work room, so an apartment for two!

– You will be able to find a job in parallel with your studies, and the university will not take so much of your time!

I had my reservations. Manu comes from a relatively affluent family and sometimes does not meet all the expenses that I have to face. To convince him that I could manage to combine my studies with paid work, Manu showed me the university’s website, where the course schedule was posted. I had a lot, but it was manageable. I was seduced by this piece of dream that Manu was offering me.

– You see, it’s possible, that’s for sure! Come on, say yes, it will be wonderful to be together all the time! And when it comes down to it, you have no choice!

It’s true that I didn’t really have a choice. I jumped into his arms for joy. So Manu welcomed me to his apartment the very next day. For me, it was the ultimate luxury. I felt like a princess in this palace! I left my two heavy suitcases in the hall and began to spin around the apartment, dragging her with me.

My parents were relieved by this solution, even though they didn’t like Manu very much. They preferred that to their daughter doing a menial job or, worse, sleeping on the streets.

I worked all summer at a restaurant down the street so I could at least pay for the groceries. With the little I had left, he gave me some pocket money.

This is our understanding: he pays the rent and bills and I take care of the rest, given my financial situation. In fact, even if he doesn’t tell me, I know for a fact that he doesn’t pay the rent. His mother pays his rent every month as well as a generous amount of pocket money. I say nothing about it, I love him too much and, living with him, I consider it normal to contribute to the expenses within my means. I manage as best I can. Sometimes when I go to my parents’ house, I take what I find in the fridge or what my mother gives me. This summer, everything worked perfectly. We were happy as we were, we prepared small meals together and sometimes we went out with friends for a drink. Most of the time, I was sitting in front of the TV, me curled up in his arms, him always with a joint in his mouth. With my friend by my side, everything seemed so much easier.

Tonight I come home from work exhausted, after two overtime hours that I know I won’t get paid for. I’m totally exploited by this job, but it’s the only solution I’ve found for now to make a financial contribution. I also know that with this job, like this all year, I would be tired all the time, but for now I don’t really have anything better to do. I’ll find something else when I get the schedule, when I know exactly what time I have classes.

Manu is there in front of the TV. I give him a lively “hello” as I sit down next to him and plant a huge kiss on his mouth. Something strange is happening, he is not responding to my excitement. – What happens? Is everything alright? – Yes, I’m fine, he answers evasively.

– Are you sure? It really doesn’t seem… Manu turns off the TV and finally looks at me. He hesitates for a moment, then suddenly decides: – Laura, this year we will live together and I want to help pay the rent. I stop for a moment, still looking at him.

– Yes, I understand that. But I don’t make much in the restaurant, so how much do you want me to give you? – Half the rent, 300 euros. You see, I won’t be able to handle it on my own…

Alone! What a liar! He knows very well that I barely make that much as a waitress and that after I pay him, I have nothing left. To cheer myself up, I tell myself that this is my chance to stop being a waitress and find another job.

– Okay, I guess I’ll have to find another job. – Yes, I think you’re right. As for the shopping, we’ll take it in turns every two weeks, okay? Does he ask me to do all the shopping too? OMG!

Lack of money always puts people in such an embarrassing position that they dare not answer. I just nod my head: – Okay, as you say.

I sit on the couch and turn on the TV so I don’t have to talk. It’s the only way we’ve found to break the awkward silence between us. At night, I fall asleep in his arms to convince myself that these money problems are normal and won’t tear us apart.

Two days later, I signed up with a telemarketing firm for a part-time job. Chapter 3 Back to school September 11, 2006

With the timetable in hand, I run not to miss the first hour. I just left the secretariat where I registered. I thought I was relieved of all administrative obligations after the interminable wait of the past few days, but I was wrong!

After administrative registration, I had to go to the modern language building to register for classes. I only have about twenty hours of classes spread out over the week. I was looking forward to this timetable, to be able to organize and structure my life. I will be able to continue working in parallel with my studies. Starting tomorrow, I will be able to call the telemarketing company to review my hours.

The whole procedure was quite quick, I was given the timetable quickly, but now I’m late for the first lesson. A glance at the newspaper tells me I must go to the third floor for an hour of Spanish civilization. I run up the stairs, eager to learn.

I slowly enter the room, the other students are already seated. I mumbled an inaudible “excuse me”. The teacher gives me a quick glance, then turns back to the call list. – Who are you? – Laura, Laura D.

After scribbling something on the paper, he motions for me to take a seat. I take a seat next to another young girl. The vast majority of the room, and certainly the entire class, were female.

The teacher asks us to fill out a form to get to know each other better. Ah, the famous formulas! Up until then, it hadn’t really been that different from high school – we were required to ask for one for every lesson. By the end of the week, I’ll probably end up answering them in just a few seconds.

The form includes a “Career Plans” box. I have thought a lot about this question. Do I know what I really want to do? I want to work in business, yes, but what exactly? I have a lot of beliefs about the type of responsibilities that would suit me perfectly, but is there a specific job for this? I write down everything I dream of, I entrust all my expectations to this unknown person, all the hopes that the university represents for me. But something is missing.

I chew my pencil and look up at the ceiling. Then, after a few minutes, I write at the very bottom of my dream inventory for the future: Live life to the fullest.

It’s not the answer the teacher is looking for, of course, if they’re looking for a specific one, but it’s the one that suits me best.

I started the lesson and with each passing minute I thanked the heavens for giving me the gift of being in this room. My mother had to pay over 400 euros for me to be here, but she did it without hesitation, knowing very well that my future depended on it, she who always only wanted the best for her daughters . I will learn, I will succeed.

The course is only in Spanish. My father is Spanish, and even though he never spoke to me in his native language, I learned Spanish when I was on vacation with his family. The teacher gives us a sheet of paper with the list of books for this year.

– If you want to do well, you will have to read them all very carefully and take a lot of notes. I drink in her words. Yes, of course I’ll read them all, I’ve always loved reading, no problem!

– There are some that you won’t find in the library. I kept asking for them, but they still haven’t arrived, so you’ll probably have to pay for them out of pocket, or agree to let me borrow them…

I’m not too happy about it. Books in the original language are always very expensive, at least 15 euros, and although I hope to be able to afford one or two, I will not be able to cover all these additional costs.

I look at the book, fearing it will be exhaustive. I grit my teeth when I see about ten books to buy. I quickly put it back in my bag, not wanting to ruin my day. I have plenty of time to think about it.

– In addition, I do not accept repeated and unjustified absences. After three absences, I will not allow you to appear in my exam. That’s it, plain and simple. It’s up to me to decide if I really want to pass or not. The books are in my hands.

The hour passed quickly and I wasn’t bored for a second, unlike at school where I looked at the clock every five minutes. I headed to the next class, where I saw a real classroom for the first time. I was so impressed it took my breath away. I’m not the only one; many people stop for a few seconds to admire the huge auditorium. Only the repeaters were hurrying to choose a seat. It’s the same for them as for inscriptions, they know what they’re doing, they can afford to be blasé.

I contemplate the place, I already know that I will like learning here. I’ll be just a needle in a haystack, no one will notice me, no one will know me. The professors won’t interrupt their classes to give me a reflection on my last assignment. University is a service: we are offered a course, which we are free to attend or not, which we are free to follow as we wish. University gives you a sense of responsibility – I’m just one of many, but now I have to choose whether I want to take it or not. I like this atmosphere where we are already considered adults.

I’ve finally really broken up with high school. Even after just one day here, I feel like everything will be different. The last year has left indelible marks on me, sufferings that I am convinced I will not have to face here.

During my senior year, I remember one time when a history teacher publicly humiliated me in front of the whole class by attacking me personally. After a surprise test in which I had just received a very mediocre grade, he called me “incapable”, to which I responded with the most indifferent fluttering of my eyelashes. I was perfectly capable of accepting his comments about me being a little person, but in reality it didn’t matter to me because this teacher didn’t care about me in the slightest and always treated me like a child. Drama came with the following phrase.

– No reaction, Laura? I don’t congratulate you, it seems to me that you should seriously reconsider your future, which is shaky at the moment. So much cruelty for my first and only below average grade! But it didn’t stop there.

– Admit it, you’re very distracted and you don’t follow your lessons properly. You only reap what you sow, Laura. Your parents seem to me to be very irresponsible…

The word “parents” made my blood run cold. How could that man allow himself to judge my family, and still on such a trivial note? I went crazy in a second. My tablemate tried to stop me, but it was too late, anger was already coursing through my veins, and before the curious teacher had time to retaliate, I threw the table and everything on it. My anxiety attacks have never been as bad as they were that day. I grabbed my bag and ran.

The next day, I registered for the baccalaureate as an independent candidate. I just couldn’t stand the childish atmosphere of that place anymore, so I just left. Now I know I overreacted and should have swallowed my pride. But at the time I was unable to do so. My parents didn’t understand at all and at first thought it was just a temporary crisis. But when they saw that I no longer wake up in the morning and received my registration confirmation as a free candidate, they understood the seriousness of my decision. However, they continued to wake me up every morning, shaking me to send me to high school, but I wouldn’t go. My mother begged me to go back to school, she even cried.

– You are completely reckless! You will ruin everything! Laura, please, your studies are too important to give up on a whim! You can’t do anything without your bachelor’s degree! You can’t quit, not three months before the baccalaureate!

I never told my parents the reason for my decision. They would have been too sad. I shook my head and said I would never go back. From that moment on, my father never spoke to me again. We weren’t talking much already, but I had just added another layer to his disappointment. Even now, I can feel when he wants to hug me and tell me he loves me, but he stops and slowly walks away without saying a word.

For three months, I worked from home, learning about the courses and books in the program. My mother gave me a hand, hiding me from my father, who did not – and never would – agree with my decision. In July, I got my baccalaureate with honors. How proud I felt that day! My mom cried with joy when I told her on the phone. That evening, dad didn’t say a word either, and we ate dinner in silence, because there was no question of celebrating anything.

I was very lucky, I realize now. But was it really luck, or was it an exaggerated desire to succeed? In that precise moment, in that amphitheater, I know that this cannot happen to me. As a rule, teachers have too many students to remember all their names, to take them into account and therefore to insult them. Here, you work only for yourself.

I have a few other classes during the day: translation, language lab. After five hours of lessons, I return to my cozy nest where my love awaits. It really is a beautiful day, how could I be happier? I have a boyfriend who loves me and with whom I live in the center of V., I study and even if I don’t have much money, I am healthy. What more could you ask for?

I board the crowded subway train. I will make it this year, I know it, I feel it, I want it. Chapter 4 Everyday life October 4, 2006

I come home from school exhausted. On Wednesday evening I finish at 20:00, and then I have to take the metro for three quarters of an hour. I’m tired from the previous evening: I finished work at 9:00 p.m. As I travel I think of Manu, I can’t wait to see him again. I think about the little dish he will have prepared for me and maybe the table will be set and a few candles will be blown out.

When I get home tonight, I also know we’ll be talking about the last month we’ve spent together. I dread this moment, because I know we have a lot on our minds that we don’t talk about. Our life is more and more like a shared apartment. We only see each other in the evening, and when I get home I have a quick meal and then I start studying the lessons.

At first, Manu was content with this, occasionally making a slight huff, but he would only say to me: – Come on, continue your work, you have work to do.

He spent his evenings in front of the television and did not do much for the university. I silently exiled myself to the bedroom and kissed him one last time.

Manu is part of that small minority of people who are naturally gifted. He excels in his field, although I have never seen him actually work. Sometimes I’m jealous of him, his intelligence and his ability to deal with things as they come. I often work very late at night.

Then, when he wants to go to bed, Manu walks gently into the bedroom: this is the signal for me to go work in the kitchen, on the plastic table. Manu is already fast asleep when I join him in bed. I lie down and fall asleep. In the morning, I go to university or work, depending on the day of the week.

I’ve loved this routine so far because I’ve lived it with him. At the telemarketing company , I earn around 400 euros. I paid him the long-awaited rent of 300 euros for the month of September, pretending not to know that he would spend it with his friends at parties, smoking and so on. Now I don’t have much left to end the month, I have no way to have fun, shop or even go out with my friends. But I don’t want to spoil anything, our story is too beautiful. I have never loved anyone as much as Manu.

But very quickly, in barely a month, things got worse. Tired of having to spend every evening in front of the TV, Manu started going out a lot and sometimes returning home at dawn. At first I put up with it because I had nothing better to offer between my books and my job. I am also happy that I have kept my independence and freedom. But lately, time seems to be running out for me. Very often, when I come home in the evening, Manu has already left to join his colleagues. I can tell if he’s been gone for a long time or not: sometimes there’s only the end of a joint left in the ashtray in the living room . He spends very little time with me. Exhausted by the pace of my life, I don’t have the strength or courage to wait for him and fall asleep alone in bed almost every night. I’m often tempted to sit on the couch and finish his joint , but I never do. First, because they might reproach me, but mostly because they would prevent me from working properly.

As the days go by, Manu is getting harsher and stingier towards me. All his money goes on going out and smoking. At first I thought I was fooling myself, unable to come to terms with this reality. But the facts are there: Manu is going through a very rough time with what is now just a regular flat-sharing arrangement, and he makes me feel it every day. I can no longer take life as lightly as I did under my parents’ roof.

Even worse, I have the distinct impression that Manu is teasing me. Always wears new clothes; in short, he can do everything I can’t do. A chasm has opened between us, a chasm that is no longer just financial, even if initially it was based only on money. I feel like we’re drifting apart day by day and there’s nothing I can do about it.

But tonight we planned to have a romantic dinner together. I’ve been begging him for a week, feeling like we need to meet. He relented, even offering to cook for me himself, so all I have to do is put my feet under the table. I purposely got ahead of myself with this week’s work. When I got out of school, I put on my make-up at a subway window so I’d look good when I got there. Not too much, just a bit of kohl under the eyes.

When I walk through the door, I feel like something is wrong. The apartment is far too quiet for Manu to be there. I have to admit it’s not there. I check the kitchen, trying to convince myself that he’s gone out to buy bread, but the room is empty and there’s no sign that he’s started eating. My stomach is churning, I’m very hungry. I didn’t have enough money to buy a sandwich for lunch, so I stayed in the library to study.

I sit in front of the TV and cry. The clock struck and Manu did not come home. I try to work but I can’t concentrate. I can’t even watch TV, my retina can’t print the images that pass by. Should I call a friend? What good? They’ll laugh at me and tell me that boys are all the same, that you can’t rely on them. Manu is not like that, Manu loves me deeply and cares for me.

But midnight approaches and Manu is still not there. I’m too proud to call him on my cell and I’m out of credit anyway. I’ve smoked all my tobacco, and the packet of rolling papers is lying on the table. Why is he doing this to me? Why me? I don’t work hard enough and so? After only one month, I can’t take it anymore, I’m exhausted all the time, for a few extra radishes, because I can barely see my money.

Suddenly, a key turns in the lock. I’m holding my breath, I never imagined that I would see Manu tonight. I quickly wipe my tears with the back of my hand, I don’t want to look at him like that, my makeup must have run.

The next thing I know, Manu is in the kitchen. I stare at him, he looks back at me with red jointed eyes and naturally says: – How are you? Don’t you learn? I feel like my body is exploding! He can’t be serious. It’s obvious he’s on drugs.

– What? You kidding me? Where have you been? Do you know I’ve been waiting for you all night? Shouldn’t we have dinner together tonight? I’m screaming, I can’t control myself. I am so tired that, as the words come out of my mouth, I wonder where I have so much energy.

Manu bows his head, he knows he hurt me.

– Look, Laura, I don’t know what happened, but I didn’t mean to, I swear. I was there in the kitchen and I really wanted to make you dinner. Then I opened the fridge and saw that you hadn’t bought anything. It was your turn to do the shopping, wasn’t it? Yes, it was your turn and you didn’t.

– Is that what it’s about? Are you going to let me cry all night just for this? Is this your punishment for me?

– No, Laura, it’s not just about shopping, it’s about everything. I know you don’t have the money, but we agreed to split the costs. Plus I just got my gas bill today so that added to it.

He looks straight into my eyes and doesn’t scream at all. Despite all my goodwill, I don’t understand what he’s saying, I don’t understand how he dares to say such a thing to me when I’m doing everything in my power to help him financially. I was always shy when it came to money.

– And like last time, I was the one who was going to do the shopping, because otherwise I wouldn’t have anything to eat. I’m tired of giving in, I’m tired of you relying on me all the time. So I went out for a walk, to see some friends, to think about nothing…

I remained silent, I really don’t know what else I could say. Manu has truly reached the height of his miserliness. He asks me for money for rent, shopping and bills, which adds up to almost 450 euros a month. I don’t have enough from my salary, so I supplement with the little pocket money my mother gives me every month. There are not many; the little he can afford, he gives to me. I stopped paying the flat rate for my phone for a month, putting apartment costs at the top of the list of expenses. In addition, I work fifteen hours a week at this telemarketing firm , twenty hours at university, plus the hours I spend on recaps. He doesn’t even work, and the money his mom puts into his account for rent every month he spends on joints and clothes, taking my share as well. In short, I don’t see myself as a profiteer in this situation, I’m involved and I deserve this apartment as much as he does.

But despite everything that’s going on, I love him dearly, and at this point I don’t even hate him. He impresses me too much for me to have anything to say about him. I am ashamed of my weakness for beautiful faces with charming eyes.

Finally, Manu takes me in his arms, gently, and I accept his embrace. It’s not a dramatic moment at all, I feel good in his arms, that’s all that matters. He releases me a few minutes later, looks at me with his big black eyes and suddenly says:

– Listen, I think that in the future, to avoid such situations, we will do our shopping separately, each for himself. It will be easier for everyone and we won’t have any more discussions like this. OMG. So everything that happened tonight wasn’t enough? Want to add another layer? – Does he want to?

– Yes, I really think it will be better for us. Plus, with our schedules, we never really eat together and we don’t like the same things anyway.

I still don’t say anything, but I’m thinking the same thing. What can I say, after all? I’m not going to try to convince the biggest miser on earth. The mere fact that it bothers him is enough for me to understand that there is nothing I can do about it. It’s stingy, it’s spoiled, and it’s going to stay that way for a long time. But he doesn’t realize the pain he’s causing me. My marriage is falling apart.

I nod, forcing a smile, but both he and I know something is wrong between us. Something about money. Maybe something to do with a difference in social class, which he ultimately can’t stand. His mother often says I’m not good enough for him.

The next day, when I come home from work, it made room for me in the cupboard where we usually put the cans. Chapter 5 Hunger October 26, 2006

My mother hands me the plate of chicken and keeps her eyes on me. He didn’t stop from the beginning of the meal. It’s All Saints Day and I’m visiting my parents for two or three days. I have not yet decided exactly how long I will stay. We are sitting at the table with my mother, my mute father and my sister who can’t stop talking.

– The chicken is good, isn’t it, Laura? says mom.

I know he doesn’t take his eyes off what I’m doing: I stick my fork into a beautiful leg, and with my other hand I grab it and devour it like an ogre. Today I eat like a quartet, I’m very hungry. This dinner is without a doubt the biggest feast I’ve had in a month.

– Yes, it’s delicious, I like it very much. My sister is the only one who talks and I’m the only one who really listens. I know my presence interferes with my father’s thoughts. He doesn’t talk much already, but when I’m around he’s quiet as a mouse.

Our relationship was always difficult, we always loved each other but in silence. My father is a person who commands respect. In his twenties, he left his native Spain to escape dictatorship and poverty and try his luck in France. He was raised in a very strict family, which pays a lot of attention to the observance of tradition. He always kept this natural coolness towards his daughters, especially towards me, as his father had done before with his children. I’ve always accepted this, because that’s how it works.

I know very well that he loves me, but he never told me, never expressed his feelings in words. I am the oldest and I know that I was a very wanted child. My parents spoiled me a lot when I was very young. But as I grew up and my relationship with my mother became closer, my father became more and more quiet, probably because he did not know how to handle his daughter. The aplomb I showed when he wanted to punish me seemed abnormal and disrespectful to him. Little by little, he closed himself in a bubble that amounted to ignoring me. As soon as I walk into the room, he only talks to me about the really essential things. I know I’ve let him down more than once with my behavior. The highlight was when I dropped out of senior year. My sister and I have always known that there are family preferences: I prefer my mother’s, she prefers my father’s… But we couldn’t help ourselves. But there was nothing we could do about it, and accepting the obvious meant we didn’t feel resentful or jealous.

I remember one day when I was 16, I left home for a month. I was in the living room with my parents and my sister and I was looking at the couch I was sitting on. It was a very old sofa, made of green fabric, which I had always seen at home. It was so old that one day, when I was still a baby, my mother decided to paint it dark red to hide the obvious wear and tear. While listening to TV, I scratched a spot on the armrest where the paint had never set.

Suddenly I burst out: – Maybe we should paint it green again. She’s been red for a long time and needs a makeover. Dad answered me, without looking at me for a moment: – This sofa was never green. His tone was dry and dismissive, like I’d told him the dumbest story he’d ever heard.

– Of course it was, Dad, I still remember when Mom painted it. – This sofa was never green, I tell you. I tried to show him for several minutes that

That it was, that I remember it very well. I even dived into my photo albums to find proof of what I was saying. Seeing me rummaging through the shelves in the living room, my father went into a frenzy of unwarranted rage.

– Ah, you must always be right! You always have to be the smart one, the one who knows everything! he shouted. My mother and sister looked at him, transfixed. I didn’t move either, not knowing what to do with a photo album in my hand.

– I’m tired of you, your manners, your behavior. You are disrespectful to others, everything revolves around you, your little navel. Actually, I can’t stand you anymore, you’re just…shit! That’s shit!

He whispered the word and left for the kitchen. My sister screamed when she heard it. My father in all his glory, my father who does not beat the plains. But still, it stuck in my throat. My fists clenched and I took off running, while my mother stood up and was already trying to hold me back. I took my bag from the flight. My mother was crying and begging me not to go, and my sister was clinging to my arm. My father never moved from the kitchen.

– Mom, I can’t, I can’t do this anymore. Look at his condition, it’s unbearable. I will leave. – But where are you going? What are you going to do? – I’ll think about it myself.

And so I did. For a month, I lived with a friend and her parents. They didn’t try too hard to understand me, they just gave me some space in their house, it was a big house. I went to school with my friend every morning, and once a week I called my mother to give her some news.

I came back after a month because I didn’t want to take advantage of the kindness of my friend and her parents. When I returned, my father ignored me, as usual. He continued to ignore me even when the business went out of business. I was in terrible pain, but I didn’t know what to do to tell him or show him. I found out later that she had tears in her eyes the day I left.

So the situation we find ourselves in now, on this All Saints Day, is not exceptional. My sister speaks at the table to break the awkward silence. Then he gets bored of talking and stops. We finish our meal in silence.

In the evening, my mother takes me aside. I know he wanted to talk to me since I arrived. – Laura, tell me, are you eating well? – Yes, mother, you saw, I ate chicken twice tonight!

– No, Laura, I don’t mean that. Do you eat well at home? Do you and Manu have anything to eat?

So he noticed the obvious. I’ve lost a lot of weight in the last month since Manu and I each have our own food cupboard. At the beginning of September I weighed over 60 kilograms, I was even a little overweight, and now I have reached 50 kilograms. I come home late in the evening, tired, and often I don’t have time to make something to eat because I have to study. I run all day between university, library, work and apartment. Anyway, I have nothing in the cupboard except a half-used packet of pasta that has been lying around for two weeks. I often don’t eat lunch at university, and at the end of the week a sandwich ends up weighing in the balance. By not eating, I don’t really feel hungry anymore. Please, almost.

As for Manu, he often eats out with friends. I guess she’s using my rent money to indulge herself while I’m immersed in books. Other than that, we get along pretty well, we don’t argue. After all, we rarely see each other. But I still love him madly, even when I open the pantry and drool with envy over his can of pate or his pesto sauces that would make my pasta so much more appetizing.

One day I bought him a slice of Italian ham, thinking he wouldn’t notice. Unfortunately, he had to count them because he immediately realized the theft. I apologized profusely, telling him I was hungry and that I would buy him some more. Which I did the next day, taking the 5 euro bill that was supposed to last me three days. I could have pushed the vice so far that I only gave him back a slice, maybe he would have realized the stupidity of his behavior. But I don’t want to get into his game, I don’t care.

I definitely can’t tell all this to my mother, she would get scared and curse Manu. It would force me to return home, which is absolutely out of the question. – Don’t worry, mom, everything is fine. – You’d tell me if something was wrong, wouldn’t you?

– Of course I would tell you, mother! Do not worry. She looks at me with an eye that says a lot about her skepticism. He doesn’t believe me, but he can’t do anything if I don’t tell him the truth.

Two days later, when I left my parents’ house, my mother gave me a whole bag full of food, everything she could find. He winked at me as he handed it to me. – Be careful inside, dear. My father waved at me but didn’t kiss me. We haven’t kissed in years. Chapter 6

The shame November 16, 2006 In front of the Crous building , I hesitate to enter. I’m not sure I want to go there anymore. I step aside, not completely in front of the door.

It’s November and it’s cold. My weight loss has accelerated considerably in recent months. I feel like the cold is piercing me like never before. But I dressed very well this morning. Since I’ve lost so much weight, I’m always cold. I tremble everywhere, even indoors: at school, at work and at home.

Winter is fast approaching and we still haven’t turned on the heating in the apartment. At least, I don’t want to. Manu turns it on as soon as he gets home, before curling up on the couch like a pasha. I wait for him to leave and then I close it. I’ve been doing this since I had to pay some of the bills. Electricity, water and heating, that’s a lot together! Manu doesn’t care because he’s not the one managing these expenses. So he cranks up the heat while I covertly slow it down without being able to ask him for the favor.

At first I studied in my normal clothes, but I quickly realized that sitting in a chair for several hours without moving makes me feel the cold almost as if I was outside. So now, to work, I put on a real suit: a huge scarf knitted by my mother, a fleece sports jacket and knee-high socks. Manu laughed the first time he saw me like that, so did I for a few seconds when I looked in the mirror. In the end, there is nothing funny about this situation. I’ve finally gotten used to this extra weight on my fragile shoulders, and saving money keeps me motivated. I’d rather look like a high altitude explorer than have to pay 50 euros for an avoidable bill.

I put away all the money I can. No unnecessary expenses. Needless to say, I stopped shopping a long time ago. First of all, I don’t have time. Anyway, what’s the point of drooling over something I’ll never wear? So I don’t tempt the devil and carefully avoid window shopping. I finally got it into my head that I would never have the latest fashion trends. Of course, there are times when I’m envious of the new raw denim jeans , the new slim jackets and the new expensive shoes my colleagues are wearing. I can only look at them, to the point of embarrassment, sigh, and then go back to my sheep. I wish I could be strong enough to say that I can’t stand the consumer society and that it disgusts me, but let’s be honest: who doesn’t have desires and who wouldn’t be tempted by them? I’m young, advertising is everywhere: I’d be a perfect prey if I had money.

I envy the girls around me in class. Fresh and rested, some of them have never had to work to survive financially. Their parents earn more than enough money to support them. Sometimes they have to go shopping with their mother and show their envy by pouting in front of an item of clothing in a store, to which their mother responds by pulling out a credit card. Can’t blame them, I’d do the same in a heartbeat. I simply envy them for their peace of mind, while as for me, I shudder at the sight of a ticket inspector on the subway and constantly wonder how I’m going to make it through the month. I flinch when Manu nonchalantly asks me to pay my share of the rent. Am I the only one going through this? All these situations are so shameful that I cannot talk about them with my student friends. How could they understand? So I politely decline their invitation to dinner and shut myself up in the only free thing I have left: study.

None of this would really be a problem if I had something to eat. The state of my food cupboard is sadder than ever and my mother’s supplies did not last long. Easter, Easter and always Easter. I look at them as I prepare the food and it feels like they’re mocking me, like they’re reminding me that tonight, once again, I won’t have anything better. At first, I used to serve them with canned tomato sauce, but a night of indigestion made me give them up, and the mere thought of pasta bathed in cheap sauce makes me nauseous. “With butter, it’s not so bad after all.”

There is also a jar of Nutella , my little corner of happiness. I don’t eat more than a spoonful at a time to keep it as long as possible. It calms me down when I open the closet.

I stopped eating because I was very hungry. I realized that after a while the end comes and the human cycle resumes itself. After a few days of this diet, I don’t really feel any pain anymore. I made a habit of skipping breakfast and going from one day to the next at university with nothing in my stomach. Sometimes he makes strange noises during lessons, but I’ve gotten so used to their presence that I don’t really hear them anymore.

A girl in the class came back to my table and handed me a chocolate bar, mocking me lightly: – Come on, eat something, all we can hear is your stomach grumbling!

Embarrassed, I pecked her, trying to pretend I was amused by her joke. But I wasn’t laughing at all. Slowly, silently, I savored the chocolate bar. If I had been anywhere else, I would have devoured it in seconds, it was so tempting. I controlled myself, dignified, but I still picked the last crumbs from my notebook with my finger. I could have eaten one more.

In the evening, when I find time or energy to eat on the way home from university or work, I gobble up a bowl of rice pudding. And if I want to cheer myself up, a spoonful of Nutella at the end of my “meal”. It sure sounds sad, but this chocolate acts as a tranquilizer. Ling lick the spoon to the end, to make the most of the taste. I feel like I work better after that.

Then, at lunchtime, what had to happen happened. I collapsed in the middle of the lesson. Pulling too hard on the rope, I didn’t realize I was pushing all the limits my body could handle. People started to panic a bit, but I soon recovered and started working again. Some people insisted I go to the college infirmary, which I politely declined. I don’t need a doctor to know what I’m suffering from. I suffer because I have no money.

That was the day I decided to go to Crous to find a solution, a financial help. Lack of money is wreaking havoc on my health and I don’t feel ready to accept that reality. I am outraged that I have to struggle so much to eat, to eat in order to work. But once I’m out of the building, I don’t have the strength to go in. I never imagined I would end up at Crous for such a reason. I know a lot of students go there to ask for help, but that’s not in my character. For me, coming here is synonymous with defeat: I couldn’t handle it on my own. But let’s face it. I can’t do it alone, I need a little help. I can’t keep starving myself.

So I entered the building and kindly waited at the reception. A lady greeted me half an hour later after seeing a crowd of students in a hurry. In her office, I hit my stride.

– I came to see you because I am facing serious financial difficulties and I wanted to know if I could get help from your organization.

In a split second, I tell him about my life without money, about Manu and the rent, about my difficulties, about the lack I feel every day. I take the opportunity to observe it. She listens carefully and seems concerned about my story. She’s young, in her early 30s, and I’m sure she remembers her own penniless college years.

After a good quarter of an hour of explanation, I finally shut up, but she coughed at my silence as she waited for an answer. – All I can offer at the moment are meal vouchers for your meals at Crous . They are very cheap, a meal costs less than 3 euros!

I do a quick mental calculation. I can’t spend almost 15 euros a week for one meal a day. I came here hoping to be offered significant discounts for lunch AND dinner. – In other words, this is a small weekly amount for me. I wanted to know if you have any other solutions.

– In your case, I can think of only one way to not spend money on food: Restos du Coeur .

She said this slowly, very gently, aware of the psychological impact it would have on me. He did not fail. I looked at her with wide eyes. Now, in one sentence, I was at the bottom end of the French social ladder. So low that I can’t afford to eat, so low that I’m given food given to the homeless. I think I’m dreaming, I can’t believe he’s serious. But she continues to look at me, her eyes wide with understanding.

I mutter a vague thank you and ask her where I need to go to find Restos du Coeur . On a piece of paper, she scribbles an address in beautiful handwriting. She applies herself, perhaps to show me that she is moved by my story with Cosette . I greet her quickly, eager to get this over with. He shakes my hand warmly in the corridor before calling “next” in a shrill voice.

Once again, I face the November chill as I leave the building. With the small piece of paper in hand, I walk quickly to warm myself. I’m not going, it’s impossible. I cannot make up my mind to go to that place; I tell myself that I don’t need him that much after all. I almost feel like I’m “stealing” this food from these poor people who really have nothing. And most of all, I can’t relate to them, the homeless. I have a roof over my head, a job and I study. No, I decided, I’m happy with my pasta after all. After all, I’m not the first and I won’t be the last.

Chapter 7 end December 9, 2006

There comes a night in every life when you grow up too fast. Nothing will ever be the same again. Goodbye innocence. It’s one of those melancholy nights where your balance sheets ache. In this case, mine is financial. No money, bills begging for money, an apartment to pay for. Immersed in darkness, leaning back in my chair in front of Manu’s computer screen, I can barely control my finger as it frantically scrolls the mouse in search of a solution. One ad site, then another. A window, more or less hidden towards the bottom of the page and intended to be discreet, catches my attention: reserved for people over 18 years old. Two categories: “venal” or not. I am immediately tempted to choose the second one, as if I want to justify myself to someone. But the room is empty and I’m alone. Let’s be honest, money is clearly the main reason I’m on this site. Just out of curiosity, I tell myself, knowing full well that the limit has just been crossed. No special protection, I click (over 18, dammit!). In the “keyword” box, I enter my student status and my city.

An exhaustive list of candidates appears, which I scroll through with the mouse. So is it possible and that easy? I quickly scroll through the ads, which after a quick glance all look the same. The same words are repeated endlessly: “young girl”, “tender moments”, “dating”, “looking for”. I’m looking for money too, and fast. Stupidly classified under the more than dubious alibi of “massage”, the men who show up are on average more than 50 years old. Older than my own father. Dad, if you only knew… The major difference is that they have money, lots of money, and they seem willing to spend it on a fantasy that I am potentially capable of fulfilling. The rates, when mentioned, speak of hundreds of euros per hour. Is such a thing really possible? All these figures evoke my desire for possession within a second. I can already imagine with all this money in my ragged wallet, it would go everywhere! I am also talking about more hours in their company. Anyway, an afternoon in a life, I suppose, when you really need money, it’s not much. Maybe this is my solution, the one I’ve been waiting for. Comfort, and fast.

But I’ve managed without these conveniences so far, pretty well actually. My parents’ apartment in a social housing estate until the age of 18, the simplest clothes and a pack of cigarettes to roll, all this suited me just fine. So far. Of course, I was sometimes envious, like everyone else, but I had never been materialistic, perhaps due to lack of means. Never a dime in my pockets, forced to cheat on transport, a vaguely bearable life. Inconvenient at times, often embarrassing when it came to the bill, but you got used to it. I tell myself that “massages” would easily give me the luxury of choice. I don’t realize that the exact opposite is happening: I will never have a choice again.

Mixed with the dark night, often the source of senseless acts, my senses were agitated to a frenzy. The sight, at first vicious and so present in every moment. The sight of those bills that I refuse to open for a week, abandoned on the modest wooden cabinet in the living room that serves as my library; the sight of the bills my few friends hand me to pay for my coffee at the local bistro for the thousandth time. A hypothesis began to take shape, one that had surely been dormant all these years: with money, not only would I be able to learn all the time, but I would love myself more.

I’m delirious a little. My whole body cries out for this possible abundance; I can almost feel it in my fingertips. All I have to do is move my finger on the mouse, just a little pressure. My hand becomes uncontrollable, guided by this black desire, so taboo and, paradoxically, so scintillating. My arms, my head, my whole being knows that at the end of my hand lies a solution, however controversial it may be, a way to solve everything, at least for now. My whole body joins forces against my feeble wisdom, in a hurry to get this over with. Never mind the rest, we’ll see.

Suddenly, I’m in a frenzy. It’s already too late. One look at these messages was enough to make me give up completely. Don’t think, Laura, just type those damn messages and you’ll be out of the mess you’re in; it’s the only solution and you know it. Don’t back down in the face of fear, there is a way out and I’m jumping on it. I’m a person who wants to get by, I can’t tell right from wrong, I’m desperate to get out of this, whatever it takes. I’ve been schizophrenic ever since. Reading those ads split me in two: there is Laura who is fully aware that she is playing with fire and Laura who is greedy for money. There is also a ridiculous challenge: I can do it, I will prove it to myself. So I write and type on the keyboard as if I’m writing on my own life, as if I want to eradicate the lack that has grown in me a little more every day. I believe myself in control of my reason, which is already in disarray, and I believe myself invincible only with the promise of this money.

Manu isn’t here, so take advantage of that. I glance at the time and the front door, just in case. He’s still with his friends for now, so he won’t be back right away.

I write quickly, without taking time to think, so as not to imagine the world I’m venturing into. I fell; yes, in five minutes I fell. After an hour, my hand stopped, satisfied. Around forty replies were sent in my madness. A vague number that corresponds to people who, for the moment, do not really exist. The blurry image they project through their words means nothing to me. The feeling that it was all a dream never left me. I was very careful not to think as my fingers played on the keyboard. Then, to cut the daydream short, I quickly put the screen down and went for a walk.

The night was enough. From the very first hour, the notion of missing and needing other people appeared with me. In a way, they and I are the same: we all need something. Maybe I wasn’t actually dreaming; my inbox is already showing the consequences of my actions, actions I can no longer control, even in the safety of my own home. I replied, lost in a trance of need, desperate to find the damn money, and now facing my own shit. The student turns against the grown man, I have proof of that now. They want to see their fantasies come true, and I want to see mine come true.

You always remember the first message. To me, it’s Joe, a weird nickname he signs his emails to me with. Joe, better known as Joseph. Using a pseudonym seemed obvious to him; on the one hand, to appear younger and more trendy in the eyes of his future collaborators, and on the other hand, to not expose himself too much. Does he also split in two when night comes and feel the desire grow? I didn’t try to come up with a pseudonym. Too complete, too novice, I didn’t bother. I foolishly think that Laura will always be Laura no matter what.

Young man in his 50s looking for casual masseuse. Female students are welcome.

His message is oddly polite, but reading between the lines, you can feel his being sweating with envy. He asks me if I have any taboos. These words scream at me to have none, that the payoff will only be better. He didn’t ask me for a photo, but he sent me one. He is 57 years old. You can imagine what it must look like. Reality hits me now, hard and uncompromising, forcing me to become aware.

For the first time in my life, when I read his message, I feel more childish than ever, me who was always ahead of my age. This man is mature, three times my age. He expresses well-thought-out fantasies, which I suspect are buried and poorly denied. Look for an innocent girl, probably wearing a short pleated skirt, English socks, enjoying a strawberry lollipop. Then he turns off his computer, because his wife has just entered the room to invite him to have dinner with her and her daughter. And while they eat, he acts like nothing happened because he’s been hiding all of this from them for years.

Perhaps he would take one look at his daughter, who is older than the girl in the skirt, and think that she is beautiful and that her future is very promising. When she would ask him to pass her the plate, he would do it with a smile. In the evening, at best, he makes love to his wife, politely, in no hurry , holding back to give her time to enjoy. Because he loves her. Because he loves them both, from the bottom of his heart.

There was the question of price, of course, and I burned myself. Behind the screen, lies are so common and so easy to hide, and I easily slipped into the shoes of a professional prostitute who has done her part and doesn’t take bullshit. But when it came to talking money, I failed. Spontaneously, I wanted a thousand and one, but I thought it would not be believable. In time, I will learn that I have nothing to lose if I dare and set the bar really high, even if it means renegotiating afterwards when there is too much reluctance.

These men imagine, and in my case – I must admit – quite rightly, that if a girl asks a lot, it’s because she deserves it. A huge amount of money is often a harbinger of a happy surprise: perhaps a gorgeous girl who, thanks to her looks, can afford to force the prices. Cash for money, occasionally. They probably think that these are girls who like sex, who want more, naughty college students who want mature men to take care of their monotonous sex lives, to change them from the pussies of their age.

My lack of experience led me to offer 100 euros per hour based on what I had read in the other ads. Famous Joe looked delighted, because he probably did not expect such a thing. It was also probably at that point that he realized he was dealing with a novice. In the back of his mind, no doubt a few staging ideas had already come to him, pushing back the limits that had always been imposed on him by the “professionals”.

I set up a meeting after a brief exchange of emails, which I pretended to attend. We met three days later, in a hotel near the station. He’d be wearing a red polo shirt so I’d recognize him, because even though I have his photo, he didn’t want to miss me or go out of his way for anything. He insisted that he didn’t live in town and that he would have been very disappointed if I hadn’t turned up after a long walk. He really spoke to me like a child you warn when you realize he’s about to do something stupid.

I said “yes” without thinking, to get off the subject faster. But despite everything that has happened, the details are already being worked out. A mosaic is gradually taking shape in my head. In my imagination, I take her face and combine it with the body of a man in his 60s, dressed in a red polo shirt. I put everything in front of a poor hotel on the street leading to the train station, a street famous for prostitutes and drug dealing.

After shutting down the computer and extinguishing the last remnants of my reverie, I resume my mundane life in an instant. Manu is not here yet, the bastard. I decide to throw myself into a Spanish translation exercise. But I can’t concentrate. After a few minutes of reflection, I managed to convince myself not to go to the meeting under any circumstances. I played with fire a bit until I burned my fingertips, but at no point am I seriously considering going. Joe will be alone outside the hotel and I will be at home.

And yet, this stupid figure keeps appearing: 100 euros per hour. Three days of waiting. Waiting for what? I decided not to go, so why did I bother to honor my commitment to this stranger? I’m not going, period and from the beginning, period. My thoughts wander between reason and need, careful to avoid my young heart, which has no place in this story.

I look at my empty grocery cupboard. I look stupidly at my bills on the cupboard. My head hurts. I slam my translation book. Just once, no more. Chapter 8 dove December 12, 2006

It’s only been three days since we exchanged emails. It’s not so bad after all. That way I don’t take time to think about what I’m doing and I need money too much. We agreed to meet at 2 pm, for an hour valued at 100 euros. Just an hour before I leave for work at my telemarketing company . Until the last moment, I don’t know if I’m really going. But pocket hole syndrome naturally guided my steps.

Without quite knowing why or how, I found myself heading in the direction of that famous street, walking as if you were going to an appointment that you didn’t write down in your diary, but which you couldn’t forget it. I forced myself to pretend I was neglecting this date by pulling on a pair of jeans and a cardigan. But under my outfit, which I wanted to be a bib in case I ran into someone I knew on the road, no one could “guess” that I was wearing stockings, which were eating me up a bit. I laughed when I put them on – I feel a bit ridiculous in them. I also shaved in the shower this morning. Of course, I do it often, especially since living with Manu, but this time I really applied myself, going over my knees and ankles several times. “Ankles are a very delicate area. I want to please and make a good impression. The reasons for this meticulous work are still not entirely clear.

I realize along the way that I haven’t prepared any explanation if I meet someone on the street. It’s not so bad after all, I’m a good liar, I’ll find something to make up. Once near the station, I hurry. The sooner I get there, the sooner I’ll be done.

My head methodically enumerates the rules I will have to follow: once, no more. I should have smoked a joint before I left. Why didn’t I think of that? I would have been much more zen , more relaxed, I would have enjoyed the situation in the end. In the end.

Oddly enough, I have taken some precautions that seem necessary: I won’t be the first to show up, I’ll wait until he arrives first. Deep down, I still think it’s a joke. I stand outside the hotel, waiting in the December cold, watching the pedestrians, almost hoping Joe will arrive so I don’t have to endure the freezing wind. Joe, the sketch that would become reality moments later.

Logically, a lot of questions come to my mind. He told me he booked a room. Did he give his real name at the front desk? I said nothing when he suggested such a place, but it seems such a bleak choice. He has to test all his new conquests there, and if they are worth it, he makes them dream next time, taking them to more suitable places. But after all, if he just wants sex, why bother? As far as we know, he already has his own account there.

A little before schedule, a middle-aged man stops in front of the building, calmly looking around as if nothing has happened. “A man of a certain age” is what you say when you’re polite and don’t want to say the word “old”. So, in short, he’s old. I never imagined that one day I would sleep with a man of such age.

It doesn’t look like the picture at all. Despite a younger and sportier appearance, he looks 57 years old. He wears a red plaid shirt, jogging pants and sneakers; gray hair befitting his age. A large mustache, still brown, adorns the center of his face. It has no real style, but at least it is well laid out. Someone I’d obviously never turn my back on on the street, but he’s not a guy to back down either. And to think I’m going to see this guy undressed! And when I think he’s going to want to touch me! I shudder with disgust. Perhaps because I expected something much worse, I sprang from my hiding place to cross the street and join him. I also think I force myself to stop thinking.

He saw me coming and changed his expression. I couldn’t tell if it was good or bad. We shared a quick kiss, both of us obviously a bit stressed. But then his demeanor suddenly relaxed and he introduced himself very politely with a soft voice.

God, he is so old! Ah yes, now his 57 years were clear. – Hello, Laura, he said, looking at me. “Hey Joe,” I said, not knowing what else to say. I couldn’t help but shamelessly look him up and down.

Without any shame. I don’t feel particularly excited, more disgusted, I admit. His accent struck me and triggered my need to inspect him: he smells like a big peasant. His intonations, the voice that sings at the end of a sentence: he is the perfect representative of the country boy who moved to the “big city” to make a career, but who never managed to completely get rid of his origins. At this point, I wonder if he’s really going to deny it. Given his basic, if not cheap, costuming, I have a right to wonder.

His posture betrays a certain routine; it is clear that this is not the first time. He’s obviously excited about my appearance. I pretend not to notice that he’s looking at me like fried egg whites. My arrival is a godsend to him: what more could he want? A student offering her body for the first time, and at ridiculously low prices too. He trembled with impatience and congratulated himself on his wise choice.

As for me, I look around frantically. I’ve been scared to death since I found him. I really want to go inside, because the only thing I’m afraid of now is that someone will recognize me. I think he understood, judging by my slightly tense face; opened the way for me. I think he understood a lot when he first saw me on the sidewalk.

I slipped behind him through the front door. I could tell by the way he was acting that he knew how it was.

I walked politely behind him as if I were hiding. I don’t think I want to see the look on the receptionist’s face. He is not fooled, he understands perfectly well what is happening and that this room booked in the middle of the afternoon will not receive tourists who have just got off the train, tired from the road.

I hid myself so well that I did not immediately notice the gendarmes: Joe did not slow down or startle at the sight of them, in short, there was no sign to alert me. And yet there they were: two or three kepi heads chatting at the reception. Now that I was face to face with them, I would have preferred the accusing look of the unknown guard.

But I suddenly realize that I don’t care at all about the receptionist and that what could happen in the next few seconds could have a much bigger impact on my life. The gendarmes can put you in jail.

Once in front of them, I look down in panic. A familiar warmth, the kind of warmth that physically warns me that danger is near, has invaded my stomach and is now torturing my innards. That’s it, it’s over before it started. That’s it, I’m not in my 20s anymore and I’m going to get caught for a foul game that I didn’t weigh the consequences of. As I walk, a Hollywood movie plays in my head. I see myself at the police station, a blinding white light shining in my face, handcuffed, gesticulating my innocence on an iron chair. And then my parents being called to the local police station, my mother in tears, of course, and my father without looking at me for a moment, because I tarnished the family name. What a nightmare!

I walk, knowing that in a tenth of a second a policeman will arrest me. But I keep walking, chasing the man in charge of this whole business, of my future life as a naughty girl. Let’s talk about him! Joe doesn’t seem the least bit concerned about what’s going on around him. Dammit, react, the police are going to catch us!

But I do not shout, no sound comes out of my stunned mouth. Wait a minute: if the animal doesn’t blink, maybe it’s in the game too! What if he’s an undercover cop? I was cheated like a fool…

I still hate myself and the whole world when I realize we’re already in the elevator. He didn’t even suggest that we break up and meet in the bedroom, which would have betrayed a certain fear, very logical in itself. In fact, it hurts his elbow. It all makes sense a few minutes later, because something incredible happens: nothing. Nothing at all. The gendarmes saw us, obviously, we passed them while walking. But nothing happened.

Instead, we continued our journey in the elevator in silence, him probably already fantasizing about what he was going to do to me once we got to the top, and me, barely getting over the head-on collision with the gendarmes, petrified. Once upstairs, he made his way to the room without hesitation – he must know the hotel like the back of his hand.

Hastily he turned the key in the lock and invited me in like a pseudo-gentleman. I entered the room with a step that gave the impression that I had made up my mind. The sooner it’s done, the sooner it’s over.

The first thing I saw were the dirty, faded green curtains covering the two windows. What a horrible way to decorate! Who has such bad taste as to put curtains like that in a room like this? Everything else is simple. Quite large, but with the bare essentials: a bed and matching bedside tables, a wall table with a telephone. Good thing I can spot him right away, I could pounce on him if Joe gets violent. The carpet is simple, a very dark blue, almost black, I don’t remember exactly.

A click of the lock snaps me out of my thoughts. Joe locked the door. You can not! I haven’t exchanged a word yet, at least other than the banalities of presentation. – Not. The door remains open, I say.

What an affront! As soon as I said these words, I realize what a dry and dry tone. I used. Is it appropriate to be so categorical in front of a guy who you have to give your best? I didn’t realize it at the time. This is the real Laura talking, the one who says what she thinks. She gave a small studied pout, just for a second, but long enough for me to see.

– As you prefer. It was just for peace of mind. He doesn’t get mad at me and he respects my requirements. Maybe it won’t be so hard after all.

Excited and so uncomfortable, I can’t stop moving in all directions, pacing back and forth between the few pieces of furniture as if to release my stress. – Are you feeling well?”, he asks me. My tension is so palpable that the old man feels compelled to check on me.

– Yes, I’m fine, very fine,” I say quickly, to get rid of this superfluous conversation. – So you’re a student? What to study? How old are you exactly?

I can not answer. I’m too confused and too busy to look at him. His body is pretty athletic, and aside from the vomit-inducing shirt, the rest is pretty passable. In a way, he impresses me with his mature age.

He keeps asking me two or three uninteresting questions, which I stop answering, more out of discomfort than impoliteness.

I turn and my eyes fall again on the ugly curtains. Why am I so obsessed with them? Everything about them disgusts me. I mock their unwashed fabric. I realize that if it bothers me so much, it is probably because I am reminded of my situation of wretchedness and ugliness.

He crosses the room with a black briefcase in his hand, which I hadn’t noticed until then. A true businessman’s briefcase. He quietly placed it on the end of the bed and began to operate the mechanism to open it. It was a truly incongruous scene: imagine this guy playing the big pro in his lumberjack plaid shirt!

But what could he hide there? I give him a curious look. Now I expect him to bring out a real doctor’s kit, complete with tools and utensils to butcher me. Or maybe just a little gadget to spice up our date. Suddenly I’m eager to know what he’s capable of – after all, I don’t know him since Adam or Eve,

The briefcase lies open on the bed. For a moment, I think I’m in a Tarantino movie, and when I get close to see the content, I even imagine piles of money. Instead, Joe hands me an ordinary letter. – What you want me to do? Shall I read it here in front of you?

Still without speaking, he nods. It’s certainly not original, but he’s desperate to create an enigmatic situation, it’s obvious. Finally, I have to admit, it works. Confused, I take the piece of paper in my hands. His handwriting is painstaking and you can tell from the first few lines that he has chosen his words carefully.

Hello, Laura First of all, I was delighted with your punctuality and I would like to thank you for that. How crazy! Would he have written another letter if I was late?

Today we will play together. I will ask you to read my letter to the end and make it through. First, I want you to undress completely.

Time now turned into a gigantic silence 1. Joe was silent and waiting, sitting with folded arms. A real job interview. If I pass the nudity test, I’m sure I’ll be hired.

I slowly place the letter on the edge of the bed. Without thinking, I take off my blouse and, without waiting for any reaction from him, slide my jeans down my thighs. I bend into a movement I want languidly, to release myself completely.

Joe stared at me, his mouth hanging open. The beginnings of an erection can be seen under his jogging pants.

My bra, Petit Bateau panties and stockings are now the only things covering my anatomy. Standing in front of him with my hands behind my back, I show him all my private parts. I’m the woman-child, Nabokov’s Lolita, and he loves it. I am disconnected from any reality. A real torture begins for me, which I exorcise with a chuckle. I am so complexed by my body, despite its light form, and the situation is really destabilizing. He does not move; his silence has already lasted for a quarter of an hour.

He takes a deep breath and his lips begin to part. come on say something

” Ow !” he utters in a short cry, and that’s all. Just an onomatopoeia. No one can understand what I feel all of a sudden. My body suddenly swells with hope and contentment. This guy, who I don’t know out of nowhere, he succeeded with one word and a split second where dozens of others had failed: to make me realize that my body was pleasant. Why did it have to be him? I don’t have an answer, it’s just inexplicable. All I know is that for the first time I hear and accept a compliment. In that second, I saw him as a man and not as the fat, disgusting man who wants to put his paws on me. The girls probably they flock to him and yet he manages to be impressed.

We exchange a knowing smile and something strangely close to trust develops between us. – That’s exactly why I don’t like “professionals”, they can’t seem as innocent as you.

I don’t really know how to react to this remark. Does he already consider me a prostitute? Is one or two passes enough to merit this word? With his chin, he points to the letter again so I can continue reading. I do it.

Now I want you to go take a shower, I’ll take one after you. I am very glad that you came and that we are spending this time together.

I skimmed the rest of the letter. After all, it is obvious what follows; undress, in the shower, I have no idea we’re about to start a frenzied game of Scrabble. Thank you, Laura, for coming today. Nice to meet you and hope to see you again. You seem like a nice person.

A good person? How would he know? Am I a good person for agreeing to strip to my panties in front of him for money I don’t have? Yet his words betray a kindness I could never have imagined. The meeting did not go as planned. I thought it would be an hour where I wouldn’t have to think, where I would put my brain away, but I finally find myself thinking about this guy!

I take off the little surplus cloth I have left and obediently head to the bathroom.

After closing the door, I face the mirror in the cramped room. Despite my best efforts, I could not avoid his reflection. Naked, in front of the mirror, I am suddenly tempted to fall into melancholy. I am again disconnected from this “session” because I am facing myself and what I am doing. I have never really looked at myself so closely and closely. I’m strangely proud of my body after Joe’s onomatopoeia and begin to examine myself. I never liked my stomach, but now I look at it differently. However, there is a voice deep within me that tries to call me back to reality. Hell, I’m completely panicked, torn between two opposing feelings.

The shower requirement had marked a pause in the adventure, a pause that forced me to really think. Long story short, I turn on the water and adjust the pressure.

As incongruous as it may seem, I smile, yes. Because suddenly I think I’m beautiful. I went back to my childhood and the compliment of this man, older than my own father, filled me like a grandfather to his granddaughter.

The water slowly runs over my body, which I frantically soap with the cheap hotel soap. I have no reason to rub so hard, he hasn’t touched me yet. But I keep going back and forth, rubbing myself to death. Maybe I wash myself of the situation, of him, of him, of the camera, of his compliments, of the green curtains.

After I’m clean, I grab a towel to dry off, which I cleverly stuff into the hollow of my breasts, panicking at the thought that he might enter the bathroom. I hesitate for a second. I don’t know if I should go out naked or not. Just as I ask myself this question, I realize that at some point I will be naked in front of him. I might as well be the one to decide. My hand grabs the knot on my chest and unties it. The towel falls limply to the floor with a thud.

When I open the door, Joe is on the bed in his boxers. I see his torso for the first time. It doesn’t surprise me, he’s 57 years old, white hair and a slight belly on his stomach. – You really turn me on, you know? he says with a sigh.

Yes, I can imagine that. – So that’s how it will be. He pauses. – I am a person who likes to stage things. I have many fantasies about it, he says quietly. Seeing my slightly bewildered look, he hurries to explain.

– Now, I want you to leave the room, wait a moment in the corridor and knock twice on the door. When I tell you to come in, you must come in and do what I tell you. – How so? Empty? – Yes, like that, empty.

Don’t you want a hundred francs too? At the rate things are going, I’m going to end up paying for it myself! The fantasy of the naked girl knocking on the door is too much. What would happen if someone saw me? I’m losing my courage. – No, you’re not lost.

– What do you mean, right? Why not? – Why not? – Can you tell us why?

His gaze suddenly changed. I can tell by the sound of his voice that my refusal shattered the sexy image he was building. He feels he can put an end to his lascivious inventions, and even though I’m polite and well-mannered, she doesn’t seem ready to accept that.

Then you scare me. I broke his rules. I tell myself that he won’t give up on the goal he set if I don’t keep up with him.

– Because it’s hard for me. Getting undressed in front of you is already a huge step. I don’t know, I don’t know anymore, if I can go on. Are you in a hurry.

Before I came here, I didn’t think I would have to talk to him so much. I’m ready to give her my body to do what she wants with it while I close my eyes to pass the time, but I don’t want to be an actress. A dead whore for an hour, yes, but not an actress.

My reaction was sincere, and his gaze softened after a few seconds. But I can see deep in his eyes that he has no intention of giving up. Bingo.

– Listen, I understand, but don’t be afraid, believe me, everything will be fine. All you have to do is leave this room for a few moments and knock on this door…

I comply as quickly as possible; once again, the faster I do it, the faster I will see the color of the money. My money. I’ve already made them mine, otherwise I don’t feel able to go any further.

So I blankly head for the door and head out, not without taking a quick look around to inspect the place. What a ridiculous situation! Not to mention humiliating! If Manu or my parents saw me now… I barely let a second pass before knocking on the door. So I don’t give myself time to think about what I’m looking for in this damn corridor. I hurry to enter the room. Don’t make me do it again.

I stand in front of the bed where he is still sitting. – Now comfort yourself for me. Caress as if discovering your body for the first time.

Having learned my lesson, my hands move from my neck to my face. Without flinching, I bring my hands to the back of my head, slowly raising my hair, eyes closed, as if I’m trying to make him think I’m actually enjoying what I’m doing.

I open them at one point, just to see how turned on Joe is, and from there I brace myself for a possible sudden onslaught of hands on me. I’m not even close. He looks at me like he’s watching a porn movie. His eyes are blank, expressionless. I continue my little game, letting my hands slide over the tops of my breasts in the most banal of gestures. I glance furtively at my watch, which I kept on my wrist. 2:29 p.m. Only half an hour left.

This context is so unrealistic to me. I don’t fit into the troubled girl persona, money or no money. I’m too whole to pretend. I want to go home, what am I doing here? I can’t bring myself to lower my hands further, they get stuck in my lower abdomen. I’m not that good an actress.

– Touch yourself more, you must continue to turn me on.

Obviously, this does not suit him. I lose my temper again, letting my arms fall to my sides in despair. I don’t know what to do, where to put my hands. I feel like a fool and a loser in front of him, but at the same time I don’t think I care at this exact moment. 2:34 p.m.

– This cannot happen. I just can’t do it. – I understand. You’re more the type to let yourself be dominated…” he replies in an absurdly cheeky voice.

Nervously, I want to laugh again at this pathetic attempt at arousal, but I hold back. If you think about it, it’s not wrong: who wants to dominate someone they don’t want? Or even participate? Yes, actually, only one category of people: those who need money.

There was only one answer that would have suited him, spoken in a childish voice: “Yes, I really want you to be my master. Of course, I couldn’t do that. Things are not going at all as planned. I thought I would be fucked in no time Lucky me I ran into a kinky…

– Come on, sit down on the bed, he says after a minute of snorting, I’ll take care of it here. The tone is firm and things get serious. His fantasies take precedence over his personality.

Following his orders, I find myself sitting next to him on the dirty bedspread, which must have been there since the hotel opened, judging by its indefinable color, split between blue and green.

Once again, I meet his expectations without flinching; one last effort, Laura. 14.36. Now I’m topless on the bed. Her eyes, her face, her sex beg for more. Come on, take a good look at them, don’t be shy. If he continues to admire them like this, I may not need to give him the rest of my body.

– Lay on your back. Have. How insensitive. 2:41 p.m. So he puts his hand on the back of my head and gently pushes me down. It’s the first time I feel his palm on my body, the first time he touches me.

I lay back, admiring the chipped ceiling from all sides, waiting to feel his skin on mine. His hand came just as my attention faltered, and I flinched limply, not entirely surprised. It started with my belly and slowly went up to my neck. No doubt he wants to create a sensual embrace, but he can’t have the slightest effect on me. His second hand is also coming. The back and forth across my upper torso gets harder, more intense; he picks up the pace as his erection grows. I haven’t opened my eyes even once until now, trying to believe that this is all just a very bad dream.

I don’t know if I want to throw up or cry feeling his old hands on me. I’m a corpse lying on the bed. After all, he ordered a corpse, Ta. If he had asked me for more at that point, I would have slapped him.

Instead, the dance of bodies stops. He straightens up. I expect another strange request. – Sit down, we’ll talk, he says. I don’t know if it’s a joke or not. Is it in the contract that I have to talk to him? I guess since he’s paying me he can get away with anything.

– Why are you here today? The ten thousand dollar question or how to get a student into the swing of things. – Do you have a boyfriend? What are you doing in V.? The questions become very personal. I’m not…

I risk agreeing to give him the real version of my life: it would be going far beyond what is bearable if I were to leave him some hints of the life I lead. Besides, I’m not paid to tell the truth. – No, I don’t have anyone in my life.

2:49 p.m. Ten short minutes that turn out to be awful. – Is this money for you? I nod. After a pause, he says: – What you are doing is good. Is that so?

– You know, I also have people who count on me. I am divorced and have a daughter. A little older than you. I remarried, to a very beautiful woman, a little while ago. Sex with her is not really like that. In fact, I’ve long since given up trying to share my fantasies with her. It’s not easy, you know, dealing with someone who doesn’t want you anymore.

What’s not easy for me right now is listening to him figure out his life. I don’t understand why he decided to confess to me, whom he is seeing for the first time. Inevitably, if I continue to listen to him, I will begin to imagine his life, to put images of what he is like outside of this room. V. is a small town, and the possibility of running into Joe on a trip with the family is not excluded.

To think that when he gets out of here he’ll be bound to join her. I get chills all over my body. I feel sorry for his wife, wondering what she would think if she knew that her husband regularly sleeps with young girls and that on top of everything else he talks about her during sessions.

– I don’t want to know about your life.

I want to cry my eyes out. Who does he think he is, that he is taking advantage of other people, when he is not very clear in his head and in his way of thinking? No sound comes out of my mouth. I thought I could be a mechanical whore, and now someone is looking for lice in my head.

Joe answers slowly: – Do you calm me down, do you combine business with pleasure?

The height of the absurd has now been reached. I look into his eyes, at the tone of his voice, looking for any indication that he doesn’t mean a word of what he just said. Nothing. He really believes that I do all this, not just for the money, but because deep down I really like it. In his crazy mind, a woman can’t just give herself up for money, she needs another reason. And still in his crazy mind, he sure likes to think he’s not so ugly. Would it be so hard for an old man whose wife no longer wants him to admit that my only motivation is financial?

So shut up; I don’t even have anger left in me, I’m confused. 31 starts dancing on my body again with his hands, always touching my upper chest, breasts and stomach. His skin burns and bothers me, but I don’t let anything show. He doesn’t go down to the bottom of my anatomy, my sex is still untouched by his hands, which frees me from my despair.

– Next time I’ll bring you something, you’ll see, you’ll like it… Joe is already planning to see me again. I don’t say anything to him anymore, I’m not going to shout at him that there’s no problem. – Ready, you can get dressed, it’s time. Libération , it’s 3 o’clock! The end has come.

Very punctual, he gets up. He rummages through his briefcase while I quickly dress. He continues his flattery.

– I’m very satisfied, you know. The first contact was great, I was very satisfied. You are magnificent, I didn’t expect someone like you. In addition, you are sensitive and approachable, which I really appreciate. Of course, you were a bit reluctant at first, but I’m shy too, so things will go better next time, you’ll see.

An envelope is handed to me and, not wondering if custom or good manners compel me to wait outside to count it again, I admire my ass. It’s not 100 euros, as I thought, but 250 euros that Joe hands me! Two 100 notes and one 50 note. I have never seen a 100 euro note. My only concern when I see so much money is how I will get 100 euros out of my pocket without arousing suspicion. I never spend that much: €5 notes are more representative of my everyday life .

– See you on the internet. On the other hand, if you see me on Msn , don’t come talk to me, it’s often my wife logging in under my name.

Having said that, we go down in the same elevator we arrived in. The gendarmes are no longer at the reception, but at this point I don’t really care. I’m floating, this new money has given me wings. I’ll be fine now, in just an hour I’ve made enough to get rid of a few bills that are still hanging over my head.

No less than 250 euros to look at me, I really took it for fun! What an idiot, and to think he thinks we’ll ever see each other again! Never, it’s over, once and that’s it. I’m afraid he’ll realize he’s been tricked, so I hurry just in case. I also want to leave the hotel behind and forget about it quickly.

I’m so relieved that it’s over that I can’t think about anything else. I still don’t realize that Clever Joe has been manipulating me with his flattery and sweet words and that he knows exactly what he’s doing.

I only think about the money that is now mine and that will give me a period of financial respite. Next time I will find another way. Patting the pocket of my jeans where the life-saving envelope was, I smiled. Yes, once alone, I smiled victoriously. Chapter 9 lover December 12, 2006

Right after meeting Joe, I don’t feel like going to work right away. I have half an hour left. A phone call to my friends and I head to my favorite cafe, the one run by my friend Paul in the city centre.

Arriving at the meeting place, I smile naturally. There is nothing on my face to suggest what I did half an hour earlier. We exchange pleasantries, just what I needed to take my mind off the previous hour. After a good hour spent checking the latest gossip, it’s time to pay the bill.

– Girls, I’m sorry, but I don’t have money to pay for my coffee. Do you think you could lend them to me? I’ll get them back to you soon, I promise.

I can’t really take out the 100 euro banknote, not even the 50 euro one. They wouldn’t understand, I never had a penny. They know me well and know that I often don’t have enough to pay. They took the receipt without saying a word so they could split the bill between the two of them.

– No problem, Laura. Next time it will be your turn, laughs one of them.

He probably can’t believe it. Most of the time, I’m so broke I can’t even afford my coffee. I often ask her to stop by, preferably on a date in a bistro, so I don’t have to beg. However, when I get paid, I invite everyone over for a drink, just one, but one that makes us financially happy.

Do they suspect something today? I try to be myself as much as possible: happy and available. The last few months were hard, but I never admitted anything to them. When they come to my house, they ask me if I have something to munch on, and I joke that I don’t have time to go shopping.

Despite all the efforts I have made to hide my precarious situation from them, my friends are not fooled. They don’t realize the importance of this, but they see I’m struggling. I’ve been paying for my coffees for a long time, so they don’t care anymore. These situations still cause me temporary embarrassment. But this time, I remember having a very heavy, guilty feeling: the money is in my pocket. I have enough to pay for a lot of trips with what I just won.

In the evening, I meet Manu in a bar, without ordering anything for myself. I watch him finish his pint of beer: – Are you okay, dear? how was your day – A normal day, nothing special.

Do not tell! It was whatever, it just wasn’t a normal day, but I can’t imagine saying to him, “Look, it’s okay, it was pretty normal. Yesterday, before work, I was groped by an old man that I don’t know. I knew and on top of that he gave me 250 euros. All so that I could give you money for rent and bills while you smoked and gave turns to everyone! Not bad, admit it.

After he thinks the blood alcohol level is decent, we set off for our “cozy nest”. He makes me laugh on the way home, telling me silly stories. Manu is always happiest when he’s a little giddy and I think deep down I prefer him that way.

We walked back to the apartment in silence, the euphoria of the evening, of our relationship, over. We got ready for bed like a married couple of twenty years. Given the state he was in when I left the bar, I might try to turn him on a bit tonight. I admit I thought about it, just for a second.

Manu and I don’t really have sex: he has what is commonly called “nervous breakdowns”. All couples who have been together for a few years force themselves to think that this will only be temporary. In my case, I’m starting to find the long time and personal pleasures a bit tiring. For a while now, if he doesn’t come looking for me, I give up. I am a person who can be defined by the gallant term “charming”, but I don’t want it anymore. Worried, I even consulted my gynecologist, who reassured me and assured me that this kind of thing often happens when you don’t feel wanted by the other person. Exactly rightly so! Between her semi-erections and my vaginal dryness, we make a great team. Like most people, I love sex and consider it essential in a relationship, so it’s no coincidence that my relationship with him is in serious trouble. I’ve gotten to the point where I just want him to pull it for me. Before tonight. Because tonight I realized that I will never want him again.

Strangely, he doesn’t seem to care that much. His only interests in recent months seem to be limited to going out and his lessons. Without admitting it, we know that our relationship is on the duke. We accept it without flinching because we know that ultimately there is nothing we can do about it. When love is gone, it’s very hard to get it back, no matter how hard you try.

So that evening, as we watched each other brush our teeth in silence in front of the mirror, I realized once again that this could not go on. Our relationship is a big farce. Could it be because of what happened this afternoon? It certainly had a triggering effect, but the tension between us had been simmering for some time.

Will he talk to me, tell me the smallest thing? I feel deep down that if he doesn’t say anything, if he doesn’t guess what I’ve been through today, I won’t admit it. That would mean that he definitely doesn’t understand me like he used to, when he knew in a second if there was something wrong with me. I need his shoulders, his arms to protect me and make me forget, just tonight.

I slip between the sheets. Silence is so hard. Not tonight Manu, tonight I beg you, don’t ignore me and hold me. He joins me in bed without looking at me. He already seems to want to adopt the position we’ve been used to for a while: with our backs to each other. I see on his face what I’ve refused to see for months: our relationship is dead.

Now that he’s lying down and even though he’s already closed his eyes, I still have hope that he’ll start talking. I jump into the water: – Good night. – Mhh , he answers me in a sleepy voice. Yes, good night, Manu. Goodbye Manu. Chapter 10 Loneliness December 13, 2006

The shrill sound of the alarm clock wakes me from my deep sleep. I couldn’t sleep last night, I tossed and turned in our bed thinking about the day we had. I woke up, smoked a million cigarettes in the kitchen. I even tried to work on the Italian Civilization course, but to no avail. My mind was too busy. It wasn’t until around 5am that I closed my eyes on my own because I was so tired.

Manu is still sleeping. I silently watch his bare back turned towards me. I turn off the alarm and suddenly remember. Yesterday. The nightmare. The nightmares.

Ever since that night, I knew it was over with Manu. Our relationship, which began as a model of passion and complicity, slowly went down the drain on Saturday, and there was nothing I could do about it. I feel alone this morning when I wake up, alone in front of my boring daily routine. I will always remember December 12, 200, when so many things changed in my life.

But I don’t have time to think anymore. I have to get up and go to class. All I want to do is crawl into bed and cry. But that is impossible. I know that now. I’ll have to keep getting up every day. I will have to continue to live with the weight of this day. Right now, I hate myself. Even in my pajamas, hidden by a lot of fabric, I feel like my dirty body is on display for everyone to see. I feel like he’s harboring a vice, like you can’t help but look at him because he radiates so much ugliness. I feel terribly dirty. Would it have been worse if Joe had completely possessed me?

I’m unsteady on my feet. My body seems impossible to carry. In the bath, I run the water over my body for fifteen minutes, at first without moving. Then I took a sponge and rubbed it on my skin with all my might. Suddenly, it turns red due to intense scratching. I don’t care, I can’t stop. I want to wash off all this dirt and pretend yesterday never happened. Yesterday I lost everything: Manu and self-esteem. For 250 euros.

I run to catch the subway. Reality hits me: I don’t even have time to mourn my fate, I have to go to school. But how is such a thing possible? I know I won’t be able to concentrate, listen or read anything. There are voices in my head that keep telling me I’m just a whore. I sold my body for money. I gave myself to a stranger for money while my friend was at school. I’m worthless, I’m dirty, and I feel like I’ll be dirty for the rest of my life.

I quietly get dressed and slowly close the door to my relationship with Manu. I will never be able to look at him with the same innocence again. I didn’t just cheat on him, but more than that. I cheated, I prostituted myself. The word tears at my throat as I say it. But it comes back naturally, because that’s what happened.

It’s cold this morning. I walk fast to escape the freezing wind, and who knows, maybe this pace will anesthetize my thoughts. I feel discouraged, ashamed, I don’t even have the strength to cry.

The road to university didn’t help at all. When you sit in the subway, you start to think and reflect. Even if you don’t want to, you are forced to think about yourself, your life, who you are. I think, without realizing it, without wanting to. I feel like everyone can read on my face what I did yesterday. I feel myself blushing and bury my face in the large scarf around my neck.

Even if I had stayed with Manu, I’m sure sooner or later he would have understood what I did. My sin is too present in my head not to be visible on the outside. I’m tired from my short night, but today I know I won’t even be able to sleep. The fight was not enough, now I will have to pay for the rest of my life with my thoughts.

I came out of the subway upset, this review of life is much worse than it was before. One thing is certain: studies will be my refuge. Other than that, Manu was the only thing that was really worth expending my energy, devoting myself to. Now that it’s all over, I can’t afford to let myself go. I have to get on with my life. I made a mistake, but I promise it will never happen again. The proof is there: one time was enough to make me lose the boy I loved. May it never happen again.

Chapter 11 Parking December 22, 2006

“Never again! It was to be expected, after all, after paying the bills and handing over the rent to Manu, I had nothing left. I’m in trouble again and need to find a place to sleep. But how? A friend from the university has agreed to host me for a while.She lives alone in her apartment and I think deep down she’s very happy to have company.

At her house, I’m getting ready for a date. I answered one of those countless ads again: there is no shortage of female students, so I easily found a new prey.

Life went on as usual and so did I, on my own, trying to cope. While I’m looking for another apartment, I’m obviously facing a lot of expenses that I can’t cover from my telemarketing salary alone . Once again I find myself in an apparent financial mess. It’s not just a nightmare anymore: I feel like if I don’t do something, this will all become a recurring problem and I’ll never be able to get my head above water again. If I want to live in my apartment, that’s the price I have to pay.

I already have a job and courses, what else can I do? I ask this question knowing the answer beforehand. This door remains open despite all the promises I made to myself.

The first time with Joe, which in my mind isn’t really a first time because it’s so far from everything you can imagine, gives me mixed feelings. The fact that I was undressed in front of him and had to endure his fantasies blew my mind. Despite everything that had happened, I still thought I had him cataloged. In the end, it was a terrible first time, because now that I was out of money again, I couldn’t get him out of my mind.

So I got in touch with another guy. In a trance, in front of a discreet university computer, I gave in again. Still in the same frame of mind, I plan this meeting just to fill the coffers, to get rid of all the expenses I still have to do for the apartment. We set a rate of 70 euros per hour for two hours. Plus, of course, the restaurant, which he will pay for.

He is young, he is only 26 years old and his name is Julien. Maybe, I thought, it would be easier with him than with an old man like Joe. I’m also curious about his motivations, what makes him willing to pay a prostitute. It seems to me that at his age, finding a girl is not that difficult.

We arranged to meet in front of a restaurant in the city center. This time, if I meet someone, it won’t be a challenge to find an explanation. We are of the same generation, which helps a lot. People wouldn’t ask the questions they would have if they saw me with Joe.

I don’t have to wait for it, it’s already there when I arrive. One look and I understand why he contacted me. It carries with it a huge amount of frustration. Physically, he is more than ordinary: neither particularly tall nor particularly short, he sits hunchbacked. He has a terrible hairstyle, one that instantly classifies him, once again, in the peasant category : he has his hair up in a kind of brush cut that goes to the side. No style from this point of view.

His clothes also leave something to be desired, I tell myself once more, inclined to hate. Faded burgundy wool sweater, uncut jeans and musty sneakers. The overall look is ridiculous. Typical of the kind of poor guy I’d never turn my back on on the street. On the other hand, she could very well have been the target of my giggles with my girlfriends. Are we cruel? Maybe yes.

We kissed each other on the lips. He is visibly embarrassed and already seems to regret coming. When we go back to the restaurant, I hope people don’t think we’re together. Misplaced pride. I’m glad I didn’t dress up too much for tonight: just jeans and a little top, sexy but not too much.

The place is just like him: simple. No decorations, white walls, just tables lined up in order. The white, empty light is probably what bothers me the most, because it exposes us too much. So I can contemplate where we are: awful. The restaurateur did not even try to give the impression of a ” guinguette à bonne franquette “, which I would have liked. So bad taste must follow me in my experience as a prostitute, reminding me each time a little more of what I’m doing. In any case, even if I would have liked the place, the fact that I came here with a client mentally prevents me from coming back in the future. A client? Yes, a client, because I’m a prostitute.

Seats us at a table next to another couple. The restaurant is full and all the tables are next to each other. I can feel Julien tense up a little; he would have preferred a more secluded table, so as not to be noticed. After we sit down, we’re silent for a while, and I can tell he’s rubbing his hands under the table nervously, not knowing how to start a conversation. I decide to help him a little, out of pity and especially because I refuse to spend an entire evening without conversation.

– What is your job? – I work for a company on the outskirts of Y. It’s quite an interesting job and I don’t really know what to do. It’s quite an interesting job and…

It only took one sentence for me to get bored. Keeping my eyes on him, I ignore the rest and let my thoughts wander. The next day I won’t be able to remember what he said to me that night. I will only remember a long tirade, a soporific monologue that calmed him down and allowed him to hide his obvious embarrassment. This guy is really uninteresting, and so is his job.

Afraid of dying of boredom and unable to hide the fact that I’m bored to death, I start teasing him a little. It’s one of my biggest flaws in life: as soon as I see a weakness in someone, I cruelly exploit it. I have a lot of self-doubts myself, but I always manage to keep them from showing. So it’s really hard for me to understand people who can’t do that. This guy is clearly a loser, I tell myself, and unfortunately for him, it shows in his behavior.

I cut him off right in the middle of his mind-blowing speech, with no shame whatsoever: – Why did you come here today? – Shall I come here? I mean, why did I choose this restaurant? – Of course not! Here with me. Why did you post an ad looking for a “masseuse”?

I clearly upset him. My insult and challenging tone made him uncomfortable. He looked frantically to his right and left to see if anyone had heard my remark. I can already see the beads of sweat on his forehead. What an idiot! Does she really think I’m going to spend the entire meal pretending I don’t know all she wants to do is screw me? Unless, deep down, he doesn’t really know what he wants.

– Well… uh … it’s quite complicated, you know… I’ve never done something like this before, it’s the first time. Just say you’re excited. In my mind, I’m very vulgar. – So, I’m married… to someone very nice, perfect actually… but when it comes to sex… I don’t really know what’s going on… it’s complicated…

– I’m sure it’s not that complicated. Your wife is frigid, isn’t she? I didn’t use my words. He straightens in surprise, then drops his shoulders as if agreeing with what I just said. This guy has habits that I broke in a second. Hell, there’s no reason I should be the only one suffering.

– Let’s say he doesn’t really want me. At first, I thought it would pass, that it wouldn’t last, you know? We have been married for a year, but nothing has changed sexually, on the contrary. She pushes me away all the time and I don’t dare force her or talk to her about it. I don’t have many friends to talk to about this either and…

It was clear now, this guy was desperate. He had probably married his childhood sweetheart too soon and, having no friends to have fun with, turned to prostitutes to drown his sorrows. He doesn’t have much of a social life and is hoping to fill the void with me tonight. Again he goes into an interminable soliloquy, explaining that he is very lonely, that his job doesn’t interest him in the slightest, and many other things that I forget as soon as he says them. Again, I abruptly cut him off:

– A couple without sex is just a friendship, I say dryly. He looks at me like I’ve said something awful. I only half believe what I just said, but this fellow exasperates me, and in his presence I feel in a cruel mood. Yet he remains undaunted by my affront.

I realize at this point that the life of a fille de joie does not stop at sex. Clients often contact prostitutes just to talk, to get out of their boring or burdensome lives. I’m not ready to put up with this, listening to a horny man complain. I have my own problems and even if there is no pain scale, it is more than I can bear. The conversation takes a dangerous turn, and now it’s veering into something far too personal for my taste. I become “his little one”. This guy makes me think, and that shouldn’t be compatible with Laura’s face of joy. It’s not all very happy.

As the meal progresses, I learn more and more about his life and literally immerse myself in his daily routine. The worst part is that under other circumstances I would definitely have found this guy very likable. In another context, I probably would have consoled him, but now I am unable to do so. Tired of hearing him complain, I cut him off:

– Well, tell me, are you sexless? He winced. You scare both him and me. Such vulgarity and provocation! But I can’t help it. I’m tired of this guy beating the plains, so I decided to take matters into my own hands and end this evening.

” Uh …yeah…” he finally let out a breath, relieved to finally be exorcised. – Well, then it’s time to go, isn’t it? I see him panicking . – Let’s go? You mean now? – Yes, now, I’ve talked enough for tonight.

I can’t stand this endless discussion anymore. This guy contacts me for a “massage” and instead we end up in this crappy restaurant discussing his empty existence. I want to end this charade as quickly as possible. – But where? At a hotel? – Do you have money for a hotel?

– You know, I don’t know… I don’t know if I really want to anymore. – Of course you want to. If you contacted me, it’s because you want to.

He looked into my eyes like a beaten dog for a few seconds. I hurt his pride, and as low as he is right now, it’s hard for him to accept. The last thing on my mind is going home without my money after a night like this. After a few minutes, he says in a whisper, as if he didn’t need to repeat:

– I know a parking lot nearby… Without wasting a moment, he paid the bill. I got into his car and, without a word, I left for the parking lot of the famous supermarket. It’s a very dark night and it’s hard to see anything. I feel protected this way, no one will see us.

For all the aplomb he showed as he exited the restaurant, I can sense again that Julien feels very uncomfortable when he has to turn off the contact. He’s still rubbing his hands together nervously, trying to distract us by fiddling with the buttons on the car. He’s afraid someone will find us here, and I have to admit I have the same fears as him.

– You’re cold? It’s the middle of winter here, and the chill of the night is catching up with us. It’s a horrifying situation: the two of us in a car, in this parking lot, making sure no one sees us having sex. – Yes, a little.

– Okay, I’m going to turn on the heating.

I light a cigarette without asking permission. He turns on the heater and as the car warms up, he continues to rub his hands together. Faced with his indecision, I decide to take the big step. I put my hand on the crotch of his jeans. He doesn’t have an erection. I look up at him, searching for an explanation I already know. Without breaking eye contact, he says:

– I’m… quite stressed…

To stop him from talking again, I start rubbing his jeans harder. No reaction. For a good five minutes, I continue my task. I’m sure if he doesn’t get what he wants, he’ll end the meeting and not pay me. After enduring the entire evening psychologically, I cannot leave without a reward. Embarrassed that he doesn’t get a physical response, he stammers timidly:

– Maybe if you undressed… The first approach! I am surprised by this

Unexpected answer: it doesn’t match his tone of voice or manner at all. I’m stripping anyway, in this car lost in the middle of the parking lot. At that moment, I am afraid of only one thing: that someone will discover us. Obviously, Julien shares the same fear as me.

After a few minutes of looking at my naked body, he allows himself to touch it. I put my hand on his jeans again to no avail. He touches my breasts first, kneading them carefully. It’s clear he doesn’t dare go any lower, preferring to focus on my torso. He doesn’t seem to react to my back and forth movements on his pants. After a few minutes, desperate at the hopelessness of the situation, he announces:

– Say, would you like to…? I immediately understood what he wanted. You don’t need a five-year degree in prostitution for this.

I unbutton his pants and start giving him oral sex. Little by little, I could feel the excitement building in him. In no time, he pulls off his jeans and flops over in the passenger seat. He rests his body on mine for a moment, takes off his condom, and a few seconds later releases himself into me.

I can’t explain what I feel right now. Disgust, for sure. My head is somewhere else, I don’t feel anything. Julien became an “he”, an impersonal “he”. The first “he”. It’s too much, I can’t take it in me anymore, I don’t want it in me anymore. Everything becomes blurry and I close my eyes. I feel so dirty already. I grit my teeth in disgust. I feel a huge void. In my head, I keep repeating: “That’s it, you’re a prostitute, you’re giving your whole body for a stranger’s sex.

I don’t play smart anymore. No more challenges, no more exhibitionism. In the end, he wins; get what he wants I have to think about money, not to forget my goal, but the moment is too difficult. I have never felt so far from myself. I have no more tears to cry, only nausea to express my misery, bills piling up to force me to understand why I do this. Manu, where are you? How did we get here? I don’t want him to touch me anymore, why do I have to put up with this? The injustice of my situation makes me grit my teeth to keep from screaming. “It will soon be over, Laura, don’t open your eyes, it will be over soon.

It must be said that it stopped quickly. He had come, and consciousness had now taken the place of his libido: – Uh … Laura … we’d better go. I don’t look at him. I’m almost crying with joy that this won’t last.

– I’ll pay you for the two hours, don’t worry. I’ll give you 140 euros. – OK. Money smells like the money Joe gave me: fast and taboo. Absolutely not easy. – I’ll take you home, okay? I nod. start in silence. I can’t say a word.

Long before he reaches my house, I ask him to stop. We kiss quickly, feeling quite awkward. – Goodbye, Laura. – Goodbye, Laura. All the best. I get out of the car without asking for help. He starts right away.

Yes, I will need courage. To accept not only the stain, but also the idea that I am already addicted to this money falling into my hands so quickly.

I hurried home through the dark and freezing night. While Julien is already on his way to his wife, who is waiting for him in the warmth of her bed, I fall asleep alone in my bed. I’m so cold. Chapter 12 appearance December 24, 2006

On the table laid by my mother for this occasion is a multitude of dishes, each more appetizing than the other. And as usual for the last three months, I’m hungry as a wolf. Tonight there are five of us at the table. Dad brought a friend with him so he wouldn’t have to spend Christmas alone. I always get emotional when I see my father doing things like this, but I don’t understand why he doesn’t do the same with me.

The presence of this friend brightens the evening and everyone chats with pleasure. Everyone but me. I don’t enjoy partying, I just can’t do it. These supposed Christmas holidays are actually a poisoned chalice for me. Mid-term exams at the beginning of the new academic year force me to study more. I still work, poorly paid, at the telemarketing company on my two weeks off because I can’t afford to take days off. I have to earn money. But when I’m not working, I stay at home. The fact that I haven’t been going to university in the last few days has thrown me off balance. Studies are my refuge to stop thinking. Going to university allows me to leave home and have a social life. I haven’t seen any of my friends since September. My schedule is split between university and telemarketing . The rest of my free time is devoted entirely to my studies, reading and classes.

This family reunion is a farce. My father plays the role of the perfect guest, ostentatiously sharing his friend. He spoils even me, trying to project the image of a perfect and caring father. I listen to Dad talk, as he never does when it’s just the four of us. My father is a magician, he knows how to transform himself in public and put on a mask.

It doesn’t work for me. In other years, I would have accepted this little game, even if I knew he wouldn’t speak to me the next day. I would have taken the opportunity to hug him. I would have agreed to pretend that we are very close, simply because I can’t wait. But this year is different. I’m tired of begging for his love, I can’t stand being ignored like this anymore. If he really cared, he would have realized a long time ago that I’m having a blast, that I’ve lost over 12 pounds since September, that I work myself to the bone, that I suffer to the point of tears every day. Maybe if he took the time to look at me as a person, he would understand what I need to do to find money.

I have too many questions to enjoy tonight. I spoil my father’s plan: the guest sees that I’m not in the mood to brag. I don’t care about my father’s disapproving looks, I don’t want to pretend anymore. My mother tries to fill the silences as best she can. He’s probably afraid I’ll say something rude or disparaging. My dad relies on my sister to make conversation. He asks her an avalanche of questions about school, about her friends, so many that she barely has time to catch her breath. But she was delighted, feeling that, for the first time, she was really being listened to.

After an incredibly hearty dinner, it was time to open the presents. My mother loves Christmas and takes great care to respect the tradition. He put up a big Christmas tree in the living room and placed the presents at its feet. As he does every year, he also took out the whole nativity scene. No one in my family is religious, not even her, but she loves to play with it. I know deep down she regrets not being able to give us a fantastic Christmas with thousands of presents. So, as if to get even, he messes around with the decorations. I adore my mother and am moved by all the efforts she makes to make sure we are happy, not just at Christmas, but all year round. She’s a full-time mom, even though she’s always talked to us like adults. And she succeeds: when I see this crib full of little characters and the tree shining, I’m happy to be with her tonight.

There isn’t a mountain of presents for us at Christmas, we’ve always been used to getting just one. Mom always manages to find us something that means something, makes us forget that we only get one. My sister and I don’t care about all that anymore, even though when we were little we were crazy jealous when our friends at school would brag about gifts straight out of the Thousand and One Nights. Over time, I came to believe that this was a normal reaction.

This year, more than last year, I don’t expect anything special. I didn’t ask for anything in particular, so much so that I feel like I need everything. But “everything” is unattainable, utopian for my parents.

So I open the gift meant for me. I slowly tore off the apple green paper and revealed a pair of black heels. I had seen them with my mother in a shop the other day on All Saints Day and told her I liked them. I wouldn’t have thought he came back to buy them after that. I hugged my mother to thank her. Even though I know he had nothing to do with choosing the gift, I thank my dad from afar. We don’t hug or kiss.

I think of Manu. I haven’t heard from him since we broke up. My parents were relieved to hear we were no longer living together, but they never really liked him, considering him a snob. I don’t think anyone will ever be good enough for me and my sister in my mother’s eyes.

If he had known… He would have hated Manu even more for sure. First, he would have cried for days. Then her sadness would turn to anger and she would look for someone to blame. First she would have blamed herself, then Manu. When he found out how much he was charging me, without paying anything, it would make him responsible for my prostitution. He would have gone into a rage. He would have tried to find answers, but to no avail. In time, all of this would be just a bad memory, and she would help me forget. But she would spend the rest of her life with this wound, forever resigned. No, she never has to know.

The evening passed quietly, without outbursts or arguments. I decide to go to my room quite early. I want to get up early tomorrow to revise. In the afternoon I return by train, because from December 26 I will work at the telemarketing company . I don’t have time to hold my breath, but one day it will bear fruit, it’s inevitable.

I quickly go to bed, waving to the congregation. Once in the room, I study a text in Spanish. I can’t help it, as soon as I find a minute I review. I know I will pass the exams without problems, I have worked way too hard for it. But I can’t help it, I’m a perfectionist, everything always has to be perfect. And work prevents me from thinking about anything else.

The next day, I board the train back to V. And as usual, I don’t have much to say about the two days I spent with my parents. Chapter 13 Oppression January 7, 2007

Unfortunately, my experience with Julien didn’t stop me. It had the complete opposite effect. The new ads on the internet never stop and sometimes it seems to me that the world is full of unsatisfied people who will never be satisfied. I don’t spit on her though because these strangers and their wild desires are temporarily helping me solve my financial problems.

So I get in touch with an older man, almost certainly out of fear of running into a penniless indecisive like Julien. This time, the guy’s name is Pierre. All I know about his life is his profession: businessman in a well-known company. This made me feel more confident because it implied a really reassuring financial situation. The decision is quite difficult, and this business is like Russian roulette. I might as well make sure, as much as possible, that I get paid. We arranged to meet in the town square in the early afternoon. He prefers that we meet downtown and then go to his house, where, he says, “we’ll be quieter.” At first I refused: there was no way I was going to end up in someone’s house I didn’t know, where anything could happen to me. But after thinking a little, he managed to convince me: we will be safe from anyone’s eyes, because his apartment is empty. He too wants to remain anonymous and doesn’t want to risk being seen in a hotel in the city where he might meet people. So our last email ended with him discreetly picking me up and us going to his house in his car. I tell myself that in the end I will know if I can trust him when I see him. I realize the danger I’m putting myself in by doing this, but I need the money. I always want more now.

At the appointed time, I head to the famous square in the center of Y. I put on one of my favorite dresses: gray, with a puff on the shoulders. It accentuates my waist and shows off my legs a bit, which I’ve tucked into a very fashionable pair of boots. I am very elegant in this outfit and I know the effect it has on men. It gives me a childish air that attracts attention. It is clear that I dressed her for financial reasons: the better I look, the more he will be willing to pay. Besides, today is a beautiful and sunny winter day. I woke up in a good mood and just wanted to look good. For me, not for him. As I drive, I can already see men staring at me and admiring my dress without saying a word. Yes, today I know I’m pretty.

In the distance I can see a few busy stalls and a crowd gathered around the food display. I forgot! Today there is a market in the main square where producers sell their local products to curious tourists. This is in itself a good thing and a bad thing: with so many people, it’s easy to get lost in the crowd. However, I also run the risk of bumping into people I know, and that feeling quickly turns into immense fear.

I decide to step aside from all the commotion so I can quickly spot the man named Pierre and pull him after me. He told me he would wear a black suit with a red scarf, something visible but also appropriate for the bad weather.

Watching the passers-by, I start to get impatient after five minutes. I feel uncomfortable and clap my hands together nervously. I’m convinced that people around me notice my strange behavior, which makes me even more paranoid.

Suddenly, I hear someone calling my name behind me, someone with a very familiar voice. I recognize him immediately and my blood runs cold. – Laura! Laura! Laura! Laura! Laura! Laura! I admit I thought about not turning back, coward, and running away. Instead, I turn my head in a slow, natural motion.

– Mother? What are you doing here? I stammered, trying to control my inner panic.

My mother. Here in the square in the center of the city. While I wait for a client who will pay me to let him own me. I’m petrified, like a kid who just stuffed his fingers with jam before dinner. I stutter, knowing that if I don’t say something intelligible right away, Mom will get suspicious and realize something is wrong.

– Did you know that the whole family from Nantes came to visit us today? Do you still remember this? We thought it would be nice to all come here together to show them a little Y.

Oh yes, very nice indeed. Behind her are my father and the famous representatives of what she called “the family”. I completely forgot about it: the fair, my family being there this weekend, my parents possibly being able to come to the damn fair. Nice picture: my mother, father, uncle and aunt, and two or three other strangers whom I have not seen more than three times in my life, but whom I recognize as part of my genealogy. I’m stuck, I need to come up with an excuse right away. I try not to look around for the unknown Pierre, but I can’t help but look left and right.

My mom must feel like I’m not really listening to her, but she has no idea why. Excited by this unexpected reunion, she decides to express her joy to our family behind her. I’m afraid that if someone calls my name too loudly, a suit and a red scarf will turn and address me.

– Hey, look who’s here! It’s Laura! – Ah, it’s Laura! What a surprise! How you have changed! A real woman! Were you coming to meet us? my aunt enthuses.

I care a lot about my aunt, even though I don’t see her very often, but today I didn’t care at all. I wake up in the middle of a big family gathering in a public place, while I, the prostitute, am waiting for one of my clients. Also, what a great idea to make an appointment here in the middle of the afternoon! I was stupid, but now it’s too late to complain, we have to get out of this situation as quickly as possible.

Suddenly I see in the crowd a red scarf fluttering in the wind. The man carrying it has his back to me and is heading towards the center of the square. He was probably waiting for me at the edge of the square too, and not seeing me coming, he’s trying to make sure he didn’t get caught. He is in his fifties, wearing a suit and looking very dapper. I knew instantly he was my man.

I was interrupted in my stupor by my aunt, who was still waiting for an answer. – Laura, are you dreaming? She and my mom turn to see what I’m staring at so intently. Fortunately, Pierre, the businessman, disappeared into the crowd.

– Uh … yes, I’m sorry, just a little, I say with a smile to cut their questions short. I’ve been waiting for some friends for a while, I thought I saw them but I was wrong.

Suddenly, I pull my mother and my aunt by the arm away from where the man was standing. As if we were three good friends. I see dad and the rest of the family following us, talking.

– Oh, of course, this little girl is busy, it’s normal at her age! Well, we won’t bother you anymore, Laura, we’re going back to shopping! Do you know how beautiful this city is?

He can’t stop talking. My aunt is a real talker. My old businessman had to flee. The prospect of losing money due to an unwanted meeting with my family haunts me. Even though two worlds that don’t mix have come together today, I need this money to get me to the surface. I am aware that I am playing with fire, but a voice inside me keeps telling me that I cannot do otherwise.

I can’t help it, my eyes start darting wildly back and forth. My aunt ignores me, but my mother notices my impatience.

– Come on, we’re off again, have a nice afternoon with your girlfriends, dear. Come to dinner tonight if you want. We can pick you up after shopping, you spend the evening with us, and tomorrow you get on the train home. I know it’s a bit long but… Or maybe you have something planned…

– I’ll see, mother, how nice of you. I still don’t know what I’m going to do. I have to work tomorrow, you know…

Actually, I’m already working. I say goodbye to my seemingly endless family. My aunt gives me a long hug, murmuring that she hopes to see me tonight, that I’m very pretty, and so on… My father, on the other hand, waves at me without paying me any real attention. Does my skin smell of vice and sin?

I jump up to the step, but in my head I run at full speed. I try to discreetly look around to catch a glimpse of my man, I know my mother is still watching me. I wish he didn’t run away when I was so glaringly late.

Looking around for a scarf, I suddenly spot him at the other end of the square. I’ve done such a good job of alienating my family from him that they’re now on the opposite side of the market from me, so I have to be discreet again. I am determined to get that money today. Meeting my parents was a cold shower, but I don’t have time to think about it, I don’t have time to reflect.

I finally reach the businessman, slowing my pace so as not to attract attention. Man does not wait for someone in particular, I did not describe myself, and at this moment I do not regret it. He steps in front of me. I stay right behind him and push past him. Once I’m on his level, I whisper to him like a real drug dealer:

– It’s me, Laura, follow me. Don’t look back, keep going, my family is here. I said that in one breath. I feel the pressure around me, I want to get out of this oppressive situation as soon as possible.

I feel him walking behind me, dutifully following my steps. I keep walking like a champion athlete for a good five minutes without even looking back. When I’m finally sure we’re no longer exposed, I stop to catch my breath on a deserted street.

Now I can see it from the front. He is quite tall and not bad looking. With the suit on, he can be seen trying to imitate James Bond on the way back. Quite successful in terms of class, less so in terms of execution speed. If I look more closely at his body, I would say he is over 50 years old now. However, he definitely looks his best in the suit. But the second I laid eyes on his face, I was disappointed. His eyes are a very pale blue, which in itself is quite charming, but they are devoid of any energy. This guy looks like he’s lived ten grueling years and now he’s got nothing.

Between him, disguised as a graceful businessman, and me, as a sexy young student, we make a beautiful couple: a father with his daughter, whom he would have raised well and taught her to dress elegantly , but certainly not a 19-year-old prostitute with her client. – Hi, Laura. What a rush!

He speaks so slowly that I can’t even see the end of his very short sentence. – Hi, Laura. Pierre, isn’t it? – Yes, that’s right. How about we go and sit in a bar for a few minutes to recover from our emotions? Then we will continue on our way.

A street corner bar is our refuge. Firstly, because neither he nor I want to keep running around the streets, and secondly, because I want to quickly hide from people. I saw too much for one day. We sit at a table in the back.

After we order, there is a few minutes of silence, which gives me time to survey the place. The waiters match the place: handsome, very fashionable. However, they look at us strangely, whispering to each other. I frown at first when, as they bring us our drinks, one of them doesn’t respond to my “thank you” and smile. In an instant I understood the reason for this coldness. The young man realized that we were not father and daughter, despite our clever disguises. I imagine him snapping at me as he goes back behind the bar to prepare coffees for other, more decent customers, “Wait a minute, I swear! She’s a whore, and he’s either her pimp or her client! It’s so obvious!

Is it really that obvious? Pierre doesn’t seem to have noticed anything, and I dare not tell him. He begins the conversation quietly. – Shall we finish our coffees and go back to my place?

Yes, the sooner the better. Halfway through a sip of coffee, I nod in agreement. What I’m sure of after just a few minutes with him is that he’s too soft to do me any harm. However, I remain on guard, as the saying goes, you have to beware of sleeping dogs.

– We will be quieter than at the hotel, because there is no one at my house at the moment. You’ll see, you’ll like it, it’s a beautiful place. I am the owner…

After Julien, I’m not going to be fooled again. I don’t want to hear anything about his life and I let him know right away. For reasons like these, I don’t want to go to coffee shops with customers: they encourage a conviviality in which I don’t want to indulge. I wouldn’t be a good escort.

Five minutes later, we’re walking outside to his car. While he plays Formula 1 behind the wheel of his luxury car, I dream of the place he’s taking me to: a big, beautiful house with a big garden in a remote suburb where there are no neighbors around . One day, I will have the same house.

With Pierre still silent, I have more than enough time to panic and start assessing the consequences of my action. After all, I don’t know where I’m going and I don’t know what I’ll run into. I took a risk this time: who knows, the gentleman who speaks slower than his shadow might suddenly turn out to be a cocaine addict who, after he’s had enough, will jump on me. Um, seeing him like that, who takes a good ten minutes at a deserted station to check if the road is clear, I doubt it.

When it stops after only a quarter of an hour’s drive, we are in front of huge luxury buildings in a sought-after area of the city. Very modern, they frame and define the heart of V-town. From above, there must be a superb view. Pierre gets out of the car. His endless steps are aging him, despite his dynamic business suit. The road to his apartment is as long as it is difficult.

We finally get to his floor. The sumptuous corridors are clean, empty and spotless. Everything the rich like. It was like being in a real private hotel. We are in front of his door, where he tells me that the sample key is waiting for us. I want to rip it out of her hands and turn the lock myself. I am already fed up and I have a feeling that my time in his presence will seem very long.

Fortunately, I am momentarily distracted from this bleak spectacle when we finally enter his lair. Pierre the snail crawls upright towards the kitchen, leaving me for a few moments to admire the view of his interior. The room that first catches my eye is the living room: fantastically large, white, a true rap video cliché. The sunny day brings out the luxury furniture: minimalist overall, the few decorative items on the shelves are African ebony figurines. Taste and goodness in a very large package.

I am torn between an inevitable modesty in the face of this opulence and a strange pride, not without relief: don’t lie to me, he earns well. All that matters now is that I don’t end up in an ambush surrounded by lustful whores.

I don’t have time to enjoy my lot – it’s all relative – when Pierre arrives in gastropod mode with a tray of glasses. He places it on the coffee table in the living room, then turns to me and says: – I thought you’d like a snack before…

His sentence hangs in the air. Both he and I know what’s coming. I inspect the food. He brought me a glass of milk and a slice of gingerbread… Shit! This guy really takes me for a child, cultivates the woman-child fantasy all the way. I didn’t realize the fantasy I was creating for clients. Or is it just him? Because of my childhood clothing? Pierre sees me as a child, but one he would be happy to touch. There is something wrong with this photo. I accept the snack without a word, already taking gingerbread to satisfy my hunger. I drink the glass of milk.

Pierre sits with one hand on his hip in a totally unnatural way. He watches me nibble on the slice of cake, smiling, proud of his child feeding himself to keep his strength up. I suddenly let go of the cake, looking at him. I’m about to light my cigarette when Pierre tells me:

– On the other hand, I don’t smoke. My only response is to spit out the smoke and look him in the eye. He was confused by this and, not knowing how to react, preferred to focus on something else. – Some music? he says suddenly.

Armed with the remote, he turns on the hi-fi system, which doesn’t seem to be working.

The hi-fi system, which doesn’t seem ready to respond to his commands. He gets angry for a few minutes, then goes and looks into the problem himself. The height of ridiculousness: the rich businessman buys equipment simply because it’s expensive, but doesn’t know how to use it. His attempts to create a languid atmosphere are pathetic. Everything he meticulously planned fails. I don’t even smile anymore, this guy bores me.

Finally, after several minutes of effort, the music begins. I recognize it immediately. Luz Casal . This singer with her heavenly voice rocked my childhood and adolescence. She is my father’s favorite singer. He’s literally part of the family: we know all his albums, not just the ones he’s recently become a household name for. I’ve never questioned whether I like her music or not: her records are endlessly played at home. It was introduced to me at an age where you don’t question your parents’ tastes: you like what they like because you value them. Therefore, Luz Casal comes to mind logically when I think of home, of my family.

Pierre could not have made a worse choice. I have a very special relationship with this woman, an unattainable relationship that he cannot claim. Sitting cross-legged in front of his coffee table, mouth full of gingerbread, I am outraged that he should usurp the harmony that exists between Luz Casai and my family. Again today – once too often – my private life became dangerously mixed with my life as a prostitute. I know within myself that Pierre has nothing to do with it, and that, not knowing me, he could never have guessed. But even so, I can’t help but hate him now, just because he made me think.

My eyes must be throwing real black swords in his direction, because the businessman has been staring at me for some time, trying to pierce my thoughts. – I hate this singer, can you please stop the music?

Surprised that I had suddenly snapped out of my silence, Pierre made what sounded more like an order than a request for a favor. There was silence again.

Surely to avoid any conversation, he approached me, slowly of course. As he progressed, I could feel his excitement building. The room reeks of sex with every step he takes towards me. I don’t move, I can’t bring myself to touch him.

I watch him walk towards me. When he reaches me, between his legs is literally in front of my eyes. He holds this position for a few seconds, obviously enjoying it. He unbuttons his suit pants and pulls them down his legs. This situation makes me nauseous. I know I hit my limit today. I make an inner promise to myself not to give him anything. It’s too late for him, I stupidly hold him responsible for my sadness and prostitution. So far, this meeting has not gone according to plan at all. He got it all wrong. Even his fluttering eyelashes exasperate me with their laziness.

Finally he offers me his hand to get me up. Standing in front of him, I realize how tall he is: I’m as tall as his mouth.

Pierre takes off my dress. I’m now in my underwear in front of him, my legs tucked into cheap stockings. It doesn’t matter to him, he likes me, I can tell by his panting. He takes me to the bedroom and gently pushes me onto his huge bed. He takes advantage of my lying position to get rid of his shirt. Leaning towards me, he turns me over and places me on my stomach. I let him do it to me like a blow up doll.

– I’m going to give you a massage, do you like it? – Um… yes, yes, yes…

Pierre lays his whole body on top of mine. I collapse under his weight. I release myself with an upward push of my butt, which scares him. Released, I resume my normal breathing. He places his body next to mine and starts caressing me. He left my bra on and I guess it’s because he doesn’t know how to take it off. I wanted to run away. A dilemma forms in my mind: maybe I should leave after all if I don’t feel him. A glance at his radio clock tells me I barely have twenty minutes left. The attraction of money causes me to make a decision. I am prepared to wait for this money, which I believe I have earned.

His hands move over my body at the expected speed without surprising me, too slow for me to notice the passing of time. I’m completely immobilized: if someone came in right now, they might think I’m dead.

For exactly eighteen minutes he rubs against me without trying anything else. My silent reluctance must be too threatening for him to dare to venture. He doesn’t utter a word, content with this contact. I close my eyes, it’s what I have to do. When the alarm clock, with its red light, finally displays the saving time, I jump out of bed without saying anything. Pierre obediently gets up and doesn’t even sigh at my haste to get out.

I silently look at him and tell him to follow me into the living room. He puts his paternalistic hand in his wallet, like a father deigning to give his daughter a few dollars so she can go out and have fun with her friends. Take out 150 euros for two hours. Quite a large amount for what was consumed – almost nothing. Despite everything, I firmly believe that the money was hard earned and is rightfully mine.

Although I’ve been sure of it ever since I met him in the market, I know I’ll never see Pierre again. He is now too closely bound up in my mind with a feeling of disgust. And, above all, an unwanted meeting with my parents. Reasonably, I know this fate could have befallen anyone, but my thoughts stubbornly associate him with it, making him responsible. He’s the reason I went to the downtown square this morning, the reason I had to lie to my family (whom, until now, I’ve only “not told”).

Pierre offered to take me home, but I refused; there was no way I was going to spend another minute with him. Even if I have to walk for two days to get back to V., I will do it. I pocketed the money, almost ripping it out of his hands, and ran out the door without asking for anything else. Leaving Pierre alone in his luxurious castle, I left without looking back, muttering an inaudible “goodbye.”

– Will we be in touch soon, Laura? – Um… Yes. I don’t want to say a word. But I prefer to lie, to avoid long explanations and, above all, so that he does not get angry with me. I know my lie is protected: this guy only has my email address, nothing else.

Once at the foot of his building, in the open air, I stop for a moment and look up at the sky. Okay, I’m totally hooked. I’ll have to lie to my parents when they ask how my birthday was and decline their invitation to dinner so I don’t have to face my father’s gaze. The look of someone who knows, of someone who can guess everything.

Now I feel like a real prostitute. I became a whore. Because I know I will do it again; that Julien, Joe and Pierre won’t change anything. I became a prostitute who from now on relies on her clients’ money to stop worrying about the end of the month. I am a whore who, for a few hours, knows how to forget about the hands resting on her body. A part-time hooker, a student whore, a computer whore. In the fresh air, I regain my color. Slowly, heart racing, I make my way to the nearest bus stop.

Chapter 14 Nervousness January 14, 2007

Walking in the cold, my coat pulled up to my chin, I run to make sure I’m not late for my first university exam. I’m stressed today because I have a literature test. I’ve read all the books, of course, but I’m way behind: I couldn’t buy them, given their prohibitive price, and had to wait until they were available in the university library.

This happened just last week and I had to swallow three books in quick succession. I had learned my lessons foolishly beforehand, for without having read the works they obviously made no sense to me. So last week was full of adrenaline. I was running between work, studies, transport to get to university, to which was added the stress of exams. But today, for the first test, I am in a state of anxiety. I run through the corridors of the university to reach the building where the exam is held. When I arrived, there was already a small crowd outside the lecture hall. When you’ve been running since you jumped out of bed, once you stop moving you suddenly realize how tired you are. Only nervousness keeps me going.

Two days before, I had seen a client. This time, I had decided to save some of my loot for a little treat: I was going to do some shopping. That’s the problem with fast money. You always want more.

So I went to see a guy. All he was looking for was someone to “do some housework in a small outfit”. As exams approached, I still needed money, but I was less prepared, nervously, to stand being touched. So I spent two hours at this guy’s place, ironing his shirts in his underwear, that’s all. He gave me 100 euros.

On the subway to university, this fresh story came back to me and I suddenly felt dirtier than ever. I know very well that this exam period is not the best time to develop self-esteem, but I couldn’t help but hate myself, telling myself that I am not able to do it. Prostitution became a drug as soon as the salary from my telemarketing job wasn’t enough. When I realized how much money I could make, I even considered giving up the phones and going into prostitution exclusively. I would only have to work a few hours a month to earn triple my current salary.

But this telemarketing job , as boring and poorly paid as it is, is still, along with university, the only thing that keeps me in touch with reality, with real life. If I just kept my job as a prostitute, I tell myself that I would soon be falling headfirst into a network with a pimp at the helm. He’d make me drop out of college and I’d become his full-time golden egg-laying goose.

Outside the amphitheater, the pressure was mounting. I had to calm down if I didn’t want to lose my temper in front of the exam paper. I calmed down as best I could: my reaction is normal, it’s my first university exam and I’m so passionate about my studies that I feel like there’s a lot at stake. The week is punctuated by midterms and I have to keep up the pressure. The only test I’m not afraid of is the oral test, because it’s always been easy for me to express myself. I just need to get rid of literature; after i pass this test i will be more relaxed.

I rummage in my coat pocket for the rolled tobacco. All I have left are crumbs. So, as usual, I ask my friend from university if she would be kind enough to lend me a cigarette. Luxury, a real cigarette before an exam, can only be a good sign!

The classroom doors open and I walk in, determined to show what I can do. Chapter 15 The meeting January 24, 2007

Paul’s bar naturally became my stronghold. I discovered it a long time ago, long before I was a student. The decor is made of dark wood, in colonial style. There are a lot of photos of actresses from the 40s on the walls, and even though most of them were unfamiliar to me, they quickly became familiar. I don’t go back that often though, because I want to have the same magic in my eyes every time. From time to time, Paul gives me a nod as I pass him and we exchange a few words. In the beginning, I used to take refuge there when I finished my “professional” meetings. Then I started coming here more and more often; before or after work, for a coffee or an impromptu chat with friends I had met by chance.

Its importance in my life took a radical turn only the day I took refuge there after my first meeting with Joe. Since that day, the bar has evoked for me a sense of relief, of gentleness after emotional and physical violence. It is the place where I drown my dark thoughts and melancholy and forget about my whole life. It is a place of transition between hotels and my apartment: there I formed a real cocoon.

Over the years, I became friends with Paul, the waiter. I enjoy his presence. I talk to him without fear, but without ever going into details. Partly because I don’t want to: I’m not the kind of girl who tells the story of her life to the first person who walks by. Second, Paul is a pretty shallow person. He wouldn’t have been interested in any of my stories except my stories about sex. Nothing annoys me more than a person you’re talking to who looks around desperately looking for something to hold their gaze on. Considering how little I trust him as the “solemn keeper of secrets for life and death,” I’ve permanently erased from my mind the possibility of confessing anything about my forbidden games. The disclosure of such a secret is still unthinkable. I don’t want to have to justify myself in front of him, I don’t want to have to face his gaze which, without going so far as to judge me, couldn’t help but pity me. Come to think of it, I don’t think he would have believed me.

Paul is a lady killer. Excessively selfish, he gives into everything that enters his bar. Quick conquests. It beats them, then leaves them in a puddle for days or even hours later. He even tried his luck with me at first. I think he set out to seduce every pretty girl that walked through the door. He talked to me quite a bit, but it’s clear that I’m not interested: in my mind, he’s too closely related to my life as a prostitute. He sensed this and quickly deleted me from the loot list. I don’t think he was really interested in me. In his eyes, I would have been just another conquest, and he was not willing, for me or anyone else, to row in his favor. He’s not the type of guy to work hard for a girl. I also keep telling myself that being so geographically close to my mysterious meeting places, one day he will understand, if he really wants to, what I do and where I go.

At the height of my life as a prostitute, this place became my second home. I admit the clientele has a lot to do with it too. Most of them are around 30 years old: fresh businessmen or fallen artists, sometimes models, this bar exudes youth. They all mingle happily in the bar, turning the din of voices into a harmonious din.

I’ve always felt more mature than other girls my age, and in the course of conversations with complete strangers – but complete strangers in my thirties – I realized that this is the age group where I feel the best. I was forced to mature faster than everyone else as a child, and my parents always raised me to be as responsible as possible. Therefore, it was difficult for me to endure all the childishness at school. Although I sometimes amused myself, the speeches of my colleagues often made me sit up and take notice. Appellant “You don’t know what? My boyfriend at the time was in his thirties and had owned a car for a while. So nothing out of the ordinary for me. I couldn’t bring myself to attend their weekend slumber parties or their first experiments with so-called soft drugs.

I usually came to school for my lessons and left just as quickly. I rarely mingled with the other students. Without being arrogant, I naturally distanced myself from the group. I enjoyed their presence for a day, but I never “dug” or tried to see them outside of school. It was the same with the boys. For as long as I can remember, boys my age have always bored me to death, apart from Manu, who is about the same generation as me. When I was old enough to flirt, I never considered them as potential lovers. I prefer accomplished men who are no longer in a post-adolescent crisis or searching for an identity.

Sometimes I regret that I matured so quickly, because at school I felt alone, misunderstood, out of phase in relation to time and experiences. I think like a thirty-year-old woman, but my thoughts are ten years older than me. After all, I wish I could have fun like a girl my age, superficially, without constantly thinking like a responsible adult. Sometimes I feel tired of my own nature, but I can’t help it: I must admit that I will never be one to enjoy childish things, even temporarily. I lost my naivety a long time ago.

This is one of the reasons why I immediately felt at home in Paul’s bar. I come alone almost every time, sure to end the evening chatting with new people.

Tonight, when I arrived, I found the place packed. A rock concert was organized and a bunch of giddy customers turned the bar into a real dance floor. The good mood is contagious and I find myself smiling as soon as I cross the threshold. Paul sees me and rushes to pour me a glass of wine, to “put me at ease,” he says. In fact, I know he wants to cum in front of the guys at the bar who were staring at me for a long time while I was kissing him. It’s his way of saying, “Hey guys, I know her…”.

It had an effect. Two men immediately tried to start a conversation with me. – Hello, do you come to this bar often?”, one of them asked me, not in a very original way. – I’ve never seen you here and I know I wouldn’t miss a beautiful girl like you!” says the other, inspired.

What creativity! Their approach reeks of low-grade flirtation: they can smell a man’s sexual desire from a hundred yards away. I kindly answer their questions. I even allow myself a few flat initiatives, just out of politeness. The two kites know each other well, and before my eyes the discussion turns into a competition. Who will take the young lady home tonight? It depends on who will say the phrase that will bring the biggest smile to my face. I try to remain cordial, but I’m dying to leave them there, to make them understand once and for all that they have no chance with me.

Suddenly I notice him behind the two men. He stared at me for several minutes. Brunet, a few strands of hair hiding his eyes, which I suspect are green. He wears a striped cotton shirt with the sleeves rolled up. A very casual outfit, but even so, from the moment I noticed him, I couldn’t take my eyes off him. He is a fascinating man. He looked at me sympathetically. It’s not the first time I’ve seen him here. I saw him several times chatting with Paul over coffee. I smile, thinking that I won’t be able to tell him the famous “Do you come here often?

He gives me a look that I don’t have time to understand. Two seconds later, he’s next to me, grabbing my waist in front of my two flirting companions. Needless to say they head off quite suddenly, shame on me for getting me so wrong. There was silence, punctuated by short coughs that betrayed their embarrassment.

– Ah…hello, one of them managed to stammer . Two pleasantries later, they were already far away.

Savior turns my body towards his without letting go of my waist. The situation is frighteningly erotic and I feel a shiver run through me, making the hair on my arms stand up. I can’t take my eyes off him as he stares at me without saying a word. It’s not exactly what you’d call beautiful, but it fascinates me. I could have gone on like this for an hour, but after a good minute I decide to break the silence:

– Thanks, they were getting pretty annoying. – Yes, that’s what I thought too.

He points to a table that has just been vacated. He orders us two glasses of beer and, lo and behold, we spend the evening together, laughing a lot and chatting about our little lives. His name is Olivier. He doesn’t do much in life and seems bored with it. He has the look and lifestyle of a bohemian. Lacking a time machine, this guy seems resigned to the idea that he can’t go back to the 1970s. He was born in the wrong era.

The night is light and I feel perfect. I don’t know why things seem so easy tonight. And I can’t even explain how sometimes you feel so comfortable with a stranger… that you tell him very intimate things. I tell him about my family, my studies and Manu. He listens to me carefully and tells me moments and experiences that marked him in childhood or recently. It’s a healthy, fair exchange where everyone gives. Everything is done with a smile on the face and even suffering is mentioned as a constructive endeavor.

As the night progresses, so do the drinks. We begin to get more and more drunk, which aligns us with the logic of drunkenness, which is to nonchalantly and shamelessly reveal our lives. I have the strange feeling that I can tell him everything, even mostly what I hide from everyone else. Several times I catch myself wondering how he would react if I told him about my debauched life. He is the one who opens the ball of unlimited confessions.

– You see, after thirty years, I have the impression that today nothing can shock me anymore. Sad, isn’t it? The stakes are too high and my secret too heavy to carry alone. – Nothing can shock you? It is not like that? – I mean, seriously. – I’m sure I can shock you.

With the help of alcohol, I become more and more adventurous. I know I’m playing with fire, but a strange instinct makes me trust him. He remains silent for a moment, as if searching for an answer. He realizes it’s something I still don’t want to confess. So he tells me:

– “If you are sure, I will listen to you.

He senses my indecision. Revealing my hidden life means trusting him completely and relying on his loyalty to keep the secret. But I don’t know him! How and why should I trust him? Looking at him deeply, I can guess that he won’t say anything. However, a glimmer of lucidity still haunts me.

– Do not worry. It’s just between the two of us, I promise. So I take the big step. I turn the words over and over in my head to get them into proper verbal form because they have never been spoken out loud. – Do you know where I was last week?

He nods. Obviously he doesn’t know. – I was with a man in his fifties who paid me to touch me. I am a prostitute. I spat it out without thinking. When he was done, I took a step back, as if I had just heard someone else speak.

For a second, his eyes become sharper, the top of his face frowns, but remembering the promise he made, he hurries to put on an expression that is meant to be neutral. – I understand, he says simply.

Don’t put a hand on my shoulder, don’t make any gesture of compassion that would have exasperated me.

On the contrary, he tries to understand and asks me a lot of questions. The rest of the evening was the same as the beginning: my revelation did not spoil the evening at all, on the contrary, it brought us closer to each other.

Paul shakes us out of our reverie, which has lasted nearly six hours. Six straight hours where there was nothing around us. I hadn’t seen the time pass at all and thought it was a joke when I saw Paul arrive, mop in hand, ready to clean up before closing time.

– We’ll have to leave, we’re closing!

We both burst out laughing, realizing I had lost track of time. H stands up and offers me his hand to lead me outside. Drunk and hilarious, I greet Paul with an evasive wave. Outside, Olivier leads me home, supporting my waist as my walk zigzags . From the beginning to the end of the trip, I laughed inexplicably, brought on by the excess of alcohol. Once at the door, he checks that I have my keys and can open the door properly. Then, with a slow movement, he kisses my cheek.

I look at him with a smile and go upstairs to sleep, alone but happy. Chapter 16 escalation February 4, 2007 My birthday is fast approaching. I will be 19 years old. “Everyone thinks it’s a wonderful age. But I don’t care about the number on my watch.

I’m 19 years old. Two love affairs – one ongoing – a literary baccalaureate in the pocket, a year of college that goes better than I expected and a hidden life as a prostitute. Not bad for only 19 years old. Only 19 years old. And yet, I feel ten years older.

I’m almost 19 years old and still in dire need of money. The balance sheets are not good, not by a long shot. My little cell phone plan has been confiscated by the phone carrier. I have financial priorities, like rent, which I’m already struggling to pay. Most of the time, I cheat on the subway to get to university, unable to afford a luxury transport card.

I try to look on the bright side of things. I am passionate about my studies. I have been a student for four months and I really like it. Even when I’m tired, I go to classes happy, aware of the chance I got to study (almost) for free. My thirst for learning is unquenchable and I am sure that I have found my calling in the study of modern languages. My teachers encourage me, and one of them even told me recently that he sees in me a future agrégée in the field of foreign languages.

In addition, we received the results of the mid-term exams in January. I passed with an average of 15! I couldn’t believe it when I got my transcript in the mail. This proves that there is justice. I didn’t work for nothing.

My tight budget obviously prevents me from buying all the books I need. The library has become one of my favorite places where I like to wander and kill time with my precious books. But it’s not very big and was often looted before I got there, at least as far as the books in the program were concerned. But these repeated minor inconveniences don’t make me lose my natural poise, they just slow my learning. I envy the young students who go straight to the local bookstore to order books in the original language, holding out their credit card with a serene smile.

I’m also dying to have a laptop because it just becomes indispensable. This idea was born for the first time in the telemarketing company . One of the staff told us that there would be a raffle for a laptop. I can only imagine my reaction to this announcement. I’m on the internet all the time, looking at computer sales pages and drooling over the wonders of technology. Theoretically, I chose the one I liked the most, knowing full well that my parents would never be able to buy it for me, not even for my birthday.

I feel helpless in the face of my everyday life. A little over a month ago, I met Joe for the first time. Within a month, I had three important clients in a row, who helped me temporarily get out of the red, bringing me over 600 euros. Thanks to them, I was able to solve my biggest financial problems, the ones that have been brewing for a long time, but I still have to pay rent, bills, etc. I can’t see the end. I can’t see the end. Too many things to think about, to sort out. I feel overwhelmed.

I’m back to my online ads.

First I contacted an amateur photographer. The guy made me wear the most improbable outfits: not even in my wildest dreams could I have imagined such outfits! As the session went on, the guy looked more and more suspicious. He becomes demanding, almost violent in his comments if I don’t do what he wants.

– Come on, Laura, don’t sit like that! Do you think you can make someone want you like that? Don’t be such a whore! Be more sexual, yes, like that, with your mouth open, very good!

I adjourned the meeting. As I cashed in the money, I realized that it wasn’t nearly as much as I could have made by having sex with a stranger. Also, I’m not at all comfortable with this concept: photos leave traces. I am not ready to take such risks. I want to be as discreet as possible. The guy calls me back several times, even suggesting I have a threesome with another girl.

– You’ll see, she’s a student like you, you’ll get along great, I’m sure of that!

The mere thought of another poor girl ending up in the same shit as me makes my blood run cold. He sensed my reluctance and thus increased the prices, which became more and more attractive, reaching incredible amounts for a young woman like me. However, I’m sure if I accept, I’ll fall into this guy’s clutches. He has all the characteristics of the perfect pimp: sweet and protective one moment, violent the next. He seems to be part of a very large network on V. If I let him affect me, I will never get rid of prostitution. I see no future in her, and neither can any prostitute.

Being so close to the maelstrom of these networks makes me shudder: I feel both fragile and helpless in the face of these manipulators, but also strong in being able to keep my head on my shoulders. So far, I have been able to detect the danger in time and not accept anything. I managed to avoid the pimps, but how long will I last? Once you become a prostitute, no matter what happens, you are in an environment where people know and recognize you. I don’t have any money in my account and it seems that the deeper I get into this hidden life, the harder it is for me to manage. Every time I have a financial problem, I am tempted to turn to prostitution. The vicious circle is there, teasing me and pulling me into its vortex: the more money I make, the more I spend and the more I want.

I am aware that I have been “lucky” so far. Nobody forced me, I didn’t fall for some rabid lunatic. Sometimes I shudder when I realize this: maybe I’m waiting for something much more shocking to happen to me before I end this double life. And if that trigger doesn’t happen? What if the limits are pushed back little by little, so gradually that they don’t feel the danger approaching? Will I one day become one of the so-called “professionals”? Will I have the strength to handle it?

I rarely allow myself to think about this. Not in denial: I’m fully aware that I’m playing with fire. I’m just trying to protect myself. At this point I haven’t found any other way to make quick money, so I might as well try not to think too much about what’s happening to me.

All these negative reviews feed my schizophrenia. I feel myself splitting in two as I think. Not all white, not all black, not all white; neither complete hooker nor complete student, my life contradicts itself at every moment. The rest of the time, I strongly believe in the future. I see myself with a small family, in a nice house, with a job I love, away from all this shit. I know I have the resources to get back on track. I’ll get over it, that’s for sure. Later, I will carry with me this secret feeling of success, of victory. Where few girls have succeeded, I will be an example.

Later, I decided, I will be a good person. At this point in my life, I can’t afford that.

I began to think more and more seriously about Joe’s solution. Since our first meeting, he hasn’t left my side. I get emails from him every day, which I automatically delete without even reading them. New to the profession, I can’t get used to the idea of seeing the same clients again. I soon realize that it is precisely these clients that we must rely on, because they are our lifeline in the most precarious moments of our lives as prostitutes.

I guess I’m just stupidly hoping for a Pretty scenario Woman , with a Richard Gere impersonator to get me out of all this hell. I keep telling myself that it won’t happen if I keep meeting the same clients over and over again. So I look elsewhere for a rare gem, avoiding Joe like the plague. It makes me smile that even for one client, I dream of some kind of Pretty Girl.

But Richard Gere is late, and when I get another letter from my landlady asking for my rent within a week, I tell myself that I can find clients anywhere without a problem. It’s less obvious with clients I know to be trustworthy. Often the ads exude a perversity that knows no bounds and prevents me from contacting them. Joe is different. The last impression I have of him is that I took him by the foot. He cheerfully paid me for practically nothing: he just rubbed his hands on my body. His fantasies now seem quite manageable. I forget all the odious sensations that accompanied this meeting, all the embarrassment and disgust I felt. I still can’t see it, but that’s exactly where the danger lies: remembering only the envelope full of money.

The letter from my landlady was followed the next day by the salary slip. I grimaced when I saw the total amount of my salary: radishes, that’s what I get for this teleoperator job.

I contacted Joe that same evening from an internet cafe , initially just asking him for updates. This guy must be living in front of his PC because he answers me in a second.

In the second email I told him that I would be happy to see him soon and that the sooner the better as I needed the money very quickly. Clearly, he hastened to accept, pressed by his desire. But, out of politeness and courtesy, he still asked about me. In my reply, I told him that my birthday was coming up and maybe we could meet that day. Without hesitation, I have included as an attachment the web page of my dream computer.

I realize this may come as a shock to many people. I tell myself that since these perverts want my ass, they will pay dearly for it. But I cannot resign myself to the status of a “prostitute”: for me, I am better than that. And money is the only way I can prove it to myself. I will soon be 19, and this year more than any other, I need support and comfort. I stupidly think I can find it in a computer provided by a customer. How stupid can I be!

The email he sends me afterwards is not as fast. I am aware that I discouraged him somewhat. But how can he think for one second that I’m contacting him again because I like him? I’m only interested in his money. He answers me anyway, asking me why I need a computer. I explain to him that a computer would greatly simplify my daily life as a student. I say a lot more than that, melodically, because I know I’m dealing with a protective father and he can be easily pitied. I received his reply a few minutes later:

Laura, Sounds like times are tough for you right now. I completely understand why you need a computer. Which model are you interested in? Do you have a particular preference?

I know now that the deal is in the bag. I’m not even ashamed. I think at that moment I am ready to accept anything from him, convinced that our next meeting will be my last experience as a prostitute. He goes ahead and arranges a meeting within three days. On my birthday. Chapter 17

Fall February 7, 2007

At 13:00 I wait for him in front of the same hotel as the first time. We will spend a few hours together, because after that I have to go to work. Pierre’s episode still haunts me very much, and my eyes dart frantically in all directions. I try to watch everyone pass by without being detected, hoping that Joe will arrive soon. Ironically, I only feel comfortable when I’m alone with him in the room. I know that no passerby is fooled into seeing us together on the street.

I remember that one day I talked to a prostitute, without telling her about my “shadow profession”. She told me that on the street she keeps in touch with her “colleagues” by phone every half hour. As soon as one of them gets into a car, she warns her colleagues to intervene if they don’t see her coming back. Students, most of whom operate via the Internet, are ultimately far more at risk alone in a bedroom than on the sidewalk.

I see him from a distance, still armed with his magician’s kit. We kiss and he tells me: – Go up to the room in front of me. – Why should I do this?

– Since the last time I was with the cops, I’d rather we try to be more discreet. You never know. Ask at reception for keys. I didn’t know your last name, so I gave you mine. Of course he doesn’t know my name! And he has no way of ever knowing it.

– Then go upstairs and settle in, we’ll meet you there right away. By settling in, she means putting on the sexy clothes she asked me to bring with me. I nod and head to the reception. There is a young woman. He looked at me with a professional smile on his face.

When I reach the front of the hall, I put my ear to the ground to see if I hear anything inside. I’m sure I hear moaning, but now I’m getting suspicious. Maybe someone is waiting for me and wants to hurt me. I literally press my ear against the white wood of the door. Nothing, I quickly conclude that my limitless imagination is playing tricks on me and I need to stop being paranoid. I turn the key in the lock.

When I open the door, the green curtains are the first to greet me. Just like the first time, I found them ugly. The room may be smaller, but the setting is the same, so my benchmarks remain more or less the same. For now, things haven’t really changed. Oddly enough, this calms me down.

I discover a laptop sitting on a small table in front of the bed. A pornographic film is on full screen: I’m relieved to know I wasn’t dreaming: the moans are coming from there. There is a note on the bed. Again, Joe hasn’t changed. Leaving letters for his expensive mistresses is undoubtedly one of his fantasies.

Laura, I am very happy to see you again today. I want you to take a shower first. Then I’m going to knock on the door three times. I want you to say, “Come in, master.”

Then I want you to lie down on the bed. I want you to say to me, “Good morning, master, everything you see is yours. How ridiculous! He regains his dominance fantasies. I’m starting to get scared, the tone of the meeting is moving away from last time, when Joe had been very attentive.

At no point in the letter does he mention the computer. “Only this time, Laura, it will be the last,” I tell myself.

I slowly approach the car to observe it. I’m starting to wonder if it’s for me or if Joe is just teasing me. I feel he is capable of anything. I stroke the keys slowly, full of envy, but still wondering if I’m really ready to accept anything to possess him. What if this computer isn’t for me? What if he ultimately decides not to give it to me? My mind is now focused only on this possession, my desire turned into an immeasurable need. I want that computer at any cost.

I decide to take a shower to clear my mind. A pleasant surprise awaits me in the bathroom: there is no mirror. I don’t think I would have been able to face my image today, on my 19th birthday, when I’m about to sell my body to buy a computer. I take a quick shower. I’m still drying off when I hear Joe knock on the door. I stand in the middle of the room, naked, and I say to him:

– Come in, master. I couldn’t help but laugh when I heard myself say that. I imagine him smiling with pleasure behind the door. Instead, he came in, looked at me for a few seconds and said dryly: – We’re not kidding.

I’m sure he feels that given his expensive gift, he can afford to be more demanding of me. “Okay honey, don’t play smart today… Play your game, there’s a computer in the game…”, I say to myself. I am truly obsessed with this device. Joe interrupts my reverie:

– Lie on your stomach on the bed.

Now I do it without flinching, without even daring to open my mouth to speak. In this position, Joe can see my body perfectly, especially my ass, which I hate. It’s mid-afternoon and the light shines through the green curtains, which in itself isn’t particularly surprising given their quality. I really don’t feel comfortable.

My body is larger than the width of the bed, so my head and legs stick out at the ends. Joe notices this and tells me: – Put your head down and put your hands under the bed.

I do this without really understanding where he’s going, just hoping he won’t ask me to put my left leg over my head and do a handstand. I feel a piece of cold cardboard under the bed. I pull the box towards me to get it out of hiding so I can look at it.

A laptop. My laptop. I can’t help but smile at the sight of him. Suddenly, I become demonic in my head: now that I’ve got my gift, why should I sleep with him? But how could I imagine for a second that Joe would let me go like that?

Joe is not that stupid. He must have seen the spark of malice in my eyes, because he tells me suddenly – Of course, you can open it later.

So I’ll go all the way, I can’t get rid of her. I just realized he’s going to pay me for today too. I smile at my future wealth. I’m also really excited: this computer is the most expensive gift I’ve ever received. I haven’t received much in life without expecting something in return. Joe is obviously giving to me financially, but today he gave me a glimpse into another aspect of his personality that was previously unknown to me: his humane, generous side. At least that’s what I tell myself.

The vicious circle is established: I am being manipulated, but I do not realize it. Joe knows what he’s doing. He wants me and he knows he has to bait me with money. The boundaries between us were once again forced. Joe pulls the reins back.

He asks me to sit on the bed next to him. Turn up the sound of the movie you just paused on your computer. It’s an amateur sadomasochistic film showing a naked woman in her forties, rather plump, burning her body with a candle. She is tied to the chair she is sitting on, wax dripping down her breasts, and she screams to death. The more she screams, the more the horrible man responsible for her pain enjoys. In the end, she seems to enjoy it too. The images pass before my eyes without registering on the retina, and I actually find it very difficult to watch these scenes.

I regularly watch pornographic films. Out of curiosity, to increase the excitement, I sometimes watch them with friends or my boyfriend, like everyone else. Sadomasochism is completely different. I don’t think I’ll ever understand the appeal of films in this category. After two minutes, the scene already seems unbearable and I have to look away. I turned into an ice cube watching these images. Joe, on the other hand, is having a blast.

– Honestly, Joe, I can’t look, he’s not my type at all. – The problem is, it’s mine, so I’m not asking you to look.

His tone is radically different from last time. She absolutely despises me: I’ve been reduced to the level of a cheap whore who is only there to offer her ass and keep her mouth shut. – I suggest you tie your hands to the bed.

I immediately linked to the video. Does he want to burn me too? And I who thought I’d be safer with him in the hotel room!… Joe softens a little. – Don’t worry, Laura.

Gently, he approached me. He slowly tilts my body into a lying position and then pulls me to my side. Then he gathers my wrists behind my back and ties them to my sweater, which is lying on the bed. The knot is not very tight, which makes me feel a little better, I can break free if I want to.

Joe doesn’t seem ready to let me do that. He grabs a string out of nowhere and ties my ankles, also behind. Then, to be more secure, he ties my feet and wrists together. I think I’m like a piece of cold meat at the butcher shop. Why am I letting this happen to me?

Then he pulls a vibrator out of the briefcase. It’s not the first time I’ve seen one in real life, but this one looks bigger. At the sight of him, I shudder and let out a moan of fear. Joe doesn’t react. She couldn’t care less now that I’m tied up.

Captive. I’m at his damn mercy now, he walks over and stuffs a tissue into my mouth, which he completes with a blindfold around my head. In two minutes he made me immobile and speechless without me being able to react. I feel helpless and I repeat with anguish: “Even if it hurts, I won’t be able to scream.”

With the help of lube and his supernatural object, Joe manages to turn me on physically. Then comes the horror and pain. The first blow is unspeakably painful.

I let out a scream that was muffled in the fabric. It doesn’t stop, on the contrary. I screamed inaudibly “Stop!”, tears streaming down my face from the unbearable pain. As much as possible, I bring my thighs together to make him understand that he needs to stop. I squirm so much it’s impossible for him to hold me or insert anything into me. Besides, my moaning must begin to be heard from outside. Panicked in the face of this trance, he finally undoes the blindfold and bonds, giving me new freedom. As soon as the last knot is untied, I jump to my feet. I slowly turn around, my hair completely disheveled, my breathing still ragged. I must look like a fury. Now I’m looking directly at him. I feel like a crime.

He just looks at me sheepishly, fully aware of my psychological state. But once again, he’s enjoying the situation. At the sight of my reddened and bloodshot eyes, make the innocent: – Well then? I thought you liked submission…

Even he doesn’t believe that anymore. I don’t answer him, instead I throw my clothes on and start dressing with dizzying speed. Who knows what else he’s capable of!… I’ve seen enough for today. Forever, actually. – You left? We agreed on two hours. You have one more hour to spend with me.

Afraid he might turn violent, I decide to make up an excuse. They probably won’t believe me, but it doesn’t matter, I have to go. With trembling hands, I find the strength to babble at dizzying speed:

– Today is my birthday, so I’m not going to work. My friends are waiting for me in a cafe to celebrate with a drink. Besides, I’m in the middle of an exam, so I won’t be able to hang out with them for long, because I have to go home afterwards to review.

I make up as many excuses as I can, telling myself that of all the lies I’ve told, there has to be one that sticks. My body and head are on the verge of an anxiety attack, I need to get out of here fast before I go crazy in this miserable hotel room. Money or no money, I’m out of here.

Joe then uses the last arguments likely to convince me to stay a little longer. Play the excuse card. – You don’t have to take it like that, Laura, it was just a little fantasy. – A little fantasy? Well, it’s not mine at all…

I stopped there, seeing no point in talking to her anymore. I was dressed and putting on my coat when Joe said: – Don’t you want to take a shower? I reply dryly: – No, I’m leaving.

I broke several orders at once, and he doesn’t know how to react. I don’t want to give him time to think about it, I already have my hand on the door handle. I retrace my steps for a second, aware that I forgot something. Without looking at him, I grab my laptop, tuck it under my arm, and head out the door as fast as I can.

Joe catches up to me in the corridor. – Welcome, Laura, you forgot that too.

He hands me an envelope. Same as last time. I open it… and find 400 euros inside. He puts his hand on my head as I raise my face to him. My features are tighter than ever. He strokes my hair and says: – It was good, I liked it.

She says it in a “good girl” tone, which makes me nauseous again. I basically ripped the envelope out of his hand and ran without looking back.

I left the hotel out of breath. Tears roll down my cheeks, but they almost turn to ice in the winter cold. I can’t be alone again. I head straight for my favorite bar, the one that welcomed me when, after the first time, I didn’t feel like going back home anymore.

Paul is there behind the counter, wiping down his hundredth drink of the day. He sees me rush in, my cheeks red from the cold and my eyes bright. I have no intention of confessing my misfortunes to you; no one ever has to know. I don’t look normal, and he wouldn’t believe me if I told him everything was fine. My face shows extreme panic: the only way out is to pretend this disorder is pleasant.

– Laura, is everything okay? Is everything okay?” he asks me as I sit down on a high stool at the bar. – Yes, everything is fine. Something crazy just happened to me! I can’t fool him this time. “Quick, invent something. – I just won this laptop at work! Isn’t that great?

Ah, that’s a great excuse! I’m doing great. I show him my hard-earned prize. To myself, I am giving the flag for the best liar of the year. Paul congratulates me, obviously delighted for me. I order him a coffee and, without having to ask, he tells me the latest neighborhood gossip. Perfect, to speak or think would have been a terrible effort for me at this moment.

After a few minutes, I interrupt him: – Paul, tell me, do you mind if I take a shower? – No, not at all, make yourself comfortable.

I couldn’t stand another minute of Joe’s scent on my skin, and since I was given the chance to wash off, I jumped at it. I head through the back room to the upstairs bathroom, computer still under my arm. Dirt and shame are embedded in my body and it will take a lot of rubbing to remove them all.

I let the water run down my body for a long time and used half of the shower gel. When I came out I still felt as dirty as ever. Suddenly, everything changes. I see the computer in the corner of the room and something crazy happens that I couldn’t have imagined a second before: I smile. I’m just happy to know it’s mine now. Joy takes hold of me and any fears I may have had upon leaving the hotel melt away easily. I feel light and ready to face life again. Besides, it’s my birthday and I don’t want to ruin my day with dark thoughts – I have plenty of time to grieve later. I didn’t think I would smile this afternoon.

I pack my things, say goodbye to Paul for the last time, and leave the bar, my mind seemingly at ease. I’m heading to work. I don’t even think I’m scornful for enjoying this item. Happy birthday, Laura. Chapter 18 Love March 2007

Although nothing materialized between us, Olivier and I continued to see each other in parallel with my forbidden extracurricular activities. Our relationship is platonic. In any case, it is not an official relationship. I try to convince myself, to calm my impatience, that I prefer this situation. We both fear what might happen if we try to kiss. A few times a week we meet after work and very often in Paul’s bar where we met.

I don’t know how he makes a living as he seems to always be available for dates and regularly proposes them on his own. I think he needs to get unemployment benefits. A comparison with my former partner Manu is inevitable. I’ve gone from a housekeeper to someone who certainly doesn’t have a lot of money, but takes me out to dinner whenever he can. Without even taking the “kiss” step, I know how important it is in my life.

We never talk about my underground life as a problem to be solved. Olivier seems to have bought into the idea that he’s interested in a girl who sells her body to pay for her education. I confess that I have long since lost the thread of clear and precise thinking about this part of my life. Olivier doesn’t ask me anything either. He probably has other demons to fight before he faces mine.

We spend whole days together, walking around V., or long evenings talking at my house until dawn. We get along easily, sometimes we disagree, but our relationship is incredibly human: one always tries to understand the other’s thoughts before criticizing them. We also have a lot of fun together. His laughter is a delight to my ears and eyes. A second before it explodes into the air, I guess it’s ready to jump up to his lips, which pull back into an impromptu grimace before finally relaxing completely. I look at him then and forget to laugh too, captivated by this surprising image. This guy is not handsome, but in my eyes he is magnificent. Far from perfect, and that’s what makes it so noble. He stops joking to admire me in turn, and the silence is natural and beautiful.

I still can’t believe how quickly we became so close. I’m not looking for a long explanation, her life and dating doesn’t always have one. Many times I functioned this way, letting myself be carried away by events, accepting them as they came and trying, as much as possible, not to complain.

One evening, he called me to invite me to dinner at his house. I gladly accepted, his presence becoming more and more essential to me; I literally missed it as soon as I put it down.

The evening passed without surprises, in joy and good mood. We were glad to see each other again, even if we saw each other the day before. The discussion follows its usual course: a din of nonsense, a flurry of jokes mixed with more serious topics. Then, at the end of the meal, Olivier takes his glass of red wine in hand and slams his knife against the edge of his plate with a hushing noise. His face is quite serious, and as it’s a look I don’t know, I stiffen a little in my seat.

– Laura… He’s still searching for his words, is that a good sign? I don’t answer, I don’t care. – I do not care.

Then he slowly stood up and kissed me. It is the most beautiful declaration of love I have ever received. I’ve heard my name called so often these past months, distorted by the angry wishes of strangers. I really wished I’d never heard it again, so much was it pushing my schizophrenia to the limit, forcing me to juggle my new imaginary friend, my brain’s new roommate: Laura the hooker.

But this is where it finds its place and reason for being my entire identity. I’m not a prostitute in her eyes, I’m Laura. This kiss clarifies what we’ve been afraid to admit all these weeks: we’re passionately in love. After Manu, I didn’t think I would fall in love again so quickly, given my hidden life. I obviously don’t have any feelings with my clients and as a result I felt like I had become numb to all emotion. Tonight, Olivier proves me wrong. With this kiss, which is insignificant to many people, I feel alive again, I accept myself as a loving being and I am no longer just an object in the service of strangers.

The weeks that followed were the most intense of my short life. Olivier and I were never separated from each other and we went through life together without asking ourselves questions about the future. I continued to see clients simply because I still needed the money. I’ve become more and more picky about my lifestyle and I can afford to buy things that I couldn’t have imagined six months ago.

The first time we make love, something very revealing happens. In the middle of our lovemaking, Olivier stops to look deep into my green eyes. Suddenly he breaks the silence to say: – Laura… He swallowed, as if trying to work up the courage to speak. – Laura, what are you doing here?

– I’m here with you. Make love, – No, Laura. Now you let me pull it for you, it’s not the same. I backed off. – Laura, I’m not giving it to you. I make love to you I stop completely to think for a few moments about…

To what Olivier just told me. After so many months of only having sex with my clients, I didn’t realize that I had developed certain reflexes to protect myself. To wait, not to move, to close my eyes: all these are obviously not compatible with a lover.

Olivier gives me a long hug and I fall into a deep, peaceful and serene sleep. The next day, we make love with wonderful gentleness.

Olivier does not turn a blind eye to my forbidden life, on the contrary, on the contrary. Over time, it became my diary: I always tell him the time and place of my meetings, in case something happens to me. I don’t get how weird this relationship is. He literally allows me to cheat on him and what’s worse, he helps me with my organization. We don’t talk about it afterwards because he doesn’t need to hear what happened. I don’t see him as a masochist and I don’t see myself as a sadistic girl either. We just want to share everything, and if to do that he needs to know the names of my clients and the times I have appointments, I’m ready to tell them.

One day, I agree to meet a new stranger near the train station. I have to meet him at the end of the afternoon and before I leave, Olivier and I go for a coffee in Paul’s bar. As I swallow the first hot sip of my coffee, my cell phone starts ringing. It’s the man on the other end of the line.

– Is it about Laura? Yes, I would prefer to meet in the parking lot in front of the station around 9pm, is that ok? I know it’s later than planned, but I have something to do until then. – In front of the station? I’m not sure… This guy is getting suspicious.

– I’m not sure I want to meet there at this time of night. Olivier lifted his head and was now listening to the conversation. – But no, don’t worry, Laura, I’ll be in the car, I’ll pick you up and we’ll leave quickly. We can’t spend the whole evening there!

This conversation must stop immediately and this meeting must be canceled. I’m not going to meet a stranger in his car near the train station at this time of night. – I’ll have to cancel, I’m not available at this time.

I hung up without waiting for a response from him. Olivier didn’t take his eyes off me, but I avoided his gaze. He realizes something is wrong. – Is everything okay?”, he finally asks me. – Yes, everything is fine. I am canceling this customer.

He hadn’t even had time to smile when my cell phone started ringing again. I should have expected, this weird guy isn’t going to quit anytime soon. We stare at the shrill sound of the phone. We realize who’s calling, and for the first time in our relationship, I feel my forbidden games come between us.

Answer. Yet again he. – Laura, why did you hang up? I’m sure we can meet later, or another day. I mean, we can come to an agreement, right?

I stutter that I’m not free and hang up again abruptly. Olivier’s eyes light up with anger, he’s about to explode. I take both of his hands and cover them with kisses. We both feel the pressure of the situation, waiting for the phone to ring again.

Our silence is effectively broken a few minutes later. In a gesture of extreme violence, Olivier grabs the phone and picks it up, shouting a “hello!” furious.

I have no idea what the customer said. I guess he was startled by a hateful male voice. All I see is Olivier yelling at the guy to never call me again, that he’ll find him personally if he tries to contact me again.

I realize I’ve gone too far. Yelling, losing his temper and not knowing what to say, Olivier let out the anger he had been building up, unconsciously or not, for the past few weeks.

After a few seconds of insults, he puts the phone back on the wooden table, in a violent gesture. He looks at me for just a second, then looks away to focus on his coffee. We never bring it up again, and I keep my prostitution a secret. No diaries, no plans together, they become his girlfriend again, and he decides to turn a blind eye to what he should never have known.

Our passionate relationship was quickly ruined by this episode. Olivier can no longer pretend. As for me, I can’t stop: I always want more money. At this point in my life, losing Olivier is the thing I fear the most in the world, but I continue to see clients. Prostitution was also part of my daily life and I convinced myself that I couldn’t do without it financially.

One morning when I woke up in his apartment, I found the bed empty. The place was still warm and it wasn’t very early. Olivier was in the kitchen, looking out the window, thinking. He was sipping his coffee slowly, his eyes lifeless.

I tiptoed over to him and ran my hand lovingly up and down his back. He doesn’t react. Then comes what I’ve been dreading for days. – Laura?

The same “Laura” he used to declare his love for me, to help me rediscover my identity. But this time it sounds terribly different. That “Laura” is a semicolon, that “Laura” ends our story in that dark kitchen at dawn.

That’s all that can be said. I left the same day, packing my things that had been scattered in the mess of her apartment. It wasn’t until I got outside that I let the tears roll down my cheeks. For the first time, I don’t delete them; they deserve to run down my face.

Chapter 19 Panic March 25, 2007 Supported by Paul’s bar, I have a nice, shallow chat. I haven’t been back here since I broke up with Olivier a week ago. In fact, he carefully avoids this place.

For the first time in my life, I feel alone in the world. I made the choice a few months ago to confess my dark secret, and now I feel like I can no longer bury it as deeply as I used to. It presses too hard on me.

Paul is considerate enough not to mention Olivier: perhaps out of respect for our silent suffering. Or maybe he just doesn’t care. So a light and uninteresting conversation naturally becomes our main exchange of lines.

This afternoon I decided to get out of the house, after a week spent ruminating on my pain in the solitude of my apartment, immersed in work. I know I have to forget and move on, but it’s a lot harder than I imagined. I need to get back to a “normal” life, although I can’t bring myself to call it that anymore.

The door suddenly opened. The bar is not very big, and the customers who come in are inevitably chosen by the customers’ eyes.

I recognized him immediately. My blood runs cold, I’m petrified. He’s with his girlfriend, who may even be his wife, and to make matters worse, there’s also his child. A smiling blond boy with big blue eyes and beautiful curls. I just glance quickly at his wife. I can’t help it, I have to detail it. She is brunette and quite tall, a little chubby, but very elegant. He holds the little one’s hand and smiles at him. She must be a good mother.

I quickly turn to the bar, my back to the door. I don’t know what else to do. – Hi Paul, says the guy. – Hello, Mathias! What have you been doing? Long time no see! Ah, you brought the whole family today!

Hell, they know each other! It’s hell! A month before, this guy contacted me for a “massage” in a hotel for two bucks. Now I find him in this bar, my bar. I don’t dare get up from my chair, not to make eye contact with him, of course, but also not to realize what’s going on.

Meanwhile, Mathias hasn’t even noticed I’m here yet and is talking to Paul, while behind me I hear Goldilocks chirping in the distance to her mother. Mathias has only seen me once, so maybe it’s understandable that he doesn’t recognize the back of my neck. After all, they are just a pleasant mistake that he quickly forgot . I recognize them all, I know their faces by heart, because I watched them a lot. I recognize their voices and regularly walk back down the street thinking I heard one of them.

Now he’s literally leaning against the bar and touching me on the shoulder. I have to get out of here, I have to get out of this bar as fast as possible. I get off the chair with my head down and trip over my bag a bit as I put my feet on the floor, which makes him turn around.

Our eyes meet. His mouth hangs open. He knows he’s seen me somewhere before, and searching his mind for a second, he found out where. I can see the horror and panic in his eyes when he sees me here. We’re only stuck for a second, but it feels like an eternity.

As I grab my bag and prepare to leave, Paul asks me: – Are you leaving already, Laura? You haven’t even finished your coffee! – I just remembered that I have something to do, I have to go, I stammered, getting tangled in the bag strap.

Wait a minute, come here and meet Mathias, one of my best friends!

“No, I already know your colleague, and quite well indeed. Paul can’t understand the panic I’m feeling right now. If he touched my sweaty hands, he’d know something was wrong. Mathias, for his part he frantically looks at his girlfriend crouched behind him, who is thankfully too busy playing with her offspring.

– Hello, nice to meet you, Laura, I say, reaching out to shake her hand. – Mathias, nice to meet you too. You can be sure! Our fingers, stiff as stakes, they come together for a quick, vague handshake. Our restless gazes seek a diversion. Paul notices our awkwardness.

– Are you feeling well, Laura? Don’t you want to stay a little longer? – No, I have to go, I’m sorry. Oh yes, I’m sorry. Without asking anything else, I head for the exit, muttering an inaudible “goodbye”. I see Paul’s look, he doesn’t understand, he just shrugs and starts wiping his glasses.

I run for a minute or two without stopping to get the bar and the moment out of my mind. My run ends at the corner of a street and I take a big breath of fresh air. I suddenly feel like screaming and crying at the same time. It’s all too much: my two lives have merged, my two personalities have merged. So far I’ve managed to work things out, but you can’t ask too much. I had to face Mathias’s family: everything I refuse to imagine when I’m with a client materialized without me knowing today.

It is no longer possible. I must leave this town at all costs. Chapter 20 Expropriation March 30, 2007

I promised myself I’d never see Joe again, but he got under my skin. I informed him of my imminent departure to Paris. I stupidly thought he would leave me alone. Was I clear in my mind? “For your departure to Paris, you need money, you can’t leave without anything in your pockets. Come on, just one last time, it’s not much and it suits us both.”

I recently got his mobile number and he got mine. I gave it to him under pressure, and now I realize what a mistake I made. To say that he calls me regularly would be a lie: he literally harasses me! He really likes me and I fit his fantasy of a sexy and naughty college girl. And now they offer me something crazy.

Nothing less than 1,000 euros for five hours. It’s very tempting, indeed. But five hours is a long time. What is he going to do? I immediately think of the amount of money at stake. I have never had such fares before, and the money would enable me to get to Paris with more peace of mind. I could take my time and find a respectable job that suits me, not a quick job in a dime bar. In my mind, there’s no way I’ll end up in a mess like V again. It’s clear that I’m running from this town, I don’t want to have to hide and calculate and lie anymore. In Paris, I will behave properly.

We arranged to meet at the same hotel as usual. This place calms me down, after all. In spite of everything that happens, a trust, I stupidly admit, binds me to Joe. He may have made me scream in pain and humiliation the last time we met, but at least I know him and I don’t think I’m risking my life when I go see him. I know that despite all the things he might do to me that will make me cry when I think about them in bed at night, he won’t strangle me or stab me. In short, I am already under his influence. He pays well.

At first, we kept in touch by email. He became more and more insistent about setting up another date and I could feel his furious desire in the few lines he wrote to me. He kept suggesting times for us to meet, and I told him that they didn’t suit me. To pretend I was trying, I would also suggest hours, but at times when I knew he wouldn’t be able to come. I’ve asked myself many times why I play this game, why I didn’t delete it from my inbox. I can’t help it, I see him as a spare wheel, someone who can help me financially if I run out of money.

And now I need money because I want to go into exile, run away, feeling that my life is leaning dangerously towards something I will soon be unable to control. The main problem is obviously money. I have no money, not even to pay for my train ticket.

But I have everything organized: a friend of my mother’s will host me when I get there, until I find a job and an apartment. I managed to obtain a fake medical certificate authorizing me to miss university classes. A friend from the university will teach all my classes and I will come to take the exams at the end of May. As for my job, too bad. Anyway, I wasn’t going to make a living in a telemarketing company . Those around me were warned of my imminent departure. My father sighed, preferring to ignore me rather than yell at me. He feels like he’s reliving my last year and dropping out of school. But there is no question of giving up my studies, I continue remotely, the university is my only way out. I am so attached to this idea that I am more motivated than ever to succeed.

In short, this exile is my last chance to free myself from the prostitution in which I am losing myself. As soon as I have the money for this damn plane ticket, I’m leaving.

But I have no money. Ironically, I need to see Joe again to get out of my life as a prostitute. So I gave in to his suggestions and in an email asked for his phone number. After a few days of thinking, I called him. – Joe, I’m Laura.

– Hi Laura, how are you? I don’t want to make a big deal out of it. So I cut the conversation short and went straight to why I called. – Five hours, Joe, not a minute more. Five hours for 1,000 euros.

I think he was surprised that I got straight to the point, but he responded quickly. – Well, that’s perfect, Laura. Five hours is perfect, and 1,000 euros is good for me. Shall we meet as usual in front of the hotel? Let’s say Wednesday at 1pm?

– Yes, Wednesday is good. I will be there. – Don’t forget to bring some sexy clothes. I hung up right after that. Every time he

Once he asked me to bring sexy clothes that didn’t cover too much of my body, because my jeans and t-shirts didn’t turn him on too much, not enough. What he wants is a student who plays grown-up in women’s clothes. He likes that.

On Wednesday we met in front of the hotel. He asked me to go in first. I sensed he had a plan in mind and assumed there was a letter waiting for me on the bed as usual. Bingo, there really is a note on the bed: Hello, Laura.

I am very glad that you agreed to come and I am sure that the meeting will be perfect. As usual, I want you to take a shower first. Then you walk out of the bedroom and knock on the door. When I answer, you enter.

These are the usual requests: the shower, the door, nothing really new. In a way, that calms me down. I put the letter down and headed for the bathroom.

I took a shower and let the hot water run slowly over my body. I feel sluggish and lack energy. I don’t feel strong enough to fight back today.

After a thorough wash, I return to the bedroom. He is there, lying on the bed. Without a word, I continue to follow his instructions and leave the room. I knock on the door and, without giving him time to answer, panicked at the thought that I might run into someone in the corridor, I enter.

He doesn’t move or speak, a sign that I should pick up my reading where I left off. Today we’ll stay in the room for about half an hour and talk, then we’ll go to a place I want to show you, just outside the hotel.

A place? What place? Even though this hotel reminds me of disgusting times, I know it. The places Joe can go outside of this room are unknown to me and therefore dangerous. Besides, I have no desire to be outdoors with him. I don’t want to expose myself. My head is like a scale, with reason calling me to leave and the 1,000 euros shining in the background. None of this bodes well.

It is a sex shop that I know well, where we will both have fun and feel good. I look at him with questioning and somewhat scared eyes. – Come and sit with me on the couch,” he says.

So this is what he calls “discussion”. He’s going to use all his rhetoric to convince me to come with him to this creepy place, and I can see the picture.

– Listen, it’s a great place and I’m really excited about it. It’s a stone’s throw from the hotel, there’s no danger of being seen on the road, it’s very close.

– Joe, I don’t feel well at all, there will be people there and I don’t want to be seen. I am not calm. No, seriously, I don’t like it at all, I’d rather stay here.

– But no, Laura, don’t worry. It’s fine there, there won’t be any problem, I assure you. No one will see you. It’s a room in the back of the store where only regular customers go. It’s a very dark place, no one will see us there, you can trust me. There are videos that we can watch together, it’s very interesting. I have been there regularly with women and it has always gone well.

He knows that you have to be very careful with me, that I will refuse. Obviously I am not familiar with such places and the only image I have of them is gloomy. I can’t imagine what awaits me and that’s the problem. After a few minutes, he finally tells me:

– Look, let’s go and then we’ll see. If you really don’t feel comfortable, we go back to the hotel. You know, I understand you perfectly, I am also a very shy and modest person.

I sobbed, but a voice whispered to me: “1,000 euros, Laura, and then you’re out of here. Leave all this shit behind you. Without this money, you’ll never leave again.” – Well, that’s okay. But as soon as I want, we’re going home,” I finally say.

So we head to the sex shop. It’s right next to the hotel, on the corner of the street.

As we enter, the doorbell rings. I turn to face the store cashier. He is between 25 and 30 years old and so handsome that I look at him for a moment. What guy! On the street, under different circumstances, I might have gone over and asked for his phone number. But here, in this place, accompanied by Joe, who could have been my father, I’m blushing.

He noticed me too. I saw in his eyes, for a second, that he liked me, but that look suddenly turned to disgust. He was judging me, probably thinking I was just a whore who comes to sex shops to get fucked. He certainly blames himself for liking me for a moment. I have a strong character and I never give up, but I have to admit that I feel lower than the earth. This guy reflects back to me everything I refuse to see: the image of Laura in her second life, the image of Laura the prostitute who is maintained by old men. Yes, in his eyes, I’m just a whore. But he is the cashier of a sex shop!

Joe pays the entrance fee, a ridiculous amount of a few euros. He quickly moves to the back room, hidden by large black curtains. More curtains. I am there every time I meet with a client. They confirm that what they are doing is wrong, it is dirty. I sneak inside the room, avoiding the saleswoman’s gaze, who is no longer looking at me anyway.

The place is very dark and it takes me a few seconds to get used to it. At first all I smell is a wild smell, a smell of human flesh. A shiver runs through my whole body. When I finally manage to make out my surroundings, I see in front of me a large overhead projector showing a porn movie with a vulgar blonde screaming in pleasure. About twenty chairs are placed in rows in front of the screen. At first glance, there are just over ten people in the room, all men, either slumped in chairs or standing and masturbating. I stop myself from groaning in disgust. The room is quite large, as far as I can see, all decorated in black. Everything looks a bit like a night club: you can see that the place has been designed to give the impression of a trendy place. The result is not good: you know very well when you enter this place that something fishy is going on.

– Come on, take a chair, says Joe, we’ll watch the movie together.

I don’t know what to do anymore, I don’t know what to do. Being around these guys gives them an opportunity to see who I am. What if I know one of them? I can think of no acceptable justification. Being in a sex shop and choosing a movie is fine, you earn a reputation as a bit of a naughty girl. But being in this room leaves me with no alibi.

Like a 6-year-old girl, I timidly obey the orders of my paternalistic representative. I sit in row two, having studied the available seats, which don’t put me too close to the other men. Joe, on the other hand, sits back and observes. He looks at the customers of the sex shop as he glances at the film. I feel his eyes on me. I’m the only woman in that place. Customers should think how lucky they are today: they could fulfill their fantasies with a real woman.

I try to watch the movie without thinking about anything, but it’s just impossible. The screams of a blonde on the screen, the moans of pleasure from the boys, I can’t ignore all these noises. I don’t want to close my eyes. As much as possible in such a situation, I want to remain in control of myself.

Joe comes up to me and says, pointing to a man in his fifties: – You can let him approach you. I told him everything about you, he won’t hurt you, I know him. And that’s okay.

This time he’s talking about another guy of the same age in the front row. He points the finger at them without getting upset, they’re way too busy with their video anyway. So he knows everyone, and what’s worse, he tells them about me! I feel a horrible trap closing in on me. I relied on Joe to protect me, but he’s the one responsible for me being here. I mutter a small “OK” as I continue to look around me as if to spot where the danger will come from first.

– Enough, I’ve looked at enough pictures for today.

Joe said that as if he was taking me out of an activity I enjoyed. In absolute terms, and given the situation, I would undoubtedly have preferred to stay for five hours watching that erotic video. I know that when I stand up and follow him, the serious stuff will begin. I’m shaking with anticipation.

– Did you bring your things? – Yes, I say, pointing to a plastic bag that I got rid of as soon as I arrived, putting it on the wall. – Well, go and change now, you can use one of the cubicles over there.

He points to a compartment I didn’t notice behind me. There are three identical ones, lined up against the wall, opposite the mini-cinema.

I take my clothes and enter the cabin. There is only room for one person and the only thing there is a simple chair. The white light blinds me a little when I walk in, after the near darkness of the room. I pull out a low-cut black nightgown from my bag. I quickly change, fearing that someone will enter the cabin and try to touch me. When I look up, I see that the speaker is dotted with holes at various heights, but I don’t immediately understand their purpose.

When I walk out, arms crossed over my cleavage to try and hide some of my skin, Joe is waiting for me outside. He’s a bit impressed with my outfit, I usually don’t make much of an effort to bring sexy clothes.

– Very good, very nice nightgown! Now listen to me carefully, you will go back to the cabin and wait a little while. When they come, you will do what you want.

What do you mean by “they”? I don’t understand what he’s saying. I don’t have time to figure it out. Joe gently pushes me into the cabin and closes the door behind me. I sit in the chair, unsure. The next thing I know, a tool is sticking through a hole. So that’s what I’m for… They’ll all come, waiting for me to touch them even more. But where did I fall? I feel naive that I thought everything would pass quickly.

I hear moans of pleasure outside. I step back and immediately turn the cabin latch to lock myself inside. Throwing myself back, I feel something on my shoulder. Another sex game. Then a third, then more. Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t touch them all, there are so many.

Suddenly, I feel nauseous in front of this absurd picture. I hold my head in my hands and crouch so I can’t see or smell them. I am nothing, nothing more than an object, a mere masturbation machine. It’s a nightmare, it can’t really happen. If this is the price to go to Paris, I don’t want anymore, I want to go home now.

I look up at the top of the cabin. I see the eyes of a man looking at me. I understand the perversity of this type of device. I turn my head away from the piercing eye. My gaze meets another. They all look at me, begging, eager to feel my hands or mouth.

I lower my face and wait, hands pressed to my ears, shutting myself off from the world. I scream inside. I hum a song in my head so I don’t hear their moans anymore. I’m on the verge of a nervous breakdown. I’m not crying, I’ve reached a stage of inner pain so deep that it won’t let me shed any more tears.

I don’t know how long I spend like that, with my head buried in my knees, but when I pick it up, the sexes are no longer there. I’m frantically going back to check. It’s a terrible situation. How long have you been jamming? Ten minutes? One hour? I am completely unable to even give an estimate.

Now I have to get out of this hellish place, but I’m afraid the perverts are waiting outside and will pounce on me. At the same time, I can’t stay in this cabin forever. After a moment’s hesitation, I carefully turn the latch.

To my great relief, no one is waiting for me at the exit except Joe. He wears a delighted smile, probably one of the eyes that followed me happily into the cabin. – So, what did you think?

I don’t answer him: he knows very well what I thought. I am frozen and shaking with fear. The most absurd thing about this whole story is that I am totally dependent on him. There is no doubt that he was the one who asked them to stop. His eyes betray a sense of absolute power. Something in his eyes gives me an idea of what’s to come. If I don’t act immediately, I’ll probably be caught by all these men. So, driven by the energy of desperation, I grab my things and run. Joe and the other men looked at me with a dejected expression. He’s trying to talk to me, but I can’t hear anything. I barely have time to leave the sex shop half-naked, with my things in my arms. Joe is already behind me.

– Calm down, Laura. I still give you 500 euros. I walk, losing my balance. I feel like I’m going to pass out. I feel like I’m drugged, drunk, I can’t stay on my feet, my legs can’t carry me anymore. But I still have enough survival instinct to grab the envelope.

We return to the hotel in silence. I can still smell men on my body. We make our way without saying anything. If they talk, I slap Joe or spit in his face. I hate myself for not realizing he was just a stupid, vicious old man. I want to end it, forever. All I can think about now is to take my money and go far, far away. I feel so dirty, I want to cry, but I can’t anymore.

Once in the bedroom, I tell her: – “I’m not staying. Give me the money now. – Go and take a shower, I’ll leave the envelope on the bed. See you on Thursday, what do you think?

After what he just put me through, does he really think I’d agree to see you again on Thursday? Even if the 500 euros is not enough to take me to Paris, I never want to see him again. There is no way I will ever plan another date with such a jerk. I better not tell him, we are alone in the room and now that I know he has no limits, I don’t want to challenge him. He can still hit me.

– Yes, see you on Thursday.

I have to take a shower, I can’t stand this smell anymore. Alone in the bathroom, I forbid myself to sit on the floor, otherwise I would never get up. I hear the door slam, Joe is gone. After a quarter of an hour of scrubbing my skin and hair like a maniac under hot water, I put my clothes back on and leave the bathroom.

An envelope was waiting for me on the bed, as agreed. I open it, tempted by the money I’m counting on to console me, if only for a second, for my misfortune.

It contains 100 euros. I check: only 100 euros. He tricked me with 400. Tears well up and my crying ends in a scream. I grab my phone like a fury and dial his number so fast, my vision blurred by tears, that I make a mistake and have to dial three times, which drives me even more crazy. My hands are shaking, I scream wildly as I slam my small fist against the wall. His cell phone is not answering. H must be long gone by now.

I shake the envelope down, still hoping to find what’s right for me. I can not find anything. I even move the desk and shake the sheets violently. I look around frantically, trying to convince myself that I must have left the rest of my money somewhere in that awful room. Absolutely nothing. Instead, there is a letter on the bed, which he must have put under the envelope when he left.

It was scribbled in haste, probably while I was taking a shower.

Laura, as you can see, there are only 100 euros in the envelope, instead of 500 euros as I expected. I’ll give you the rest on Thursday when we meet. I just wanted to make sure I would see you again before I left for Paris. Trust me, you will get your money’s worth. Good day, Laura.

I throw the letter on the floor, furious. Paris is gone, the new life is gone, I’ll have to stay here. I will never get out, my life is locked in prostitution forever. Now the roles have reversed. Today, I am the one who is cataloged. Chapter 21 Escape April 2, 2007

It’s Thursday and I walk back past the hotel, I can’t believe it. Joe didn’t show up, of course. My anger did not subside and after half an hour I was already stomping on my feet and cursing him alone in the street. Passers-by return, but I don’t notice them, I’m only thinking about one thing at the moment: to get my money back.

When I got home, I left an explosive message on his still unanswered phone, yelling that he better call me back and give me the money. Radio silence for three days. Three days I spent dejected about my fate , crying every time I thought of Paris. I see the Eiffel Tower in the fog and all my beautiful projects falling apart.

Three days later, my phone rings: – Laura? I recognized his voice immediately. My blood runs cold. – Damn Joe, you made me laugh, I want my money now! I screamed into the phone. Fortunately, I’m home alone. – I know, Laura, I know. Wait, let me explain…

– What should I explain to you? You’re a bastard, you’re going to give me my money back right now! – Laura, I’m not home now. I had a heart attack, I’m recovering in the south, near Perpignan. Let me take a break from my insulting streak.

– I wanted to transfer money to you, but my wife blocked my accounts. I think he suspects something. Old Laura would have believed her without hesitation. The new Laura, who was born the day she was arrested, is no longer fooled by these lies.

– I don’t believe you, Joe, it’s not working. Give me my money back. – Laura, I’m telling you the truth, I’m very sick, I have cancer. I won’t live much longer.

That phrase froze my blood. I have to admit that I felt a little sad when I heard the news, despite everything he’s done to me. The feeling didn’t last more than a second though, I hated him again. Continued:

– Listen to me, Laura, I’m leaving here tomorrow. We need to meet again so I can give you your money back. I’ll give it back to you, I promise. Besides, I really want to see you again. I’m closing now. I can’t believe it anymore. I will never believe again. Chapter 22 intrusion

April 17, 2007

Two weeks after the Joe episode, I returned home with my arms full of groceries. At least once, I’m tired of missing out on everything. There is also another reason. I’m hosting a friend in my apartment and we decided to have a meal like kings: tandoori chicken and wild rice. The last thing I want is for him to realize I don’t have anything in the cupboards. We are in for a treat and my lips are trembling with anticipation. I am in a great mood and resist the weight of the plastic bags by singing.

When I get home, I get rid of the food in the kitchen and rush to find my temporary roommate. While I prepare the food, he tells me: – Someone tried to call you half an hour ago on the landline. I told him to call later. – Did he say who it is?

– Not. Well, he said he was an old friend. Apparently he hadn’t heard from you in a while, so he wanted to know how you were doing. – Well, if it’s important, he’ll call back.

An hour later, in the middle of lunch, the phone rings again. I get up to answer. I recognized his voice immediately. Pierre. The gentle entrepreneur. James Bond in slippers. – Laura, I’m Pierre. – How did you get my number? I say dry.

Everything immediately comes to mind: the snack, the cigarette I smoked, my bag open and free of access. I don’t try to find out more, to understand why he waited so long to call me: the result is there, he has my landline number, which means he also has my address. I am nervous with panic and the first sounds that come out of my mouth are menacing:

– Never call me on this number, did you hear me? – Yes, but it’s your fault. You say you’ll call me and you don’t! I want to see you again, Laura!

This guy is crazy and now it shows that I have been obsessed with him all these months. I’m totally freaked out, this man could be downstairs right now talking to me, he could be calling me from my street, my block…

– Look, it’s very simple, if you don’t leave me alone, I’ll call you at work and I’ll be happy to tell you how you’ve been hooking up with prostitutes for 19 years! Call me one more time and I’ll ruin your life.

The threat paid off. A silence falls between us. I hung up before he could say a word.

The next few days are spent in constant fear of finding him downstairs when I go out. I keep looking back at the people on the street, convinced that I saw him among the passers-by. I know he hasn’t given up because every time I check my answering machine, the answering machine’s voice tells me how many times it has called, for example, “This caller has tried to contact you 26 times today without leaving a message.” . 26 times! How crazy! After hearing my answering machine for the umpteenth time telling me that Pierrot le fou has appeared again, I decide to call the last number that called. I get a call from a girl who tells me that Pierre Machintruc is not at home and that I should call tomorrow morning. I understand that he is giving me all the phone calls from work, and now that I know his last name, I am determined to give him a hard time. Stupid of him. He probably thinks I don’t dare mess with him.

So the next day I calmly dialed the number, I had a plan. I ran right into him. I felt his face fall at the sound of my voice.

– Listen to me carefully, Pierre. I just want to warn you that if you ever, ever try to contact me again, I will call the police immediately. – Why would you do such a thing? – Because when you found out my name you should have made sure I wasn’t a minor.

He gasps. I hear him say a little “shit”. He begins to stammer, in a suggestive tone: – I’m sorry, Laura, but I wanted to see you again…

I am at the end of my strength. I’ve been cheated out of a huge amount of money by Joe, my move to Paris is in grave danger, and I don’t need a bloody apathetic businessman pissing me off anymore. I start screaming into the phone, pouring out all my hate on him:

– I’m going to sue you for harassment! I know your address, I know your phone number, I have everything about you and I’m going to use it if you come near me again! – But you’re a whore, Laura.

The scoundrel. It was worth it, apparently the threats weren’t enough. I decide to put my plan into action. – So you don’t know they are protected by the police? It’s not true with the student prostitutes, but it doesn’t matter, Pierre is far too scared to go check.

– So you never, you hear me, you will never call me or write an email again, you are out of my life the same way you entered it: in two seconds!

I hang up the phone in his nose. I don’t need to wait for his approval to end the conversation. I know I got rid of him. I decided: with money or no money, I promise to leave this city as soon as possible. Chapter 23 Exile April 19, 2007

I can’t sit still in front of my Spanish text. It’s 5pm and this is my last class at the University of V. Last night I got my train tickets to Paris. I leave tomorrow on the 12.47 train and will arrive in the capital two hours later.

Looking at my copy, I have an overwhelming urge to cry. I can’t believe tonight it’s all going to end. In an hour, I’ll be just another student on the run. No matter how many times I tell myself that, in the present state of things, I have no choice, that my going to Paris is essential, I experience this abandonment as a failure. Once again, I haven’t finished my year of studies, it seems that destiny is catching up with me, that I am not made to sit in a classroom and listen to a teacher. And yet, things have nothing to do with my last year of study in this particular case, but I can’t help it, I feel like a coward that I have to go.

The tickets were expensive because I didn’t have a discount card, but if that’s the price I have to pay to be safe, I’m ready to break the bank. The hardest thing to bear is still dropping out of university. I just can’t bring myself to do it. I like student life, I like going to university every day and learning. Even though I had to do everything I did, I always felt at home on campus. But I’m not giving up on my studies. I am determined to finish this year no matter the cost, with or without frequency. I gave too much of myself this year to throw it all away on Saturday at the last minute. All these clients, all these problems, were basically just to keep studying, not to give up.

So I had to find someone serious and reliable to mail my courses. A friend from university immediately came to mind. I don’t know her very well, we are just classmates. Naturally, we sit next to each other in almost every lesson and get along quite well, even though we’ve never seen her outside of university. I had to find an embarrassing excuse to explain my departure, a family business. It seemed the most plausible. I was ashamed to lie to him, but then again, there was nothing else I could do. In exchange for a cash advance for stamps and photocopying, he agreed to send me the lessons.

Classwork doesn’t count towards the final result, and with my medical certificate, teachers can’t blame me for missing meditations. Even though I know I’m not really dropping out of university, I’m sad. The little world I dreamed of in September has collapsed. I feel like crying because I feel wronged, I feel like crying because my hopes have been dashed. I will continue with distance learning courses, but will I succeed? Am I strong enough, disciplined enough?

Yesterday I submitted my resignation at work. Again, I felt a twinge of sadness, not because I was giving up a job I loved – quite the contrary – but because it was still an escape. It allowed me to get out of the house, immerse myself in my work and stop thinking about my life. I generally got along well with my colleagues, and they often helped me when I didn’t know how to do something. My boss didn’t really want to know why I was leaving. They must see dozens of students come and go every year, so it’s nothing out of the ordinary.

I don’t know what awaits me in Paris. Maybe nothing will be better, maybe I won’t even last two weeks alone there. I know at first it will be a real struggle again. I’ll have to run around looking for a job. I’m also going to have to get used to living with someone again, especially someone I don’t know very well. And above all, I won’t have anyone to help me, to support me, to console me if one day I don’t feel up to it. I am ready to face all this, because it will be with a healthy future in mind, something better. Prostitution, on the other hand, gave me nothing but the worst.

I told my mother’s friend, who is supposed to host me, but she can’t pick me up from the train station. As she lives in the suburbs, she told me which RER to take to get to her house. All this is temporary of course, she is just helping me. I need to find another place to live quickly, anything from a shared apartment to a room service. Even though I am completely demoralized, I have a feeling that nothing will be as hard as what I experienced here in V.

In front of my copy, I don’t listen to the lecture. I should be enjoying my last few hours in this majestic lecture hall, but my head is full of dark thoughts. I’m thinking about tonight, about the bags I’ll have to pack myself. To the classes and the books I will need to take with me to continue learning. I’m so attached to them that I wouldn’t leave them behind for anything in the world, even if my suitcase weighed a ton. Clothes aren’t that important either – I’ve given up shopping this year. Since September, more than ever, I had to learn to prioritize things.

I am keeping my flat until the end of the month as I have paid the rent. It will be empty, but that’s a shame. My father will come later with a friend to pick up the furniture. I also told my landlady that I was leaving, which obviously didn’t make her too happy, but I assured her that I would find her another tenant very quickly. He never liked me and I can understand why as I was often late with my payments despite my best efforts. I put out an ad at the university to let people know that a studio apartment is available. In V., that shouldn’t be difficult, even at this time of year. Basically, I don’t care. I have a lot of other things on my mind right now.

There are only ten minutes left in the lesson. People are already getting restless, anxious to get home. I wish I could keep my seat and not have to leave. They can’t understand. I can’t imagine for one second what I had to do this year to deal with my constant problems. The general uproar drowns out the voice of the teacher who, resigned, decides to end the lesson. After a certain hour, he must realize that the students’ brains become hermetically sealed to all knowledge and that they need fresh air.

People jump to their feet as soon as they hear the teacher say “see you next week”. I myself, driven by a certain habit, carelessly throw my course sheets into my bag. Then I slowly get up, put on my jacket and leave the classroom as if it were a normal day.

Outside, I hug my friend from university who is in charge of sending me her lessons. He wishes me luck with a trace of compassion in his eyes. I lied to her about my reason for leaving, but I am entitled to her compassion.

Deep down, I tell myself that I’m not such a coward that I’m leaving. On the contrary, it is a wise decision; too much risk if I stay in V. from now on. My place is no longer here. If I stay, I’ll never get out. If I leave, I’ll have a chance to rebuild my life. Everything here has become impossible.

I winked at my friend and headed to the subway like it was the end of a normal day at school. Chapter 24 early April 24, 2007

It’s incredibly hot in Paris for April. I packed my suitcase in a panic because I couldn’t take all my light clothes. I don’t really care. It’s hot and I’ve achieved my goal of leaving V.

We hit the road again as planned. My two priorities are to find a job and then, once I’m settled, to find an apartment. I gave myself two weeks to find a job, anything. After that, I’ll have to accept my failure and return to V. I can’t take advantage of the hospitality of Sandra, my mother’s friend.

The thought of having to go back to V. freezes my blood and gives me a double motivation to find something as soon as possible. I haven’t stopped for a week. Armed with my resume, I scoured restaurants and classified ads to find a job as quickly as possible. I didn’t want to give the horrible thought of finding a job a second chance. Until now, I have been strong, supported by the immense hope that Paris is my country of exile, where no one knows me as a prostitute, where I can start over and start a new life.

Sharing the apartment with Sandra, my mom’s friend, is going well so far. She welcomed me with open arms, happy to have company in her apartment. At one point, she was very close to my mother, so she was excited to meet her daughter. Now, at fifty years old, this woman wears the sufferings of her life on her face. She works all day as an accountant at an appliance company and hates her job. She often comes home tired, exhausted by her colleagues and the mountains of numbers she had to juggle all day. Still, I think she’s cute, especially when she comes home from work and puts her dyed blonde hair up in a bun. She lives a quiet life, she lacks nothing, but she is far from rich. Her apartment is by no means luxurious, most of the furniture is reclaimed, but she managed to make the place cozy with warm colored fabrics.

We often have dinner together and he even helps me write cover letters to find a job. One evening, she confided in me that she too had struggled like me in her early years after university. I wondered if she ever considered prostitution as a solution. Oddly enough, if she had, I would have found some comfort in her because she would have given me the feeling that I wasn’t alone.

I feel at home with her, even if I miss my little independent life in my own apartment. He set up his living room to receive me, folding the sofa bed. Every morning I politely put her back, wanting to cause as little disturbance as possible.

Since my arrival, I haven’t been able to really focus on finding an apartment. Since I don’t have a job, I can’t guarantee that I will be able to make a file, because it would be a waste of time. I prefer to take things step by step, knowing that I don’t have much time . Despite everything, Sandra’s kindness encourages me not to stay too long. I know from experience that relationships between two people fall apart faster than you’d think in situations like this, where one person owes the other something. I’m already so uncomfortable depending on someone that I’m not going to make her uncomfortable with my presence either.

Anxiety returns. Alone in Paris, far from family and friends, I have no support. I had to make a quick decision: return to V. and admit my failure, or take action here in Paris. I chose the action. The idea of having to go back to V. paralyzes me. I’ve seen a lot worse in my life, I can handle it.

So far, no one has called me back for a job. It’s been a week and I’m starting to panic. My pockets are empty and I’m not sure I’ll be able to get through the week with the little money I managed to bring.

I am also trapped in my past. Joe is still harassing me. He leaves me messages every day asking me to return to V., saying that he is offering me the train ticket. He says he must see me again before he dies. His rates are so exorbitant as to be unbelievable. I filter all his calls and bypass all his vices: if my phone rings without showing a number, I just don’t answer it. I have to admit that, more than once, I was tempted to leave it all alone and go back to smell that money again.

In my need to put my past behind me, I realize more and more that I can’t do it without talking about it. At night, I can’t sleep. I turn in bed, images of horror flash before my eyes. I often cry, realizing that I will have to deal with this experience for the rest of my life. I want to talk, but who? I scoured student prostitution forums but never found the answers to my questions. On the contrary, some of the girls who frequent these sites chastise me for daring to advance the idea that prostitution is a real scourge among students. I say such nonsense, so far from what I have ever felt, that very quickly I don’t even connect anymore and deny that this channel has the power to help me psychologically free myself.

When I couldn’t sleep, I found no refuge except in writing and studying. My evenings and nights, when everything is quiet, I dedicate to telling my story and my emotions. I write for hours without thinking about anything else. Little by little, I realize that I am exorcising all the unhappiness that grinds me inside. The more I type on my computer keyboard, the one Joe gave me, the more insight I gain into my life. I’m starting to have a glimmer of hope, to tell myself that one day I’ll get out of this. Maybe I won’t be a whore anymore.

I’m also working harder than ever on my lessons, even more than when I was in the classrooms at V. I don’t want to screw it up. I don’t want to ruin everything, my future seems so uncertain. This week I received my first lessons in the mail, which filled me with joy. My friend from university has not forgotten me. I’m holding on to hope as best I can: if I manage to find a good job in Paris, I’ll put some money aside and enroll here at university. I’m sure I’ll make it. My tumultuous life made me angry, I know what it’s like to struggle and I don’t want to go back to that. Sometimes I cry when I see an exercise or a text I don’t understand. I tell myself that my father is right, that I never did things right. Maybe not, but I did what I could with what I had, almost nothing. You can blame me, you can judge me, but I can’t turn back time. On the contrary, I always lived only for my future, I prostituted myself just so I could continue studying. You can blame me, yes, but I never gave up.

Today, I can’t afford to be depressed, I have too many things to do and undertake. Too many things to accomplish. Chapter 25 Addiction June 17, 2007

The last month in Paris was intense. The job search paid off after two weeks, right within the limit I had set for myself. I eventually managed to get a job as a waitress in a chic restaurant in central Paris. I’m still living with Sandra, and the commute between work and her apartment is exhausting, but at least I’m making some money. In the subway, taking advantage of the long journey, I read the lessons I put in my bag before leaving in the morning. I force myself to stay focused, despite the fact that my eyes are closing on their own. My schedule is not stable and sometimes I finish late at night when there is no subway. The first time, I took a taxi. I didn’t really have a choice as I don’t know my colleagues very well and I couldn’t see myself asking them to host me. When I saw the amount on the machine, I promised myself that I would never do it again. I can’t decently spend all the money I earn on taxis to get home.

Once again, I’m faced with a vicious circle: I have a job, yes, but I won’t be able to keep it any time soon if I don’t stick to the evening hours. So I scour the classifieds looking for a place to live. I thought I’d seen the worst of the V. in terms of prices, but Paris is hell. I can’t find anything in my price range, not even a utility room. Shared housing is sometimes more affordable, but many guarantees are required, sometimes even more than for an apartment. I guess landlords need to put more pressure on tenants to pay on time: the more tenants, the greater the risk of not seeing the money.

At first, Sandra kept telling me: “But don’t worry, you can stay as long as you want, you don’t bother me at all! When it became clear that I needed to live close to my place of work, she started helping me as much as possible much he could. He asked around to see if anyone had a spare room. Nothing, not even a cage in which I could take refuge.

Her kindness gradually turned into mere politeness. Seeing that my search for an apartment was going nowhere, he began to distance himself more and more from me, which is normal. We no longer dine together and he speaks to me only vaguely. As expected, my presence is starting to affect her. I feel like I’m disturbing his daily routine. Her apartment isn’t very big, and the fact that I’m in the living room doesn’t help at all.

One evening, as usual, I came back very late from work. I was exhausted and wanted to go to bed immediately. I found her in the living room with two friends, chatting over a glass of wine after dinner. At the sight of me, Sandra makes a kind of grimace that says it all: she wished I wasn’t there so she could enjoy her friends in peace. I feel sorry for her and try to make myself small, hurrying to the bathroom to take a shower. When I go out, her friends have already left.

– Are your friends back? – Yes, we couldn’t continue talking in the living room because that’s where you sleep. I’ve exceeded the limit of what she can handle. Without a word, I go to bed after unfolding the sofa. I know I’ll have to leave tomorrow before Sandra kicks me out in exasperation.

At work, I ask a colleague who has a large apartment in Paris if she can host me. We get along well and I know he won’t refuse me. I hate situations like this. – Not for long, just long enough to find something suitable.

She agrees with a smile on her face. That’s what happens a lot at first, people say yes, they’re happy not to be alone in their own home, but after a while they realize they’d rather be home. In addition, in Paris, where apartments are often very small, people get stepped on quickly. I know this solution is only temporary and I will have to find another one quickly. For her, but also for me. I can’t, I don’t want to depend on others anymore.

I pack my bags that evening when I get home. Sandra hugs me, surprised at the speed of my decision. She is probably also saddened by my situation and maybe feels guilty. But I know that once I’m gone, she’ll do what she couldn’t do for a month: sink into her couch and enjoy solitude again.

My repeated troubles often bring me back to my dark thoughts. What would happen if I let it all go? What if I had accepted Joe’s offer? I would get out of this mess. I know that in the end this solution is not a solution at all, it is only temporary. It shines with all the money it has to offer, but when you get up close, it turns dirty and dangerous.

I call my friend from university, who sends my lessons, to give her my new address. Once again, he doesn’t try to understand. Good, because I can’t make up a new lie. She is in the middle of revision and is starting to panic about the upcoming exams.

– Laura, you’re going home to take your exams, aren’t you? If you want, I could host you. I say yes, of course, thanking him for the offer, which I will have to take up, as I have nowhere to stay during exam week in May.

So I have to negotiate with my boss at the restaurant to work twelve hours a day for two weeks to make up for the week I’m away. With all the overtime, I can take five days off. It’s exactly what I need to pass my exams.

I tell my mom that I’ll be back, but I won’t have time to go see her and dad. She’s obviously very disappointed, but deep down I know she’s proud of her daughter, who never gives up and takes responsibility.

Exam week is coming to an end. All I want to do is lay in bed and sleep for hours without having to worry. Despite everything, I don’t stop, working late into the night with my friend. We motivate each other. The human body is malleable, and knowing that the academic year will soon be over keeps me from getting tired. I want to do so well this year, it would have been so unfair not to, after everything I’ve been through. I studied too much, revised too much to crash at the last minute. I won’t allow myself to do that. I gave everything this year, including my own body. Failure is out of the question.

At the end of the exams, I jumped on a train to Paris, after warmly thanking my friend for her welcome and support. He didn’t ask me any questions, probably thinking that my private life was my business.

I went straight back to work, again at a frantic pace. I don’t even have time to think about the results or the papers I have turned in. I’ve done everything I can, now I just have to wait.

A few days later, in front of the computer, I wait for the results to appear. I’ve been thinking about this date for two weeks. I enter my student number and it will tell me the results in seconds. I’m shaking, I’m stressed. What if I failed? Maybe I failed to convince people with my essays. My tiredness and exhaustion may have shown in the lines I wrote…

The result appeared suddenly. I passed with honors. Crying with joy in front of the computer screen. So all the hardships we went through this year had not been in vain after all. Chapter 26 Hope for the future September 5, 2007

Well, I passed my exams and I’m still in Paris. I’m 19 years old and a new year is starting. I continued to work at the restaurant all summer, trying to save as much money as possible. I’m still living with my partner and, contrary to what I thought, things are going pretty well. I give her as much as I can for the rent, which makes it a little easier for her expenses. Our apartment is nothing like the one Manu and I had. It’s hard for her too, but she understands me.

I communicate a lot with my parents on the phone: our relationship has changed a lot. I think I grew up faster than anyone else last year and it shows in my demeanor. I feel supported. I know from my mother that my father was impressed by my success in exams and my courage. They never understood why I left and I hope they never will. I also know they regret not being able to help me financially yet, but their moral encouragement spurs me on. I’m proving to myself today what I’ve always known: that they will always be by my side, despite my choices.

However, I am still looking for a place to live. I will enroll in my second year of university in Paris and I need to work in decent conditions. I don’t want to go back to V. There, I know, everything is written in stone. And I don’t want to take advantage of my colleague’s kindness anymore. The restaurant has offered me a permanent part-time contract, which I intend to accept. With this guaranteed salary, I suppose things should be easier.

But it turned out to be harder than I expected. From visiting the studios to visiting the maids’ rooms, I realize that my app doesn’t measure up to the others. I don’t have a guarantor, and even with a permanent contract, landlords prefer to entrust the keys to an apartment to a young person who will have someone behind them in case of need. Which I don’t have. Apparently my parents don’t earn enough. I’m not kidding.

So my future remains uncertain. My head is full of dreams, but society constantly brings me back to reality. I want to continue my studies, I want to continue learning, but the obstacles are always there. Will I be able to find an apartment? Will I be able to alternate work and studies? Above all, will I be strong enough not to fall back into prostitution? The money that can be made from sex is too fast, too important, for me not to think about it. I know what I want, but I also know that it is not always in line with reality. High hopes, but small means.

Afterword By Eva Clouet (1) Student prostitution in the internet age

“In France, almost 40,000 female students would become prostitutes to continue their studies”. This information, revealed by the SUD- Étudiant union in the spring of 2006, during the movement against the “equal opportunities” law, is intended to draw the attention of the French government to the “reality of student life”. In its demands, this student union highlights the difficult living conditions that many students currently experience (the rarity and high cost of housing, very tight payments at the end of the month, the difficulty of combining paid work with university work, etc.) and points out the contradictions of the answers proposed by the public authorities to fix these problems.

Beginning in the fall of 2006, the media (especially print and television) picked up on this topic, highlighting the issue of student economic insecurity from a new and glamorous angle. In a pre-election campaign context, the figure of “40,000” sounded like a millstone in a puddle. Curiosity, surprise, indignation,

In our societies, prostitution – regardless of the form it takes – remains an extremely stigmatized practice, and the image of the prostitute(2) is still, in the collective imaginary, often associated with a “marginalized” person, because “desperate enough to -sells his body”. So, when it comes to students, the discomfort increases. The image we have of the prostitute – a foreign woman waiting for a customer on the sidewalk(3) – seems incompatible with the images we have of our students. And yet, as Laura pointed out, student prostitution is a reality in our country. Then how is it that in France, a great world power whose education system – although criticized and criticizable – is often given as an example, some female students become prostitutes?

Although no serious study has so far been able to put a figure on the scale of the phenomenon – the figure of “40,000” is not based on any scientific work and is therefore an estimate – Laura’s story and my study of the world of student escorts put in the light of a series of elements, offering some keys to understanding the vast problematic of student prostitution.

1) STUDENT PROSTITUTION, A HETEROGENEOUS REALITY

Currently, there are as many prostitutes(4) as there are places of prostitution and ways of prostitution. In this context, the anthropologist and political scientist Janine Mossuz-Lavau explains that, at present, it seems more appropriate to speak of “prostitutes” (in the plural) than “prostitution” “because the situations are so diverse(5)”. Each place (studios, bars, clubs, internet, massage parlors, service areas on the highway, forests, vans, etc.) has its own prostitution reality , with its own actors, with its own codes, with its own particularities, with its own rates, with its own clientele, with their own constraints and their own problems. Student prostitutes are obviously no exception to this diversity. For example, while some female students choose the street as a place of prostitution(6), others prostitute themselves on campus or through “small advertisements” and receive their clients in the residence halls, others prostitute themselves in the alcoves of the famous “bars of hostess ” (or “cork bars”) or “massage parlors”, and others – like Laura – use the Internet to pay for their sexual services. Student prostitution is therefore not a homogeneous reality, as it covers a diversity of forms and practices.

However, the democratization of access to new means of communication, such as Minitel in the 1980s, and today the Internet and mobile telephony, has apparently intensified the development of “amateur” (as opposed to “professional”) and “occasional” prostitution. “, in which the student category has a certain visibility.

Among the many faces of student prostitution, this afterword aims to shed light on a particular form of prostitution – Laura’s own – namely voluntary (chosen) prostitution, practiced independently (without a pimp) and occasionally by students using the Internet. The Internet and the student “escort”.

As far as prostitution is concerned, the Minitel of the 1980s, with its famous “pink messages”, and now the Internet, offer significant advantages, both for customers (demand) and for those who want to prostitute themselves (supply). In addition to the wide offer and periodic updates, the Internet allows, at any time and in any place, to meet people discreetly and at low costs, because it offers “a comfortable and safe anonymity(7)”. In addition, the Internet obviously makes the action of the police more laborious: “Prostitutes who work on the Internet do not risk much because, even if they may be worried about recovery, they are not a priority for the police(8)”. In this context, many former street prostitutes and other “anonymous” prostitutes – including students – open their own business.

On the Internet, the most visible paid sex offers are those of “escorts”. Originally, ” escort ” consisted of “escorting” a client, i.e. accompanying a person (usually a man) to parties, restaurants, theaters and so on. In this context, the sexual relationship is not part of the contract, but remains an implicit intention, considered as a private act between the escort and her client. This ambiguity justifies the fact that escorts are often compared to “luxury prostitutes” because they respond to a specific demand. “They demand charm, beauty and distinction, but also intellectual qualities that enable them to accompany their clients, who are often socially well-off men(9). Today, the “escort” business still exists, mostly through through agencies. But the term “escort” is now used by all prostitutes working on the Internet, regardless of the “level” of their services. As a result, the term “escort” hides a variety of realities: “former street prostitutes driven from street, professional women with a busy schedule, foreigners exploited by networks(10) or “night beauties”(11) casual(11)”.

Escorts, whether they are “professional” or “amateur” like Laura, apply and communicate through ads on specialized or generalist sites that include a section called “venal dating” or “adult dating”. We find, for example, the escort’s measurements, her age, the region or city where she works, her availability, her rates, and sometimes a short paragraph detailing her services and “manners”(12).

A number of escorts also have their own websites or blogs(13). These custom sites, generally with a basic design and interface, often look the same. First, a window opens stating that the user must be of legal age to continue the investigation. Upon entering the site, a text, often written by the escort herself, provides a more or less detailed presentation of her. Some describe themselves simply physically, while others talk about their interests, marital status, reasons for prostitution, etc. This text also allows the escort to present her expectations of the transaction and the client’s behavior (meeting conditions, tastes in sexual practices, type of man, etc.). Next, there are several headings that specify the nature of the service offered by the escort. In general, there is a list of possible services and those that the escort refuses to provide; rates (per hour, per evening, per night or more); availability (“working hours”); and finally the contact page, where the escort enters her email address and/or mobile phone number. The ” photo gallery ” often illustrates the blog and presents the escort in various poses. We can see that very few “unprofessional” escorts show their face in the photos. In general, those who choose to hide their face do so mainly to preserve their identity, because those around them do not know that they are prostitutes and/or that escorting is not their only activity. Often these women have another “official” activity (student, for example) and occasionally prostitute themselves (several paid dates per month).

For these “occasional prostitutes” – whether they are secretaries, housewives, lawyers, job seekers, students, etc. – prostitution is their only activity. For these “casual prostitutes” – whether they are secretaries, housewives, lawyers, job seekers, students, etc. – prostitution remains a secondary activity. From this point of view, casual prostitutes are generally independent (they work for themselves, on their own account), and prostitution is a personal choice, more or less conditional, but still rational. Malika Nor(14) points out that independent casual prostitutes are generally unknown to social services (which is why no organisation, institutional or voluntary, has a precise idea of what student prostitution is). The author adds that this type of “voluntary prostitution is generally motivated by money, either because this activity turns out to be extremely luxurious and profitable, or because for these people it is only a complementary source of income or necessary for a minimum level of subsistence”.

The choice of prostitution – the possibility of leading a “double life” – is undoubtedly facilitated by the Internet. According to Yann ‘s analysis Reuzeau , “today, many prostitutes start on the Internet. Many of them would not have done so without this “cheating” virtual opportunity […], because the great novelty of the Internet is that it opens this profession to absolutely anyone. A basic computer , an internet connection, two or three photos, a quarter of an hour and that’s it, you’re an escort(15)! In fact, according to Laura’s own account, it was while browsing the internet that she quickly and easily came across a multitude of of explicit ads. Pushed by the need for money and curiosity, while feeling “protected” behind the computer screen, Laura found on the Internet “the solution she was waiting for”: “comfort and fast…”.

At first glance, it may seem surprising to find students who engage in prostitution. However, we know that this population is far from “rolling in money” and many of them have a “job” in addition to their university duties(16). Furthermore, most of the jobs offered that are compatible with a student’s schedule are not very lucrative or even low paying. Therefore, it is not so surprising to think that “for a young person in a fragile economic situation, the temptation is great when you see the attractive power of the sums at stake in this type of activity(17)”.

2) WHO THE STUDENTS ARE WHO PROSTITUTES ON THE INTERNET?

It is difficult to establish a “typical profile” of students who prostitute themselves on the Internet. However, the first thing that stands out is that almost all online ads are placed by young women. Furthermore, if we look at the press articles that appeared on the subject during the year, the authors make no reference to the prostitution of male students. For many, prostitution is only a “women’s issue” and by extension, student prostitution only concerns female students. It is true that student prostitution ads are virtually invisible on the Internet, but this does not mean that male student prostitution does not exist(18). In this regard, rather than thinking of prostitution as “reserved” only for women, we must question the reality of this difference between the sexes. If women are overrepresented on the supply side of prostitution and men are overrepresented on the demand side, it is because prostitution is rooted in a complex system of unequal gender relations. In this system, women’s sexuality – which is socially constructed – remains under the control of men’s “impulses” – which they claim to be “natural” when in fact they are socially constructed. Awareness of these mechanisms of dominance and power of the male class over the female class is essential to understanding prostitution and the problem of student prostitution.

That being said, we know that the majority of college students who engage in prostitution are women. Moreover, according to the various journalistic sources gathered on this topic, the female students who prostitute themselves essentially do it because they need money and because they do not have time to do a sufficiently profitable job in parallel with their studies. To explain the choice of female students to become prostitutes, the media emphasizes their economic insecurity in relation to the increasingly high cost of living. These are the reasons that led Laura to become a prostitute. Like many students at the public university, Laura comes from a middle-class background, and her standard of living depends largely on that of her family. However, according to institutional criteria and definitions, her family is not “in need” because both parents have full-time jobs and earn incomes considered “sufficient” to meet the needs of all family members. In reality, however, even with two minimum incomes, many of these “average” families must learn to “tighten the belt” in order to live decently.

However, economic insecurity – related to the student’s social environment(19) – cannot in itself explain why students choose to become prostitutes. In fact, not all students “in financial difficulty” are prostitutes! And not all student escorts have a vital need for money(20). In this context, the image of the “poor student” depicted in the media must be nuanced.

3) WHY STUDENTS DO THEY CHOOSE TO PROSTITUTE?

According to my study, prostitution among female students is a response to a series of more or less significant disruptions in their lives. The reasons and motivations that led them to make this choice may vary from one experience to another, contributing to the diversity of students who engage in prostitution.

For some, like Laura, prostitution is primarily a “utilitarian” pursuit – earning money to further their education. For others, it represents a kind of “forbidden fantasy” that allows them to break away from traditional family values. Through these diverse realities (which are not exhaustive), we can identify three patterns of rupture: social and financial ruptures, ruptures in relation to family morality, and ruptures in relation to gratuitous love relationships. Obviously, these patterns are not fixed, and some students combine two or three of these breakdowns.

A) Social and financial breakdowns – Students prepared to do anything to succeed

In order to finance their studies, to pay the rent or to get by, some students choose to become prostitutes. One of the reasons for this practice is undoubtedly the impoverishment of the student population. Guillaume Houzel – President of the Observatoire de la Vie Étudiante (OVE) – says: “For several years now, we have seen an increasing pressure on the purchasing power of students. With the increase in real estate prices, their housing costs are increasing… but not the value of scholarships(21). According to the Dauriac report (22) on student economic insecurity, 100,000 higher education students live below the poverty line, which is set at around €650 per month per person. According to OVE, over 45 000 students currently live in extreme poverty and 225,000 struggle to finance their studies(23).It should be remembered that this poverty affects a certain category of students, namely those whose parents are unwilling or unable to support them financially and who, as a result, have to fend for themselves – or almost – to meet their needs and continue their studies.

Like Laura, working-class and middle-class student escorts face a number of social and financial setbacks in their current student lives that compromise—to a greater or lesser degree—the pursuit of higher education. However, for these students, academic success is essential. In addition to personal satisfaction, pursuing higher education gives them the opportunity to set their ambition – to “do something with themselves” – and secure a more “comfortable” lifestyle than the one they have known in their families. However, neither these students nor their families have sufficient financial resources to fully realize this ambition. In this context, prostitution seems to be an alternative way to “follow [their] dreams”.

Numerous authors1(24) agree that students are not equal when it comes to financing their studies and that the advantages – especially economic – that young people from affluent backgrounds enjoy and that those from less privileged backgrounds lack result in unequal access to higher education. The state, aware of this “inequality of opportunities”, established a system of financial assistance for certain young people (scholarships based on social criteria, merit scholarships, housing allowances, etc.), thus offering them a “fundamental tool for the social elevator ( 25)”. However, it is obvious that this system is not without flaws (we remind you that Laura is not entitled to scholarships) and only partially covers the needs of students. During five years, mandatory expenses – registration fees. social security, accommodation, meals at the university restaurant, etc. – increased by 23%, while university grants and housing allowances increased by only 10%. Given this situation, it is imperative for many students to have a paid job in addition to their studies.

In 2003, 45.5% of French students had a paid job during the academic year (excluding summer holidays(26)). Laura, who works fifteen hours a week in a telemarketing firm , in addition to the twenty hours of university courses and the time she devotes to revisions, tells us how much having a “student job” prevents her from studying. She is tired all the time and is playing with her health. This reality echoes the work carried out by the Observatoire de la Vie Étudiante (Student Life Observatory), which points out that having a paid job during studies increases “the risk of failure or dropping out”(27). These risks result from the competition – especially in terms of time – between the “student job” and the demands of university work. According to OVE, this is the context in which the notion of student job insecurity should be understood. From this point of view, prostitution allows female students from poorer social backgrounds to continue their studies under favorable material conditions – daily needs such as rent and food are covered – leaving them enough time to work on their courses and hope to pass the academic year.

While the strategy may seem logical, it raises questions about the price these middle- and working-class female students must pay to access and graduate from higher education. Clearly, the social elevator and path to “success” is far from equal for all! b) Breaks from family morals – Students who want to get out of chains

For some female students, prostitution is not directly related to the need for money, but rather to the desire to break away from traditional family values and fulfill a “forbidden fantasy”.

Currently, even if sexuality is not “free”, since – like any social interaction – it is part of a certain number of relationships (gender, class, generation, cultural, etc.), it is perceived as, a priori, less and less codified(28). In this sense, Michel Bozon points out that one of the major changes in the relations between the generations between the 1960s and the 2000s is that “the parents’ generation has given up setting restrictive standards for young people(29)”. The possibility to experience “real youth” has gradually become widespread, and the “private autonomy” of young people is generally accepted. In this context, parents no longer condemn the fact that their children have an active love life, which can sometimes take place right under their own roof. Obviously, this observation does not apply to all contemporary families. Some families retain traditional values – related to religious morality – and exercise more control over their children’s sexuality.

In these conservative families, the youth’s entry into sexuality occurs under the supervision and control of relatives (and possibly elders). Parents set the rules by which their children – especially girls – can have access to this statutory activity of adulthood(30). In this context, children’s meetings and outings – especially in adolescence – are often strictly controlled by parents. Similarly, the topic of sexuality remains taboo and is rarely broached in family discussions.

For students from this type of family, prostitution is seen as a way to break free from family values and norms. Through prostitution, these students detach themselves from the parental model, thus asserting their desire for autonomy in relation to their own family. From this perspective, they want to take control of their own lives – at least their intimate lives – and participate in the construction of their personal identity.

C) A break with love and gender relations – Disappointed and disillusioned students

For some student escorts, prostitution is a way to fill an emotional and sexual void. Often these young women have been let down by their previous relationships and “free relationships” where they feel they were not valued at their true worth. They “gave themselves freely” to men who failed to meet their expectations of commitment and mutual recognition. In such relationships, they felt “betrayed” and “abused”, without respect or consideration for themselves.

However, these female students wanted to remain sexually active and improve their sexuality by learning new practices and experiences. In this context, their practice of prostitution makes sense. The money involved in the sexual relationship helps clarify the situation. These student escorts know that the encounters they have in their prostitution do not exceed the terms of the “contract” and that there is no point in hoping for “a story” beyond the venal encounter. So they can experience the encounter intensely and focus on their own sexual pleasure without worrying about what happens afterwards.

4) WHAT CAN WE MAKE OF THIS?

Regardless of the reasons and motivations that lead students to prostitution, this practice cannot be considered a harmless act. Laura’s adventures illustrate this point. Similarly, while the choice is a personal one, it is also – like any choice – part of a particular context. You don’t become a prostitute by accident. The need for money, the desire to get away from it all, or disappointment in relationships with others are not sufficient on their own to explain why some students turn to prostitution.

According to a study on “the risk of young people becoming involved in prostitution”(31), there is a “basic terrain” in which a certain number of dysfunctions related to the personal and social history of the individual “germinate”, which lead some young people to prostitution. This investigation shows that “dysfunctions” are of various types and self-influencing . These may include “biographical accidents” (physical, moral and sexual violence), problems of identity and identification with parental models, a certain degree of social isolation, psychological fragility, social disqualification from the family to which they belong, distorted social representations of the ways of success or even the fact of having – in their network – knowledge that belongs to the world of prostitution.

The choice to become a prostitute is therefore not the result of a single factor, but rather of a combination of various personal and social ruptures, in varying degrees of severity. Paradoxically, for some, prostitution becomes an alternative that gives meaning to their practices and life choices. Students’ involvement in prostitution occurs in a certain context, at a certain moment in their lives. Although this activity allows them to get out of a “difficult” situation, it is not without consequences. To date, no study has been conducted to follow the lives of these people or to establish the consequences – individual and social – that these practices can have in the long term.

5) SOLUTIONS?

Resorting to prostitution – whatever form it takes – reveals a certain social malaise. We have seen that this practice is at the heart of social relations where male and economic dominance reigns. Faced with this state of affairs, we can only hope that attitudes will change to reduce existing inequalities. We know that education is one of the keys to changing attitudes. However, the means made available by public authorities to change attitudes in these areas remain insufficient (or even non-existent).

In our society, the subject of sexuality is still largely taboo and is still imbued with sexist beliefs and stereotypes that lock women and men into differentiated and hierarchical gender roles. Modesty, the possibility of sexual continence, moderation and the absence of desire are still considered “natural” qualities in women. On the contrary, desire, aggressiveness and activity are defined as characteristics of the male individual(32). If more institutions – and more individuals – took the gender dimension into account in their analyzes and actions, sexuality could be viewed in an egalitarian and libertarian light.

For almost ten years, the various governments in power have wanted to “transform” the universities, citing as an official reason the desire to combat the economic insecurity of young people. However, the various proposed reforms (the LMD reform, the “equal opportunities” law and his famous Contrat Première Embauche (First Engagement Contract), currently the law on university autonomy, etc.) only reinforce the gap between students from working-class backgrounds and those from affluent backgrounds. If the government’s plan really aimed at equality for all students, a series of concrete measures would be implemented: the aid system based on social criteria would be improved (students like Laura would then receive scholarships), the number of places in student dormitories ( cité -U) would have increased significantly, “student jobs” would be properly paid and better adapted to the needs and skills of each student, etc. But the government’s plan is not just about equality.

But when it comes to issues of gender equality and wealth equality, leaders are still cautious… 1 Eva Clouet is 23 years old and studying for a master’s degree 2 in sociology – “Gender and social policies”.

2 By convention, we will use the term “prostitute” to refer to men, women and transsexuals who offer sexual services in exchange for payment.

3 In February 2006, 138 second-year psychology and medicine students at the Nantes university campus were surveyed on student and non-student prostitution. The results of this survey showed that, according to this sample, the “typical profile” of a prostitute in France was “young (84.8% of respondents), female (97.8%), foreign (82.6%), who hang around on the street (71.3%)”. This “profile” is an echo of the one circulated quite regularly in the media – when talking about prostitution networks in particular – emphasizing the most visible form of prostitution (picking on public roads). However, according to the work of the “prostitution mission” of the association Médecins du Monde (Nantes branch), street prostitution represents only 40% of the total prostitution in France.

4 Persons who belong to a social category recognized as such; for example, students, middle-class youth, etc. 5 Janine Mossuz-Lavau and Marie-Élisabeth Handman , La Prostitution à Paris, Paris, Éditions de la Martinière , 2005, p. 13.

6 On this topic, see the testimony of Sélénia , a student who prostituted herself for a year on the streets of Toulouse, in E. Philippe, ” Étudiante , je me climbing prostitute “, Esprit Femme ( mensuel ), February 2007, no. 21, pp. 56-57.

7 Pascal Lardellier , Le Cœur Net – Célibat et amour sur le Web, Paris, Belin, 2004, p. 65.

8 Extract from the “notes d’intention ” of the author and director Yann Reuzeau for his piece Les Débutantes – Prostituées en quelques clics , performed between November 2006 and February 2007 at the Manufacture des Abbesses in Paris. 9 Christelle Schaff , Prostitution en France: l’enquête , Éditions de la Lagune, 2007, p. 50.

10 Of course, not all online prostitutes are independent: many work for “agencies”, some under pressure from pimps, especially with the establishment of “tours”, real slave networks. “Touring” Prostitute: Refers to a prostitute/escort working for a pimp. The pimp puts her up for a period – of varying duration – in a hotel in a large Western city, where he receives a large number of customers each day (often more than 10 a day), and then moves her to another city. Recruitment networks (mainly in Eastern Europe) and recruiting are done via the Internet. The words “on tour” indicate that the prostitute is “on tour”, making the “tour” of major Western cities. In May 2000, a complementary office was created at OCRETH (Office Central de Répression de la Traite des Êtres Humans ) to fight crime related to new technologies. OCLCTIC (Office Central de Lutte contre la Criminalité tied aux Technologies de l’Information et de la Communication – Central Office for Combating Information and Communication Technologies Crime) is responsible for combating minor crimes as well as crimes related to pimping.

11 Matthew Franchon and Andréas Bitesnich , ” Salariées le jour , escort girls la nuit “, Choc (weekly), June 28, 2007, no. 87, pp. 26-33.

12 In the jargon of escorts, “taboos” refer to sexual practices that the escort refuses to do within a commercial relationship. Instead, the phrase “no taboos” refers to an escort that accepts all kinds of practices.

13 Blog : A website that consists of a collection of posts arranged in chronological order. Each post (also called “note” or “article”) is an addition to the blog, like a diary or personal journal. The blogger (the person who manages the blog) posts a text, often enriched with hyperlinks and multimedia elements, which every reader can generally comment on.

14 Malika Nor, La Prostitution , Paris, ed. Le Cavalier Bleu, 2001, p. 54.

15 This voluntary, amateur prostitution is also the subject of his last play. It features Marion , a 19-year-old medical student who, in order to continue her studies, occasionally prostitutes herself on the Internet. Yann Reuzeau , Les Débutantes – Prostituées en quelques clics , theater play (2006), performed between November 2006 and February 2007 at La Manufacture Des Abbesses , Paris.

16 According to the Observatoire de la Vie Étudiante (OVE): In France, 47% of students have a paid job in addition to their studies and 15% of them work at least six months a year, at least part-time. 17 Christelle Schaff , op. quote p. 140.

18 For my study, I met a young student who had been a street prostitute for two years and now uses the Internet – considered “less risky than the street” – to find clients. He doesn’t have an ad or a blog, but he logs on to gay dating sites to make new contacts. In his view, the under-representation of men – and therefore students – as “providers” of “paid sex” is a matter of supply and demand. “The male demand for ‘free’ heterosexual sex is greater than the supply – hence the institution of female prostitution to ‘make up’ this gap. On the other hand, the gap between the demand and supply of ‘free’ male homosexual sex is smaller. Therefore, there are fewer male prostitutes than female prostitutes because the demand competes with “free sex”.

19 Sprijinul din partea părinților și a altor membri ai familiei reprezintă aproape 44,6% din resursele studenților [figura CRL-DOC, 1992] – Olivier Galland și Marco Oberti , Les Étudiants , Paris, La Découverte , 1996, p. 67.

20 În studiul meu, am întâlnit două escorte studențești al căror scop principal nu era câștigul financiar. Ambii au fost (ușor) susținuți financiar de părinții lor. 21 Jean-Marc Philibert , “Despre prostituție câștigă cadavre bancs de la fac”, Le Figaro, 30 octombrie 2006, p. 11.

22 Jean-François Dauriac a fost succesiv director al lui Crous la academia Créteil (din 1992 până în 2001) și apoi la academia de la Versailles (până în 2004). În 2000, Claude Allègre – pe atunci ministru al educației – l-a întrebat pe J.-F. Dauriac să întocmească un raport privind situația economică a studenților din Franța în vederea punerea în aplicare a unui “Plan de bunăstare a studenților”. Jean-François Dauriac , Notă de synthesis du rapport au ministre de l’Éducation nationale , de la Recherche et de la Technologie sur la mise en œuvre du plan social étudiant , Paris, 2000.

23 Jean-Marc Philibert , op. citat – Franța are în prezent 2.200.000 de studenți.

24 De exemplu, Pierre Bourdieu și Jean-Claude Passeron , Les Héritiers : les étudiants de la culture , Paris, Éditions de Minuit . 1989; Raymond Boudon, L’Inégalité des chances – La mobilité sociale dans les societies industrielles , Paris, Armand Colin, 1979; François Dubet , ” Les étudiants “, în F. Dubet și colab., Universités et villes , Paris, L’Harmattan, 1994; Stéphane Beaud , 80% au bac… et après ?, Paris, La Découverte , 2003; M. Euriat și C. Thelot , “Le recrutement social de l’élite scolaire en France”, Revue française de sociologie, XXXV1-3, iulie-septembrie 1995, pp. 403-438.

25 În 2006, ajutorul pentru studenți sa ridicat la 6 miliarde EUR, de care au beneficiat 2,2 milioane de studenți. Sursa: Laurent Wauquiez , Les aides aux students: comment refresher l’ascenseur social, Paris, 2006.

26 Claude Grignon (Președintele Comitetului științific al OVE), Les étudiants in dificultate : Pauvreté et précarité – Rapport au ministre de la Jeunesse , de l’Éducation nationale et de la Recherche , Paris, 2003. 27 Claude Grignon , op. citat

28 Thomas Laqueur , Thomas Laqueur , La. Fabrique du sexe – Essai sur le corps et le genre en Occident, Paris, Gallimard, 1992.

29 Cu toate acestea, părinții supraveghează practicile sexuale ale copiilor lor, în special privind riscurile de infecții cu transmitere sexuală sau sarcină neplanificată. – Michel Bozon , Sociologie de la sexualité , Paris, Armand Colin, 2005, p. 54. 30 Michel Bozon , ibidem, p. 16.

31 Acest studiu, realizat de o asociație franceză, nu se referă la studenți, dar tinerilor cu vârste cuprinse între 18 și 25 de ani care sunt monitorizați de și care se află într-o situație economică și socială precară. ANRS – Service Insertion Jeunes – Association Nationale de Réadaptation Sociale, Le risque prostituție chez cadavru 18-25 ani ( studiu exploratoriu ), Paris, 1995.

32 Michel Bozon , op. citat p. 25.31 Acest studiu, realizat de o asociație franceză, nu se referă la studenți, dar tinerilor cu vârste cuprinse între 18 și 25 de ani care sunt monitorizați de și care se află într-o situație economică și socială precară. ANRS – Service Insertion Jeunes – Association Nationale de Réadaptation Sociale, Le risque prostituție chez cadavru 18-25 ani ( studiu exploratoriu ), Paris, 1995.

32 Michel Bozon , op. citat p. 25. Sunt unic, bărbat din întâmplare, femeie din vocație. Anais M. Confesiunile unei fete rele Bookzone.ro BUCURESTI 2018 www.confesiunileuneifeterele.ro Am deschis ochii cu senzația că oasele mele au au fost zdrobiți, mușchii frământați și nervii dezlipiți de locul lor. Doamne, ce noapte! ***

Eu sunt Anays. Asta mi s-a spus aproape tot timpul. Parcă nici nu-mi mai știu numele real. Dar nu-mi pasă. Nu am nevoie de un nume gol. Am nevoie de un corp gol, cred că mi-am construit o mare parte din viață în jurul acestei nevoi. Un corp gol în care să bată o inimă impulsivă. Asta caut. Asta vânez. Nu, nu aștept, ca alte femei, să fiu văzută, observată și, eventual, cucerită. Mă duc la țintă, știu ce vreau și de ce am nevoie. O iau singură, nu aștept să-mi dea cineva ceva pe o tavă, fie că este o tavă de argint. Nu mai fac greșeala de a mă gândi la mine ca la un reprezentant al sexului mai slab și de a mă bălăci în slăbiciunile sale.

Sunt unic, bărbat din întâmplare, femeie din vocație.

Dacă mă întrebi câți ani am, nu-ți voi răspunde. Ce te interesează? Nu-mi măsor viața în anii care trec, ci în iubiri – petrecute, incandescente, neîmpărtășite. Le port cu mine ca pe niște tatuaje. Și știi cum e, ești mândru de unii, ți-e un pic rușine de alții, chiar dacă nu ești, dar… Toate sunt ale tale și acesta este singurul lucru care contează.

Sunt pragmatic și hedonist. Uneori cinic. Nu mi-e frică să recunosc: “asta sunt eu și nu pot fi schimbată, nu mă mai schimb, pentru că sunt, în sfârșit, cea mai bună versiune a mea. Sau a altuia. A oricărei femei.

Pasionați de dragoste, flămânzi de senzații, iubitori de sex. Mare amator. Dar nu în niciun fel, în niciun fel, în niciun moment și, mai presus de toate, nu cu nimeni.

Trebuie să-l conduci pe om de nas. Fie îi pui fusta peste cap, fie o ridici discret și îl lași să creadă că a fost o greșeală sau doar un gest neintenționat nevinovat, fie îi arăți insistent, dar numai de la distanță. Te uiți, dar nu atingi. Nu a ta. Ce se întâmplă dacă ar putea fi? Poate! Dacă ea la altul? Nu ştiu! Dar alții? De ce nu? Îl lași să-l adulmece de la distanță. Lasă-l să și-o imagineze, să o viseze, să o devoreze în mintea lui și într-un somn neliniștit, cu vise erotice și erecții irosite în șervețele. Cât de degradant, nu? Acesta este modul în care omul este vânat.

Îl bagi în nas și când crede că are mâinile lui – și nu numai asta – și se pregătește să preia controlul asupra ta, haide, nu este chiar așa, scumpo!

Omul, dacă nu este gătit, nu te mai vrea. Bărbatul, dacă nu este excitat și nu simte că nu te poate avea, nu te mai vrea. Omul, dacă nu crede că i-a venit ideea, că te-a văzut primul și datorită prea multor calități ți-a stârnit interesul – dar ce să spun, interes, dragoste, pasiune, pasiune, nebunie -, nu vrea mai mult! Nu mai am nevoie de ea. Te trimite, fără avertisment, la reciclare și trântește ușa în urma ta cu satisfacție…

Când voi muri – și acest lucru, desigur, nu este doar o presupunere, ci poate singura certitudine în viață – totul se va termina. Și voi aștepta moartea cu fusta mototolită și ușor ridicată, cu buzele desfăcute de atâtea sărutări furate sau oferite, cu carnea dulce-obosită de la atâta frământare sălbatică și cu sufletul în fundul gol.

Vreau să mor făcând sex. O moarte orgasmică, sălbatică și dementă. Pe măsura mea. Doamne, ce noapte! Bărbatul de lângă mine încă doarme, gol. Respiră ritmic și, din când în când, se zvâcnește în somn. Probabil visează că facem dragoste.

Suntem undeva la câteva sute de kilometri de orașul nostru, într-o cameră de hotel. Am ajuns aseară după ce am condus ca un nebun, făcând cu rândul. Nu se putea concentra la drum, în timp ce mâna mea căuta neliniștită zvâcnirea pantalonilor lui. Când conduceam, încerca să mă pipăie, să-i întoarcă favoarea. Dar l-am plesnit înapoi. Acum conduc, nu fac sex. Și mi-am aprins o țigară. Îi făceam cu ochiul – într-un mod deliberat nepoliticos, astfel încât să mă poată vedea – în centrul bărbăției sale și trimitea foc în plexul său. Am râs și eu, așa că am urlat de bucurie și am luat și mai multă bucurie din țigară. Drumul era liber, conducerea – o plăcere vinovată. L-aș fi așezat chiar acolo, pe pietre, dacă nu aș fi știut că și el vrea asta. Dar așa… să mă aștepte, să mă vrea, să facă implozie…

Sunt unic, bărbat din întâmplare, femeie din vocație.

În lift, am luat-o de mână și am luat-o, peste fustă, între picioarele ei. Apoi i-am luat pulsul și, fără să mă gândesc, i-am deschis fanta. Membrul întărit s-a zvâcnit scurt și s-a eliberat din strânsoarea lenjeriei de corp. Mi-am retras mâna, i-am dat mâna la o parte și am început să caut o altă țigară. Întotdeauna fumez țigara după, înainte.

Când am intrat în cameră, a trântit ușa cu piciorul, și-a aruncat haina și geanta și m-a trântit de ușă. Să-mi pară rău, încă nu mi-am terminat țigara, așa că l-am împins ușor și, în timp ce fumam cu stânga, am început să-i deschei cămașa cu dreapta. Și-a scos singur pantalonii, furios și nerăbdător. I-am făcut semn să mă aștepte și m-am refugiat în baie. Am aruncat țigara în chiuvetă și m-am privit în oglindă, până la albul ochilor. Îmi venea să mă cert, îmi venea să râd – din nou -, îmi venea să mă pălmuiesc, dar, până la urmă, mi-am îngustat ochii și am început să mă aranjez. Eram încă proaspătă, în ciuda călătoriei lungi. Era plecat într-o delegație. Așa știa prietenul meu. Ridicol. Ascultați cum sună. Soțul prietenei mele este în căldură alături, așteptându-mă frenetic, cu o erecție monumentală, iar eu stau în baie și filosofez. Ei bine, îmi spun în timp ce îmi aranjez sânii în sutienul minuscul pe care încă îl port, acum câteva zile se plângea că este un porc, un ticălos și voia să-l dea afară pe ușă ce ticălos e. L-am considerat gata să fie dat afară, așa că l-am luat cu mine. Iarăși. Dar ultima dată a fost cu ani în urmă, înainte să o cunoască pe ea, pe soția lui și pe prietenul meu. Apoi l-am părăsit doar pentru că lătra prea mult ca un cățeluș vagabond când îi acordam atenție. Eu, C, ești bărbat sau te pierzi în fericire când o femeie îți acordă atenție? Dar au trecut 15 ani de atunci, iar câinele de odinioară este acum câinele. Îmi place, sper să fie mai bine în pat decât îmi amintesc.

Am ieșit din baie și am dat-o strategiei mele, am sărit cu lăcomie pe el. Am uitat dacă atunci, cu mult timp în urmă, ajunsesem să-l iubesc, dar uite, m-a emoționat cu tact, pentru că oricât de nerăbdător părea înainte, acum că preluase comanda și rolurile fuseseră inversate doar pentru scena de dragoste, începuse să mă ia în măiestrie bucată cu bucată. Nu-i rău, se pare că nu și-a irosit ultimii ani, probabil că s-a trezit și în paturile femeilor după mine – cea de atunci – și până la mine – cea de acum. M-a întors pe toate părțile, dezvăluindu-mă și acoperindu-mă la locul ei, renunțând doar la bluză, nu la fustă, sutien sau pantofi. Am renunțat la acestea, pentru a nu înfige un călcâi în cele mai moi părți ale corpului, pentru a-mi aminti de mine pentru altceva. Am fost surprinsă că a rezistat atât de mult și am înțeles că voia să mă facă să-l implor, să-l implor nebunește să mă penetreze. L-am vrut și, cum știam că oricum se va întâmpla, nu am vrut să-i dau satisfacție. Mâinile mele îl căutau și îl abandonau ca într-un joc pervers de “te iau/nu te vreau”. Am putut vedea că tremura și posibilitatea unei ejaculări premature mi-ar fi rupt noaptea. Și chiar nu aveam chef să repetăm experiențele tinereții noastre, când nopțile de dragoste se terminau cu lacrimi și regrete. Din partea lui, că eram prea dezgustat.

Când a văzut că pun mâna pe țigări, a dat-o și strategiei sale – uitase, micuțule, cu cine avea de-a face…

Recunosc că a fost o noapte lipicioasă. Am vrut să fac sex din nou cu C și uite, nu a fost doar asta. De asemenea, mi-a adus câteva amintiri. Cam ciudat. Am spus că nu-mi va păsa de ei, dacă vor reveni la viață. Și nu că îmi pasă, dar mă enervează.

Nu am vorbit despre noi. Nu cred că este cazul. Avem o aventură, nimic mai mult. Și îmi plac aventurile. Totul sub control. ***

Fumez și îmi adun lucrurile. Am stat deja prea mult. Știu că va veni după mine. Și asta, în loc să-l descalifice în ochii mei, așa cum ar face în mod normal, ridică o mică întrebare. Voi fi flatat de gestul său disperat cu care mă va apuca de mână – din nou – cu intenția de a mă opri sau cel puțin de a mă abate de la calea mea. Asta nu înțeleg bărbații pe care i-am lăsat în patul meu. Le-am dat permisiunea doar acolo, nu în sufletul meu. Și nimeni nu mă întoarce de la calea mea.

Salvatori bipezi imaginați. Pentru C voi face, probabil, o excepție. Voi continua cu el. Dar nu acum.

De îndată ce părăsesc camera, îmi sună telefonul. În mod normal nu aș răspunde, dar acum chiar am nevoie de cineva care să mă ducă acasă, iar călătoria cu trenul, oricât de fascinantă ar fi, nu pare o idee bună astăzi. Faptul că am putut cunoaște oameni noi, poate alți bărbați dornici să mă revadă după ce trenul a ajuns în gară, mă plictisește acum.

Răspunde. E R. Îi spun că am nevoie de el. Restul argumentelor nici nu mai contează, el nu le-ar auzi, așa că nu mă deranjez să i le servesc. Îi dau doar adresa de unde să mă ia – un restaurant din apropiere – și mă îndrept plictisit spre terasa lui. Va trece ceva timp până când va sosi R, așa că am timp de pierdut.

După ce chelnerul mi-a lăsat comanda și o privire grea de înțelegere, telefonul a sunat din nou. De data aceasta, este C. S-a trezit și nu m-a mai găsit în brațele lui, unde îmi este locul. Nu vrea să mă piardă din nou. Nu-și poate permite să riște.

Mie, pe de altă parte, îmi place riscul. Fără risc, frică sau adrenalină, o relație moare încet de plictiseală. Îi spun că poate ne vom întâlni din nou. Dar nu acum, nu mai insista. Nu știu dacă merită o șansă în plus, dar sigur merit.

Acum nu mă satur niciodată să fiu eu însumi. Găsesc în esența ființei mele motivul de a continua și nu mai accept să fiu condiționată de prezența unui anumit om. Am întotdeauna un bărbat lângă mine, dar nu întotdeauna același. Deocamdată.

Viața însăși este o ruletă rusească, cu diferența că, în loc de un glonț în țeavă, are cinci. Care sunt șansele ca unul să nu te lovească? Nesemnificativ. De-a lungul timpului, toate mi s-au întâmplat. Și i-am văzut și cartușul. Așa că continuăm să jucăm. Asta nu mă va împiedica, desigur, să iau ceva. Nu îmi pasă. Nu-mi mai pasă. Nu are nimic de-a face cu mine. Mai exact, nu mai are nimic să-mi facă. Am ajuns să mă iubesc pe mine însumi mai mult decât toți bărbații care mi-au declarat vreodată iubire veșnică. Și nu erau puțini și nu erau toți mincinoși…

Sunt făcut dintr-un amestec nenatural de substanțe, evenimente, iubiri și proiecții. Din control și înșelăciune, din rațiune și pasiune, iar viața mea refuză să fie liniară. Viața mea nu se întâmplă niciodată “între timp”, ci întotdeauna “acum”. Am adus-o într-un prezent continuu din care nu am nici o intenție să evadez.

Femeile nu mă iubesc. Văd o amenințare în mine. Văd bine. Chiar sunt. Mă urăsc pentru că mă invidiază. Nu mă “curvă” pentru că sunt ceea ce ei nu au avut niciodată curajul să fie – sau cel puțin să pretindă că sunt. Ei mă desconsideră pentru că prezența Mea le reîmprospătează conștiința eșecului. Dacă aș fi empatic, mi-ar fi milă de ei. Chiar și așa, nu aș putea simți compasiune, dar probabil că mi-ar fi milă. Dar nu sunt. Atitudinea lor nu mă jignește. Nu te poate jigni cel mai mare compliment pe care o femeie îl poate face unei alte femei. Atenția lor, timpul pe care mi-l dedică, faptul că nu au puterea să mă ignore, ei bine, toate acestea trădează o admirație adânc ascunsă, la care conștient nu mai au acces. Problema autolimitării lor nu este problema mea. Și, de cele mai multe ori, nici măcar soții lor.

Nu am nici un simț moral, mi s-a spus. Am sensul vieții, femeie! Dacă a mă simți moral înseamnă a rămâne în Cio, într-o decizie care s-a dovedit greșită imediat ce am luat-o, și a-mi refuza șansa de a trăi și de a mă bucura liber de toate experiențele vieții, atunci, nu, mulțumesc, nu, am nevoie de simț moral. Încep acolo unde se termină resursele tale, femeie cu simț moral! Nu mă năpustesc asupra ta, nu te dau afară din patul conjugal. Ești deja acolo, pe covor, chiar dacă s-ar putea să nu știi încă. Sau refuzi să accepți. Din nou, problema ta. Când o altă femeie se strecoară în budoarul tău, nu este pentru că a găsit ușa deschisă și și-a făcut treaba să intre, ci pentru că a primit o invitație expresă, să ocupe un loc, un rol,

De obicei gol prea mult timp. ***

R a sosit mai repede decât credeam. Probabil că și-a asumat un risc, a condus ca un nebun, nu exclud o amendă, doar pentru a-mi răspunde mai repede la apel. Pe drumul de întoarcere, în schimb, va conduce foarte încet, pentru a prelungi cât mai mult timpul petrecut împreună.

R mă iubește. Știe că am petrecut noaptea cu un alt bărbat. Dar e fericit să vină să mă scoată din ghearele lui. R își imaginează că este Copilul meu frumos pe un cal alb, cel pe care toate femeile îl așteaptă și în fața căruia am închis ușa de prea multe ori, cel care, din cauza mea, a căzut din șa de nenumărate ori și care, datorită mie, s-a ridicat de atâtea ori. Suntem prieteni cu beneficii. Apoi?

Nu, nu sunt amanta ideală și nici nu mi-am propus să fiu vreun “ideal” pentru nimeni. Nici măcar pentru mine. – Eşti bine?

R este îngrijorat pentru mine. Nu înțeleg sensul întrebării sale. Tocmai m-am dat jos din patul unui om bun. Surprinzător de bine, într-un fel în care nu am ghicit niciodată că ar putea fi de când ne cunoaștem – nici măcar când eram îndrăgostită de el – nu, că mi-am amintit – și R mă întreabă dacă sunt bine? Sunt prea bun, așa că alerg.

– Absolut! încotro ne îndreptăm – Unde vrei…

Amândoi știm unde vom ajunge, dar ne prefacem că nu. Și începem tachinarea cu o ieșire în acest oraș nou. Nu mă întreabă nimic altceva. Nu are nevoie să știe nimic despre ce s-a întâmplat și este deja mort, trebuie să știe că acum, aici, este cu mine și asta este suficient. Și este încă în viață. Dacă am ști cu toții cum să facem acest lucru, numărul oamenilor fericiți ar crește alarmant.

AnavsM. Mergem să mâncăm ceva, apoi ne sugerează să luăm o cameră la un alt hotel. Refuz. Nu voi clona o experiență anterioară. – Ne întoarcem acasă. Cu tine, îi spun, și fericirea lui nu cunoaște limite.

Între timp, telefonul continuă să sune. E C. Nu înțelege. Sau știe că mă ispitește. Încercați marea cu degetul. Știe că riscă să fie tras complet în adâncuri, dar se bazează pe puterea lui să rămână puternic în pământ și să mă tragă, complet, în lumea lui. Una peste alta, sunt multe de spus. De aceea se înalță. Ar trebui să încep să mă sperii?!

– Eşti bine?

R insistă cu întrebările sale enervante. Nu-i răspund. Mă uit la el. Dacă aș fi știut cum să-l iubesc, aș fi avut o fericire domestică la care visează multe femei. Eu nu. Așadar, alegem cu câteva jocuri de dragoste și un gust de nisip în suflet după. îl spălăm cu o șampanie scumpă – nu știu unde, dar întotdeauna scoate o sticlă … Încearcă să mă impresioneze, amândoi știm asta. Punctul culminant este că sexul cu el este bun, consecvent, satisfăcător. Mă umple, mă împlinește. Bărbatul este făcut să fie soț, iar eu să fiu o amantă eternă. dar acum chiar am nevoie de ea. El trebuie să spele mirosul de C de pe pielea mea, să-și spele imaginea de pe retina mea și să frământe aceleași locuri din carnea mea pentru a-și pângări atingerea. Am nevoie de reabilitare C. Nu este obligatoriu, nu este grav, dar prevenirea nu a ucis niciodată pe nimeni. Dimpotrivă!

Pe drum, vorbește mult. R are acum impresia că suntem un cuplu. Să zicem, deschis. Sau un cuplu în care ea pășește mereu strâmb și el iartă mereu, că tocmai am împărțit sarcinile. Și chiar dacă ar fi așa, m-ar ierta de fiecare dată dacă, în cele din urmă, aș accepta ideea de a fi iubita lui. Râd de aceste gânduri și temperatura lui crește, el crede că este din cauza lui și nu din cauza lui. Nu am chef de jocuri erotice și… încă.

Întind mâna spre schimbătorul de viteze al mașinii și pun mâna pe a lui. Încep să-i mângâi mâna încordată, apăsată, cu mișcări blânde, dar cu intenție. O simt Mâna mea nu merge departe, doar rămâne acolo, dar gestul meu îl trezește teribil. Nu am reușit niciodată să înțeleg cum atingerea mâinilor noastre reușește să ne emoționeze atât de mult, pentru că curentul electric care a trecut prin el a ajuns și la mine. Numai cu el se întâmplă acest lucru. Păcat că nu este suficient și că nu ține loc pentru ceea ce îmi lipsește când suntem împreună…

Se uită la mine cu sens și dau din cap aprobator. Am ajuns să nu mai avem nevoie de cuvinte între noi, la naiba… și încă degeaba. Oprește mașina într-o parcare, la marginea unei păduri. Coborâm repede și începem să mergem, unul lângă altul, printre copaci. Nu trebuie să ne ținem de mână, dar trebuie să ne scufundăm cât mai departe de trafic. Ajungem într-o mică poiană cu iarbă mărunțită. Își aruncă haina pe podea, mă trage spre el cu un gest scurt, puternic și blând în același timp – cum face asta? – un gest care mă emoționează de fiecare dată pentru că mă simt concentrată în el toate sentimentele lui pentru mine. Dar nu este timp pentru introspecție, mâinile lui mă explorează sălbatic. El nu mai are chef de preludiu, iar eu vibrez în același ritm. Corpul meu o vrea, dar nu și sufletul meu. Ce să faci Nu pot oferi/primi mai mult de un joc. Sunt atât de entuziasmată, încât aproape că îl fac să mă ia. Facem sex gemând adânc, în poiana cu iarbă proaspătă. Există ceva profund carnal între noi, chiar mai mult decât eticheta “bună” pe care i-am pus-o până acum. Vezi tu, tocmai când credeai că nu mai poți primi surprize de la bărbați care păreau să-ți fi oferit totul…

Am adormit îmbrățișați. Nici măcar nu am apucat să ne dezbrăcăm. Vă rog, nu era nici locul, nici timpul, adunarea animalelor, asta era tot ce aveam nevoie. Nu a fost nevoie să așteptați până acasă. Dar acest joc nu ne schimbă planurile. Vom merge în continuare la el, pentru că acum trebuie să facem dragoste lungă, largă, amănunțită. Asta îmi place la el, că le pot avea pe toate. Și sex sălbatic, și sex romantic, și sex domestic. De asemenea, în ceea ce privește sexul.

Nu am niciun motiv să-l cuceresc pe R, de ce să mă joc cu el. Întotdeauna am avut-o. Dar dincolo de asta? – Mă pornești, îi spun.

Este adevărul pur, dar și darul meu pentru el. Ochii lui strălucesc de bucurie și mândrie. În aceste secunde, el uită că nu are nimic. Mă ia din nou în brațe, dar… Asta e tot. Se face târziu și vreau să ajung imediat. Entuziasmul său scade atunci când îl vede cu ochii. Nu știu cum își gestionează erecțiile repetate. Important este că reușesc, nu?

Plecăm. Nu vreau să fiu ca de obicei. Rău. Cu toate acestea, și-a lăsat afacerea în urmă pentru a veni după mine la sute de kilometri distanță. Să mă ia de pe drumuri. Pentru a mă aduce “acasă”. – Să ajungem acolo și să continuăm… Îi zâmbesc cu o promisiune.

Barbatii nu stiu sa spuna NU. Sinceritatea distruge relatiile.

Acestea sunt două adevăruri care se susțin reciproc. Aș califica prin a spune că, în general, bărbații nu pot refuza nicio femeie, dar există și femei cărora le este greu să refuze un bărbat. În aceste situații, cu atât mai mult, nu este nevoie de sinceritate. Pentru ce? Pentru a afla ce nu vrei să știi? Să fii nefericit, doar de dragul de a ști lucruri care nu te privesc direct? Adevărul te ține de mână? Sau poate te îmbrățișează noaptea? Sau poate că nu este vorba atât de mult despre acest “adevăr” pe care toată lumea își trage dinții, cât este vorba despre mândrie. Că nu tu ai fost cel care a înșelat. Pentru că principiile sunt baza lumii și baza unei relații solide. Greșit! O relație solidă nu se bazează pe adevăruri inutile și greu de suportat, ci pe frânturi de realitate frumoasă, pe iluzii, pe imaginație și pe faptul că “îi spun doar ceea ce vrea să audă”. Pe o pseudo-realitate creată de cei doi parteneri. De cele mai multe ori, o minciună frumoasă a salvat o relație, în timp ce adevărul ar fi ucis-o. Ceea ce nu știi nu te doare. Ceea ce nu te doare nu există.

Deci, dacă nu știi cum să spui “NU” și vrei să crești o relație, ai grijă ce faci cu adevărul. Cu siguranță are nevoie de ceva … Tweaking. Deși, sincer să fiu, chiar nu înțeleg de ce o persoană pentru care NU-ul nu există, și-ar dori, în paralel, o altă relație. Există o mică dovadă de bipolaritate aici?

În orice caz, despre mine, aș spune mai degrabă că “Bărbații nu știu să-mi spună NU”.

Relațiile interumane seamănă cu o rețea neurologică. Informația circulă extrem de rapid, pe căi diferite, prin circuite mai simple sau mai complexe. Atât de mult încât, în cazul nostru, de oameni, nu ajung întotdeauna la destinație curați, exact, așa cum au plecat. Și aceasta este una dintre marile noastre probleme. Dacă am reuși să primim și să înțelegem întotdeauna mesajele exact așa cum au fost trimise (sau, mai bine spus, cu intenția cu care au fost trimise, pentru că nu trebuie să ignorăm erorile de transmitere), această lume ar fi un loc în care șansele de a ne înțelege, accepta și iubi ar fi reale. Cu toate acestea, ele sunt doar iluzorii.

De mai multe ori, mesajul pe care l-am trimis a fost primit distorsionat, posibil a ajuns la destinația donată, o dată prin calea directă și a doua oară prin cea indirectă și rău intenționată. Desigur, nu este responsabilitatea mea, dar trebuie să recunosc că acest lucru a dus la o problemă sau două în plus.

De aceea sunt atât de directă, fără artificii, fără decorațiuni. Pentru că nu am nimic de pierdut, nicio relație de construit și, prin urmare, nu am pe nimeni de care să mă ascund și pe nimeni să mint. Dar este un lux, atenție, care plătește! Și pe care, din nou, atenție!, nu cred că cineva și-o poate permite.

Am decis să-i dau lui R o șansă. Pentru a-mi demonstra că putem petrece mai mult timp împreună fără a fi nevoie să-l concediem. Asta presupune că nu va uita că nu suntem într-o relație și că nu îi datorez nimic. Nu-i datorez să mintă frumos și să-și gestioneze sentimentele. Și asta ne dă o stare de confort.

R este un bărbat frumos, căruia femeile îi fac avansuri. Le primește galant, flatat – o simt, dar fără ca acea tristețe vagă să-i dispară din ochi. Știu că eu sunt cauza, dar, din păcate, nu este vina mea. Fiecare dintre noi este responsabil pentru integritatea sufletului nostru. Dacă sufăr, este pentru că alegerile și deciziile mele au contribuit la asta și în niciun caz nu este de vină cel căruia îi dedic suferința mea. S-ar putea să am circumstanțe atenuante pentru aceste alegeri ale mele, dar nimic mai mult. Modul în care aleg să-mi port suferința, să o închei sau să o prelungesc la nesfârșit este, din nou, doar problema mea. Atât de mult încât este mai ușor să dai vina întotdeauna pe altcineva, să arunci vina în afara ta, să găsești pe cineva responsabil în exterior pentru a nu-ți chinui conștiința. Să suferi fără să recunoști că ești cauza principală a propriei suferințe este aproape o încântare sadomasochistă, dar totuși o încântare. R suferă nu pentru că nu-l pot iubi, ci pentru că a ales să continue o relație toxică pentru el. R nu suferă pentru că nu vreau să fiu iubita lui sau pentru că mă culc cu alți bărbați, ci pentru că a ales să iubească ceea ce gândea despre mine, ceea ce își imagina despre mine, și nu eu, așa cum sunt, în realitate. R este un bun prieten, un bun tovarăș. Dar dragostea nu apare la comandă – asta dacă aș fi dispus să iubesc. Dar nu mai sunt. Dar asta e o altă problemă…

Și eu am iubit. Dar am șters totul. Chiar și amintirea acelor momente. Le-am eradicat. Cum să eradicăm ciuma. Definitive. Și totuși, astăzi s-au întors. Amintirile, senzațiile, pulsațiile, zgomotul. Chiar și scrisorile pe care i le trimiteam, nebunești. Le învățam pe de rost înainte de a le trimite. Chiar și cuvintele lor s-au întors.

Nu este un fulger în viața mea. De asemenea, am slăbiciuni ascunse în fundul pământului. Nu l-aș mai întâlni niciodată, nu l-aș mai suna niciodată. Nu-l mai vreau. Oricum, îl port ascuns în sânge și îmi displace profund asta. O transfuzie, Anays? Nu ar fi rău, dacă nu ar fi inutil…

L-am uitat fără să-l uit și le-am șters fără să-l șterg. I-am trimis ultima scrisoare din viața mea:

“M-am obișnuit să-mi fie dor de tine, dragostea mea. Cu lipsa căldurii mâinilor tale, cu lipsa conturului buzelor tale, cu lipsa fuziunilor noastre. Și acum, am ajuns să cred că ele existau doar în imaginația mea bolnavă de iubire și dorință. Și asta mă face fericit. Pentru că imaginația este aliatul meu și, oricând vreau, te poate aduce întreg și minunat, așa cum îmi amintesc de tine, să-mi îndulcești prezentul îmbibat de absența ta… Și dacă mă mint pe mine însumi, iubirea mea? Și dacă, de fapt, nu mă voi putea obișnui niciodată cu absența ta? Cu acest minus imens care îmi dezechilibrează ființa, lăsându-mă totuși să mă simt trist… dor. Un dor mic și rece, ca o ploaie torențială la sfârșitul lunii noiembrie, care macină atât osul, cât și gândul.

Când mi-e dor de tine, de iubirea mea, mă transform în zbor și nu știu dacă amintirile sunt cele care mi-au născut aripile, mai subțiri decât o pânză de păianjen, dar mai durabile decât toate durerile lumii. Iluzia de a te fi avut cândva lângă mine, de a te putea atinge și striga “asta” nu-mi permite să mă prăbușesc. Iluzia ființei tale de pasiune și suspin mă ajută să plutesc deasupra vieții.

Uneori, iubirea mea, confund absența ta cu prezența ta. Mi-ai intoxicat existența și nici nu știu de unde să încep. Unde mă pot gândi la tine?

Uneori, am senzația că nu e vorba despre tine, e vorba despre mine, ci doar despre o altă latură pe care o descopăr, cu fiecare clipă care trece, din ce în ce mai fascinantă.

Alteori, văd clar cusătura dintre sufletele noastre și, deși “fuzionează, se amestecă”, înțeleg că unitatea este dată de două părți. Două trupuri, două inimi, două lumini.

Lipsa ta, iubirea mea, este pauza dintre respirații. Atâta timp cât viața curge prin venele mele, tu ești aici, prezent și absent în același timp, purtându-mă ca stindardul unei împliniri căreia nu-i pasă de niciuna dintre aceste legi pământești amare pe care le respect fără respect, doar pentru tine. ..

Și permiteți-mi să vă spun altceva – m-am abandonat definitiv de două ori în această viață. O dată în brațele tale și o dată în brațele … morții. De fiecare dată, am fost dezamăgit. … Ca dovadă că sunt încă aici și că am devenit cine sunt astăzi.”

Femeia, și când uită, nu iartă! Nu uita asta! ***

I-am spus lui R că sunt ocupat astăzi. Nu mă suna, nu mă căuta. Realizat. El a înțeles. L-am cunoscut pe C. Reuniunea noastră a spart construcția la care lucrasem mulți ani. Așa că trebuie să mă ocup de situație cât mai repede posibil. în plus, ce naiba m-a făcut să-mi amintesc de N?

C a venit mai devreme. Mi-a adus flori. A pornit spre oraș, dar l-am forțat să se întoarcă. Mergem la un mic hotel pe care il cunosc, cochet, baroc, discret. Habar n-am, doar mi-a trecut prin minte să-l văd acolo. Ştiu. Este singurul loc în care am fost doar cu N. Nu am mai dus pe nimeni acolo până acum. Să nu-l polueze cu o altă prezență masculină, cu alte orgasme străine lui. Nu am spus că mă ocup de situație? Îl atac din interior, arunc în aer punțile pe care nici nu mi-am dat seama că le păstrez.

Hotelul este închis. Acest lucru îmi strică starea de spirit. C este confuz, nu știe cum să mă ia. Ştiu. Parcăm în curtea hotelului. Soarta nu vrea, dar eu vreau. Hotelul nu este deschis, dar curtea sa este. Dimineața vedeam că era abandonat. Cu atât mai bine, simbolurile iubirilor care au putrezit de atâția ani nu merită, deși tardiv, doar batjocură.

Am făcut-o în mașină, călărind pe ea și schimbătorul de viteze. Ciudat, lasciv, senzual, provocator, enervant. Poziția l-a forțat să-și scufunde fața între sânii mei. Furia mea l-a forțat să-și bage degetele în carnea mea. Îngenunchez amenințările zombie din cenușa celui care eram. Le-am plesnit două orgasme peste ochi. A doua oară am renunțat să mai stăm în mașină. Mi-am apăsat sânii goi de fereastra ei rece într-o agitație absurdă, străină. Sucul acid născut în uter circula pe lângă capul ei printre nervi și oase. Eram neliniștită, iar el a așteptat atât de mult. Eliberat din spațiul strâmt al mașinii, m-a iubit profund, în timp ce îmi șoptea cuvinte la ureche. Cuvinte dezgropate și din prima viață. Este și el un prost? De ce face asta? Chiar trebuie să mă bântuie toate fantomele acum? L-am șuierat să tacă și, întorcându-mă pe jumătate spre el, l-am mușcat agresiv de colțul gurii. Taci, nu fac dragoste cu trecutul meu. Fac sex cu cadoul lui.

Am avut dreptate. Lucrurile s-au mișcat în direcția opusă. A fost o greșeală să le avem din nou. Nu-mi mai place această aventură. Nu-mi mai satisface apetitul pentru abandonul inconștient în plăceri amplificat de libertatea de a nu avea restricții de niciun fel. C vrea o aventură sub forma unei relații. El vrea să mă domine, să mă constrângă, punându-mă sub controlul său, ca în… Cineva încurcă lucrurile, puștiule. Nu sunt o amantă pe termen lung cu același bărbat. Nu îmi asum statutul de femeie de mâna a doua.

Sunt amanta orei. Pentru că este alegerea mea. A avea o relație stabilă cu un bărbat căsătorit este deja alegerea lui. Și C s-a cam întins. El și-a depășit cu mult îndatoririle. La revedere dragă

Femeia nu este într-un fel. Nu o poți numi doar “asta” și atât. O femeie are multe fețe. Uneori mai mult decât haine. Și în fiecare zi poartă una distinctă. Ce se întâmplă dacă cea de astăzi o contrazice pe cea de ieri? Este la fel pentru o lungă perioadă de timp. Toate aceste manifestări și sentimente amestecate, contopite, amestecate, alcătuiesc un întreg flexibil, magnetizant și greu de înțeles pentru mințile liniare, în două dimensiuni – sex și hrană – ale unora dintre bărbați.

O femeie nu poate fi definită de ochii unui bărbat care o privește cu lăcomie. O femeie poate fi definită doar prin ochii bărbatului care o iubește cu lăcomie. Și Ioc rămâne în continuare pentru manifestări străine ambelor.

Nu pretindeți niciodată că puteți cuprinde pe deplin, în gând sau imaginație, esența femeii. Mai ales dacă este femeia pe care o iubești. Nu contează pentru tine iubit pentru o oră sau pentru o viață… ***

R mă aștepta ca și cum nimic nu s-ar fi întâmplat. De asemenea, izbucnește, uneori, dar numai la el însuși. Au fost momente când m-a emoționat. Uneori din prostie, ca atunci când mi-a spus că pleacă să se căsătorească cu primul străin care i-a ieșit în cale. Evident că nu. Nu l-am crezut, evident, dar prostia lui era emoționantă. Așa că l-am rugat să plece. Lasă-l să se dea la o parte din calea mea, nu-l voi ține.

– Chiar mă ții în brațe. Dacă te-ai fi aruncat în brațele mele măcar o dată, aș fi putut pleca oricând, cu sufletul împăcat. Dar așa… M-am “deziluzionat” repede.

Nu am făcut niciodată mărturisiri inutile. R este prietena mea, nu prietena mea. Mare diferență. R nici măcar nu știe că m-am despărțit de C – cât de fericit ar fi să afle – și nici că N îmi bântuie tăcerea. Nu mărturisești niciodată unui bărbat pe care l-ai lăsat să se rostogolească în jurul tău. În orice circumstanțe.

R mă aștepta așa cum face întotdeauna. Reconfortant să știi că ai întotdeauna o plasă de siguranță. Că, indiferent cât de jos cazi, cineva este acolo să te prindă, chiar dacă asta nu te salvează de la a fi lovit. Dar cel puțin te ajută să închizi acel capitol din care ai căzut atât de dramatic.

Să fim serioși, lucrurile care iau forma unei tragedii antice nu au niciodată esența lor. înainte de a continua, permiteți-mi să vă spun că, ani mai târziu, R s-a căsătorit pe bune și are doi copii. Deci, despre ce vorbim aici? Nu eram eu, era altcineva. De aceea nu plâng niciodată în pumni pentru suferința iubirii bărbaților. Pentru că sunt mult mai flexibile decât noi, femeile. Și pentru că, de cele mai multe ori, această suferință este decorativă, având scopul precis de a impresiona și atrage, chiar și atunci când nici măcar nu-și dau seama.

Și există suficiente muște care cad în plasa dulce a iluziilor. Scrisoare către N

“Te iubesc mai mult decât orice pe lume. De aceea am suportat toate glumele tale. Și te iert și încă te iert. Și te înțeleg mai mult decât poate ar face-o propria ta mamă. Și o păstrăm așa pentru o lungă perioadă de timp.

Până într-o zi. Ei bine, în acea zi, poate că ai fost doar puțin impertinent, sau doar mi-ai aruncat o privire urâtă, așa cum faci de obicei, sau poate mi-ai răspuns din nou fără menajamente, sau poate nici măcar nu ai făcut nimic palpabil condamnabil, poate doar tu însuți … Ei bine, în acea zi… dar ce să spun în acea zi, în acel moment, când mă uit la tine, dintr-o dată ceva se oprește… și moare! Se întâmplă ceva ireversibil…

Și nu mai sunt eu, ci o persoană brusc nouă, străină și necunoscută, care te privește rece și… nu te mai înțelege. Și nu te mai suportă și nu te mai iartă. Nici măcar nu pot spune că a fost “picătura care a umplut paharul”, pentru că este mult mai puțin decât o picătură. Sau nu este nimic, doar un gând pe care l-am crezut mort și îngropat și nu știu cum tocmai astăzi am reușit să reînvii și să pun stăpânire pe cine am fost până acum pentru tine. Și din acest nou punct zero al devenirii mele, totul se schimbă. Și nu-ți place. Încă o nemulțumire nici nu mai contează, nu-i așa? Asta e că este primul care pornește de la un motiv real…

Și când îți dai seama că nu mă prefac, că aceasta este noua mea realitate… Te sperii. Și ați dori să ștergeți totul cu un burete și ați dori să o luăm de la început, ca și cum nimic din toate acestea nu s-ar fi întâmplat. Pentru că te-ai schimbat.

Într-un fel, așa este – începem de la început, dar fiecare de la un început diferit, pe drumuri diferite, care nu se intersectează. Și jur că nu te înțeleg. De ce totul trebuie să moară pentru tine, în cele din urmă, să vrei să fii al meu, târziu și inutil?”

“Voi fi cel mai bun prieten al tău”, mi-a spus N când ne-am despărțit. Astăzi mor de râs, atunci am crezut că este doar un băiat mare. ***

Nu sunt sfâșiat între cine am fost și cine am fost iubit – așa cum nu pot spune în cuvinte și cine sunt astăzi, iubit – așa cum poate spune oricine în cuvinte. *** – Fumezi prea mult, spune R. Iar.

Nu-l aud. Și. Fumez și mă întreb, cum arată N astăzi? Sau ieri? Sau mâine? – Te iubesc… R șoptește, probabil neintenționat. Mai mult, nu-l aud. Și.

Există multe momente când o femeie trebuie să fie oarbă, surdă, mută sau ambele. Unii le numesc compromis, dacă acest lucru se întâmplă într-o relație. Cu toate acestea, în orice număr, este o dovadă a sănătății mintale. Numai.

Ce ar trebui să fac cu o iubire inutilă? M-am întrebat adesea cum de încă nu am găsit cel mai bun răspuns, R Continuă să fii în preajma mea. ***

O relație se încheie atunci când nu mai are nimic de oferit cel puțin uneia dintre părți. Și în acest caz, nu am nimic să-i ofer lui R – probabil, în realitate, nu am făcut-o niciodată, doar el și-a imaginat altceva – în schimb, îmi oferă un adăpost temporar, de care nu am nevoie tot timpul, dar pe care, lacom, nu suport să-l las altuia.

În cele din urmă, trag linie și sunt aceeași persoană nedreaptă, dar care, în cele din urmă, poate cu unele regrete, va trebui să înțeleagă că este nevoie retrage. Din relația cu R, o relație care nici măcar nu există! *** Nimeni nu-ți poate lua libertatea de a păcătui. Nu este minunat?

Fără ipocrizie, libertatea de a păcătui este libertatea de a fi tu însuți, de cele mai multe ori depășind tot felul de norme. Dar cine are curajul să o facă și apoi să continue cu capul sus? Greu de spus! Cine are curajul să-și asume viciile? Să stea drept, indiferent la furtunile pe care le stârnește în mintea altora, fără să-l atingă de fapt? Arăți spre mine? Ei bine, și? Degetul tău este murdar, așa că voi evita să-l ating. Tu nu ești judecătorul meu – așa cum nu ești judecătorul nimănui – așa cum nimeni nu este judecătorul meu.

Nu te atinge de viciile mele! Îmi sunt mai fideli decât cel mai înflăcărat iubit…

Când un bărbat spune că te iubește “în felul lui”, ceea ce vrea să spună cu adevărat este că doare – profund și continuu – undeva în jurul tău. Și apoi, cu atât mai mult, nu va trebui să-l iubești complet, oferindu-i tot bagajul emoțional, frâiele și controlul asupra ta. Să te predai complet unui bărbat, devenind conștient complet dependent de el, este sinucidere programată. Mai devreme sau mai târziu, “în felul lui”, el va dori să pășești singur în neant. Și ce vei face atunci? Rămâi fără tine, rămâi fără nimic? Veți avea, desigur, dreptul să suferiți, să vă luptați, să fiți ridicoli (cui îi pasă?), să vă bălăciți în durere… Dar când tot ceea ce este epuizat încă o dată ceea ce a mai rămas din tine, resturile, ca să spunem așa, ai obligația să te ridici – chiar și în genunchi – să zâmbești și să faci primul pas înainte. Târât, descompus, dar fă-o. Și apoi altul și altul. Uneori chiar și peste cadavre…

Amintiți-vă, dați tot ce aveți, nu tot ce sunteți! Un prieten a avut odată ideea stupidă de a mă prezenta cuiva. Am tăiat-o scurt, probabil că mă încurcă. Nu accept ca bărbații să-mi fie prezentați. Le aleg eu!

Am crezut că a înțeles, dar m-am înșelat, pentru că a adus-o la o petrecere și mi-a băgat-o sub nas, împreună cu alți străini. El și-a camuflat oarecum intenția, dar nu suficient de bine. Nu înțelegeam de ce insistă, de ce vrea să mă întâlnesc cu acel bărbat… Și cu atenția mea asupra lui, dar cu colțul ochiului asupra ei, am simțit-o tresărind. Strălucirea spontană din privirea lui a fost imediat însoțită de o durere care abia perceptibil i-a străbătut corpul, zguduindu-i sufletul.

Are puterea să-mi zâmbească, după care dispare în mulțime.

La plecare, pe brațul lui Iu D – brațul unui bărbat galant care se oferise doar să mă conducă acasă – o văd pierdută printre sticle. Refuz să-mi iau rămas bun. Mai târziu, nu am mai văzut-o, și-a schimbat numărul de telefon și a dispărut din viața virtuală. Ce femeie a pus la pământ prin propriile sentimente! Nu știu pe cine credea că se poate răzbuna – pe ea însăși, pentru că a fost respinsă, sau pe el – sperând că îl voi respinge pentru ea fără să-și dea seama? Cumva, s-a gândit să mă folosească. Eu, cel care nu sunt refuzat de niciun om. Ce femeie limitată de lipsa de control a celor mai multe impulsuri animale! Ce femeie jalnică, dar nu a mea, căci eu, desigur, nu-i pot da…

D-ul ei și-a luat rămas bun discret, cu eleganță retro-amuzantă. Am intrat în jocul lui doar pentru că autosuficiența m-a instigat. Nu suport bărbații autosuficienți. Îmi provoacă o dorință puternică … Dorința de a-și bate joc de ei!

Între o femeie nebună și un bărbat îngâmfat, atât de umflat în pene încât un mare gol răsună înăuntru, aleg să râd. Așa că accept invitația lui la cafea a doua zi. Și din a treia zi. Și cea de la restaurant. Și cel din club. Un club de snobi, un club de oameni amorțiți de vârstă și excese fine, subtile, intelectuale, afișate grotesc pe fețe mature. Oameni perverși în sensul hilar al cuvântului. Unii ticăloși auto-provocați.

Călcâiele domnului meu se aprind și, în dansul stângaci și pasional, încearcă să mă aglomereze, căutându-mi sânii. L-am lăsat să se bucure de forma lor fragedă și cărnoasă, în timp ce mâinile mele caută să-i măsoare pulsul. Un pic de încurajare, o mică ridicare de la sol înainte de actul final face jocul mai interesant și mai interesant. Dar în pantaloni, o glumă. Mi-a fost greu să nu râd. Ar fi meritat-o. Nu măsor virilitatea unui astfel de partener, dar aroganța cu damf merită cruzimea mea. Am continuat, mai mult din curiozitate, încercând să mă întreb dacă este, până la urmă, bărbat și nu am avut o altă surpriză, și nu că aș fi intrigat, dar vreau să știu exact cu cine am de-a face. Înainte să-mi dau seama, era pregătit. Completat. S-a terminat. A dus-o mai puțin elegant la baie, cu coada între picioare. Și la propriu, nu doar la figurat.

Să te îndrăgostești atât de prostește de acest pseudo cavaler al feței triste? Dacă îți lași inima deschisă, nu trebuie să fii surprins că toate cele neterminate te mușcă … Și odată infestat, să te ții, pentru că nu este deloc ușor, uneori devine un joc fatal și pierzi nu numai o bătălie sau întregul război , ci și tu, cu totul.

Am acceptat din nou invitațiile lui D. Eram curioasă să văd când și cum va face pasul, pentru că deja se învârtea cu înverșunare în jurul meu. A trecut peste incidentul din acea seară ca un adevărat gentleman, tăcând, ca și cum nimic nu s-ar fi întâmplat, dar a ezitat să se apropie atât de mult. Până în momentul în care, după o ieșire în oraș și după ce și-a făcut curaj cu o sticlă de șampanie, m-a invitat la el acasă. Să-mi “arate” nu știu ce. Jenant. Tactica unui adolescent cu cosuri și căldură, obosit să-l frece ascuns sub plapumă sau adăpostit de ploaia dușului. Am acceptat, îndoindu-mă că într-adevăr nu acționa. Cumva, niște corzi vibrau în pieptul cocoșului.

Dar nu în acea noapte. La o dată ulterioară.

Trebuia să ne întâlnim în oraș. Întotdeauna am refuzat oricărui bărbat să vină să mă ia de acasă. Nu pariez neapărat pe “egalitatea de gen”. Pariez pe discreție. E greu să ajungi la mine acasă. Și rareori. Foarte rar. Numai N știe unde locuiesc, doar N a fost aici. Pariez pe demnitatea mea.

Ceea ce voi numiți misandrie, eu numesc demnitate. Ceea ce voi numiți demnitate, eu numesc misoginism. Cu câteva ore înainte de întâlnire, l-am sunat pe D. M-am purtat “bărbătesc” cu el. Ce, nu este bine că primește ceea ce oferă? Ei bine, cred că ar trebui să-mi mulțumească.

Dacă stau să mă gândesc, acel telefon ar fi putut veni după ce iubirea lui a prins contur, după ce s-a aruncat complet, cu capul înainte în vârtej, așa cum unii încă mai cred că este îndrăgostit. Fără precauții, fără măști, fără frică, fără haine, nu, Doamne, ipocrizie…

L-am sunat să-i spun că mi-am curățat viața și el… Ei bine, nu mai are loc. A rămas afară… Și bang, telefonul. Asta și nimic mai mult. Apoi. Pentru că, ceva timp mai târziu, l-am sunat din nou. Să vedem dacă mai trăiește.

Să-l întreb ce face, să fim prieteni, să ne vedem… Ca și cum nimic nu s-ar fi întâmplat, ca și cum ar fi fost un gest natural. La fel cum ar face un bărbat cu o femeie căreia i-a dat papucii înainte de a o împușca și care, cumva, regretă, așa că încearcă să remedieze situația și să o verifice și pe ea în pat.

Îl simțeam cum se rupe, își schimba vocea instantaneu și doar mormăia, destul de ferm, să-și uite numărul de telefon și să nu-l mai sune niciodată. Tragedie în întregime, ne-a fost dor de spectatori. De aceea, înainte de a încheia această ultimă conversație, nu am putut ține o anumită întrebare în închisoarea gândurilor mele, așa că a țâșnit liber și viguros:

– Chiar m-ai iubit atât de mult? Iar răspunsul lui nu m-a descurajat: – Da și nu… Dragă D, ești praf. Prietenul meu neprietenos poate răsufla ușurat. Ea și restul femeilor pe care le vei călca vreodată, cu pantofii, inimile și sufletele tale elegante, proaspăt lustruite. Ce spunea asta? Nu! ***

G este o altă bestie cu care m-am intersectat la un moment dat. căsătorit, cu copii. Capabil să facă bani, incapabil să-și țină pantalonii. Toxic. Genul de om a cărui prezență inițial îți face plăcere, te flatează, pentru ca apoi, repede, măștile să cadă și să fii lovit de ecoul pe care sufletul lui gol ți-l aruncă în față, ca o insultă. Multe femei au trecut prin patul lui și prin mintea lui. El a continuat să se agațe uneori de unul, alteori de altul, cu disperarea unui om care își caută esența în afara lui. Sau prin chiloții celor care au cedat, naiv, intoxicați de feromonii săi. Eșec total.

G arată ca o caracatiță cu tentacule lipicioase. Își devorează prada inconștient, fără milă, fără să înțeleagă că, de fapt, se devorează pe sine. Există mulți oameni ca G în jurul nostru și merg liberi pentru că nu au fost diagnosticați. încă. Despre G men nu pot decât să vă spun că merită să fie aruncați la coșul de gunoi al istoriei personale pentru că, în realitate, nu simt nimic, nu au nimic. Nici măcar ei.

Să ne confruntăm cu cărțile. Sunt rău în măsura în care asta înseamnă că nu sunt dispus să tolerez ipocrizia, meschinăria și ieșirile nimănui. Într-adevăr, de ce aș face-o? Ce câștig dacă închid ochii și pun mizeria sub covor? Într-o zi, toate aceste lucruri tăcute și trecute cu vederea se vor întoarce împotriva mea. Și atunci, a cui va fi vina? De ce să aștept acel moment, când mă pot salva de neplăcerile de la început?

Sunt selectiv. Așa cum tangențele cu un bărbat îndrăgostit sunt dezgustătoare și risipitoare de energie pentru mine ca femeie, la fel este și relația unui bărbat cu o femeie care, printr-un capriciu misterios al sorții, are totul la dispoziție și, în loc să fie recunoscătoare, își plimbă nasul în înălțimea norilor, spunându-le celorlalți: Nu poate fi decât unul dezastruos. Și nu cunosc solidaritatea de gen. Dacă ești nefericit, nu-mi cere să te consider egalul meu pentru că nu ești. Aparțineți categoriei de resturi și puțin mai mult.

Deci nu. Nu.

M-am despărțit de R. Cuvântul vine “separat”, pentru că nu poți separa ceva ce nu a fost niciodată unit. dar nu mă mai simt ca el. Nici ca să-L văd, nici ca să-L aud. Nici nimic. pe lângă , în aceste zile atenția mea s-a mutat spre L. Îl cunosc de mult timp, dar nu l-am văzut până acum. Poate că acei 20 de ani pe care îi are asupra mea nu m-au tentat prea mult înainte. Dar L are un farmec pe care îl eliberează treptat, controlat, eficient. Am fost surprins. Am acceptat provocarea. Îi este greu să se detașeze. Vrei jocuri, atunci? Îl închid. Într-un weekend nu-i mai răspund. Nici măcar nu răspund la mesaje, nici la apeluri de la numere necunoscute sau ascunse. Știu că este el.

Joci doar după regulile mele cu mine.

Ultimul său mesaj marchează înfrângerea. Jocul lui s-a terminat. începe-o pe a mea, îi răspund a doua zi și accept invitația lui. Ieșim la cel mai scump restaurant din oraș. Sunt flatată de atenția lui, dar nu am nevoie de ea pentru a adora ceea ce văd în oglindă… așa că nu sunt impresionat, deși acum L încearcă vizibil să-l facă să funcționeze. Este un spectacol pe care nicio femeie nu l-ar întrerupe” doar pentru a-și elibera victima din ghearele îndoielii. Cu toate acestea, la sfârșitul serii, îi fac o surpriză. Vinul a fost excelent, iar pașii lui prin sângele meu lasă urme de erotism virulent. Nu pot rezista impulsului momentului și trântesc poșeta deschisă sub masă, unde burta ei generoasă se revarsă rapid. Mă aplec să adun dezastrul și să-l prind deschizând fanta. A tresărit, speriat, ca de fiorul unei apoplexii, și a vărsat paharul de vin scump. Încearcă să se compună repede în timp ce, sub masă, în mijlocul unui restaurant de fete, mâna mea își bagă capul în pantaloni. Îi simt ochii ieșind din orbite și, cu câteva secunde înainte de punctul final, renunț la fel de brusc cum am început și stau puțin sub masă pentru a-mi aduna lucrurile. Mă ridic ca și cum nimic nu s-ar fi întâmplat și îi fac semn să comande mai mult vin. Vorbesc cu mine, L nu și-a revenit din transă, încă cutreieră tărâmurile perverse, exhibiționiste, ademenitoare și… lipsa erotismului.

Au urmat alte întâlniri. Niciuna la fel de imprevizibilă, niciuna la fel de indecentă. Mi-a plăcut siguranța pe care mi-o ofereau brațele lui, fără să mi-o ceară, fără să mi-o dorească, și asta m-a aruncat undeva la începuturile ființei mele. M-am regăsit dincolo de toate construcțiile mele baroce, dincolo de acest cinism contrafăcut, dincolo de suma experiențelor trăite. Sentiment foarte înșelător! Aș fi rămas acolo, fără să-mi dau seama inițial că asta ar fi însemnat să mă trădez, să-mi iau rămas bun de la mine, de la cine am devenit, de la cine sunt. Aș fi rămas acolo, sedus de o inocență de mult pierdută, al cărei gust mi-a șocat obiceiul. În caz contrar, dezastru. Și a vrut să mă facă amanta lui, apoi femeia “lui”, fiind dispus să arunce totul în aer. Nu simt femeia nimănui, lângă numele meu orice pronume posesiv se sufocă. Să nu uităm asta.

Când i-am spus că aventura noastră s-a terminat, m-a privit cu lacrimi în ochi și, ca amintire, când m-am despărțit, mi-a făcut o declarație de dragoste. Simplu, ascuțit, penetrant. Mi-a rămas în memorie și atât. Pa.

Să lăsăm falsurile, măștile și minciunile menite să ne adoarmă conștiința și, într-o mare măsură, sufletul. Să spunem direct: un bărbat nu-și iubește cu adevărat nici soția, nici amanta, atunci când le are pe amândouă. Este clar că, dacă l-ar iubi pe unul dintre ei, celălalt nu ar avea loc în viața lui. Dar astfel, ele sunt doar polii confortului său extraordinar, cele două femei având fiecare un rol bine definit și fiind, împreună, responsabile de acoperirea nevoilor sale egoiste. Și apoi, logic vorbind, cum să renunți la oricare dintre ele? Cel mult, le înlocuiește, mai des amanta, pentru că este mai puțin complicată și afectează mai puțin zona ei de confort. Pentru că un divorț implică probleme și este exclus, cu excepția situației în care, într-adevăr, se îndrăgostește de celălalt. Acesta este singurul mod în care nu-i pasă că sacrifică locul cald de acasă pentru a-și asuma viața cu noua sa dragoste. Și dacă, la rândul ei, s-ar căsători, fostul ei soț și iubit – acum un om liber cu documente – este capabil să meargă până la capăt pentru a divorța de ea, pentru a lupta până la capăt, cu orice preț, indiferent de rezultat. Dar, așa cum am spus, să nu ne încălzim, pentru că nu este chiar cazul.

În general, scopul principal al aranjamentului este persoana însăși. Persoana două femei poate servi mai bine decât una, nu?

De ce acceptă aceste femei situația? Știm deja – poate că îl iubesc pe prost (ambele), poate din comoditate, inerție, rușine, frică de divorț, teama de a fi o mamă singură (soția), poate din nevoi materiale, singurătate, dorința de a nu fi legat de cap (amantă).

Dacă luptă pentru el? O, da. Toată lumea își imaginează că statutul ei este mult mai important în viața lui și că, mâine sau poimâine – este o chestiune de zile – va renunța la… celălalt. Fiecare dintre ei consideră că “rivalul” este… “cealaltă” femeie. Un ticălos care îl “forțează” pe “inocent” să rămână atașat de ea, chiar dacă nu vrea. Serios? Cât de jos trebuie să cadă o femeie, cât de disperată trebuie să fie, cât de mult trebuie să se urască și să se disprețuiască pe sine pentru a minți așa, indiferent pe care dintre cele două roluri le joacă? Mai ales că nu este scutită de suferință, lacrimi, dor și tot acest arsenal jenant și scandalos de manifestări…

În ceea ce privește situația în care îi iubește pe amândoi și, prin urmare, nu poate renunța la niciunul, permiteți-mi să vă spun sincer, doamnelor, ați văzut prea multe filme!

Nu aștepta să te flatez. Nu vă așteptați să vă mulțumesc – indiferent de situație – punându-mi picioarele pe cap. în general, vă sfătuiesc să nu aveți așteptări de la mine, așa cum eu nu am niciuna de la voi. Fii bărbat, nu doar un reprezentant patetic al așa-numitului sex mai puternic. Pentru că nu este suficient să ai un instrument pentru a te considera unul!

Adevărul este că, oricât am evitat să recunoaștem în ultima vreme – construind adevărate sisteme filosofice într-un echilibru instabil în acest scop – femeile au nevoie de bărbați și invers. Acest lucru nu exclude faptul că putem trăi foarte bine unul fără celălalt. Evident că putem. Dar nevoia rămâne. Strivit între “puterea” femeii și lașitatea bărbatului. Sau sublimat în altceva. într-un stil de viață curajos. în stilul meu de viață.

Cu toate acestea, din punctul de vedere feminin, definițiile date bărbatului sunt destul de complexe și nu neapărat în conformitate cu adevărul. Dar femeile sunt predispuse la multe concesii, uneori chiar și atunci când nu găsesc nimic din ceea ce caută la un bărbat și doar pentru că sunt îndrăgostite. Știți, nu? Ei bine, vorbesc despre astfel de cazuri.

Despre acești oameni care își pun propria bunăstare, propria mândrie, propriul stomac și, să nu uităm, propriul prohab mai presus de orice. Și asta este suficient, bărbații cred că sunt demni de dragostea femeii de lângă ei. Uite, nu e chiar așa. Ce spuneam? A da! Că nu este suficient să ai un penis în pantaloni pentru a fi bărbat.

Degeaba ești “bărbatul feroce” dacă ai divorțat de bunul simț, tandrețe și empatie. Degeaba ești mândru de performanțele tale erotice, dacă uiți că au loc cu o femeie pe care o abandonezi nemulțumită. Degeaba dai cu pumnul în masă, ecoul cartierului, asta nu înseamnă că ți-ai impus punctul de vedere, ci aroganța și educația proastă.

“Aduci un ban în casă” degeaba, dacă lași pe toată lumea să știe că soția ta câștigă mai puțin și astfel este “întreținută”.

Degeaba pretinzi că ești un om modern, dar acasă, conform tradiției patriarhale transmise cu sfințenie de propria mamă, nu ridici un deget, participând indiferent la treburile casnice, care, cumva, nu te privesc, ca și cum nu ar fi casa ta, ca și cum nu ai locui și acolo, Ca și cum ai fi luat o servitoare cu verighetă și verighetă, și nu o soție.

Degeaba ești o prezență plăcută, te îmbraci și te îmbraci, dacă o faci ostentativ, doar pentru a atrage priviri străine, menite să-ți hrănească încrederea fragilă în forțele proprii.

Și, nu în ultimul rând, te prefaci că ești un mare familist degeaba, dând teorii oricui este dispus să te asculte, ucigând fundația cu înțelepciunea ta, dacă, de fapt, nu ești nici pe departe… credincios. Ești bun la cuvinte pentru nimic, dacă le folosești doar pentru a minți și a răni …

Atunci pretinzi în zadar că femeile nu te tratează așa cum te tratez eu. Absolut minunat! Scrisoare către N

“Uneori, simt că sufletul meu scapă din lesă și înnebunește pe bilele iubirilor pierdute. Rătăcește cu încăpățânare prin locurile interzise ale trecutului, în zilele sale cele mai fericite, cele care sunt gravate adânc în memoria mea afectivă. El retrăiește la nesfârșit momente pe care le-ar dori eterne, momente care i-au rămas în coaste și cu care nu știe ce să facă. Uneori, îi vine să țipe de disperare, alteori, cu fericirea de a scăpa, dar, de cele mai multe ori, îi vine să-și plângă iubirile moarte necăsătorite și necăsătorite. Iar întoarcerea este întotdeauna dureroasă.

Mi-e teamă că într-o zi nu se va mai întoarce. Mi-e teamă că într-o zi își va lua viața și va fugi definitiv cu ea, asumându-și orice risc, orice consecință.

Mi-e teamă, iubirea mea, că într-o zi își va aduna tot curajul – uitând că l-am condamnat la lașitate atâția ani – și va încheia brusc și definitiv acest capitol inutil și trist, ale cărui lecții au fost criptate. Și mă tem, de asemenea, că, în acea zi, nu voi fi pregătită să învăț fericirea și că voi continua să prefer disperarea. Și mă tem, de asemenea, că nu-i va păsa deloc de toate acestea și că, dacă nu-l urmez, voi rămâne doar un mort viu care îi imită pe cei din jurul lui și care pretinde că este viu. Mă tem că mă va trăda, așa cum și eu, la rândul meu, fac de foarte mult timp.

Așa că nu-mi pot permite să stau cu brațele încrucișate, martor temător și neputincios la propria mea cădere. Tocmai de aceea, într-una din aceste zile, va trebui să mă scutur, să mă trezesc și, în cele din urmă, să nu vă mai scriu, să nu vă mai gândiți la voi, să-mi ucid amintirile și să îngrop profund iubirea și astfel să devin unul dintre evenimentele neimportante – de care nu aș fi exclus să mă rușinez într-o zi – și nu limita devenirii mele, așa cum, de fapt, chiar este…”

U a fost foarte persistent de-a lungul mai multor ani. Reușea să știe unde sunt și ce făceam, avea peste tot o cunoștință care se interesa “dezinteresat” de mine și care îi dădea detalii. M-a ajutat, fără ca eu să-i cer, fără să știe că vine de la el. Am aflat mai târziu și a fost mai bine, pentru că dacă aș fi știut, l-aș fi refuzat categoric. Și el, cumva, a simțit-o. Din umbră, a reușit să taie prematur speranțele unei posibile aventuri interesante. Și, ceea ce vedeți, nimic nu putea fi început cu omul său de încredere, el a condus șapte țări și șapte mări doar pentru a “avea grijă” de mine, ca și cum aș fi fost un copil neajutorat. De fapt, el era copilul neajutorat, speriat că aș putea uita că există. Așa că, discret, a încercat să-mi păstreze memoria trează cât de bine știa el.

Mai târziu, și-a lăsat discreția în urmă și el însuși a venit după mine. Un alt cățeluș latră trist între fustele mele. Începea să devină enervant, deși nu o făcea ostentativ. Nu puteam să-l acuz de agresiune, dar nici nu-l puteam tolera să-și scoată mereu coada. Dacă nu ar fi fost atât de disperat să dispar, probabil că nu aș fi dispărut, așa cum se temea el, așa cum am făcut-o eu. Cert este că U a reușit să omoare exact ceea ce voia să păstreze în viață, printr-o respirație artificială dăunătoare. Nu i s-a întâmplat nimic, nu s-a putut întâmpla nimic, a stat pe situație până când a sufocat-o. Apoi. La plecare, l-am îmbrățișat bărbătește și i-am spus că preocuparea lui pentru viața mea a luat sfârșit. Deși nu a înțeles imediat și a continuat, timid, să apară “accidental” când nu mă așteptam, a renunțat în cele din urmă.

Prea multă iubire ucide dragostea.

Obișnuiam să cred că fericirea are un termen de valabilitate foarte scurt. Că odată ce ai prins-o, trebuie să-ți ții brațele și sufletul deschise… deși asta nu a salvat-o niciodată de la o moarte timpurie. Mi-a dat doar, momentan, ocazia să respir din toate părțile. Îl sorb cu lăcomie, realizându-l și aruncându-l astfel în eternitate, unde mă pot întoarce oricând să mă bucur de el. “Acolo”, pentru că aici, între timp, va fi trecut deja.

Am crezut că fericirea a scăzut doar la persoana întâi plural. O declinație destul de rară, dacă e să fim dureros de sinceri… Dar, în cele din urmă, nici nu contează pentru că însăși premisele de la care pornesc sunt total eronate. Cu alte cuvinte, din cauza unei greșeli mi-am programat existența. Era normal să ratezi, nu? De aceea, fericirea mea durează doar o clipă…

Fericirea tangibilă, reală, concretă contează de la una, nu de la două. Începe cu urmele adesea abandonate tocmai în căutarea sa arzătoare, afară. în căutarea a ceea ce toată lumea înțelege și crede că înseamnă. Cu forme diferite, cu vise, speranțe, așteptări și iluzii diferite, dar, în esență, același orgasm continuu al sufletului în imponderabilitate.

Nu este ușor, dar este o slujbă pentru care merită să trăiești și să lupți cu toți idioții din jur. Căutarea fericirii personale este poate singurul sens pe care l-aș putea da vieții. Scrisoare de la N

“Suntem ca două mâini care și-au căutat toată viața să-și unească degetele, cast… Suntem ca două mâini a căror singură rațiune de a exista? este confortul… Suntem ca două mâini care aparțin unor oameni născuți în dimensiuni paralele… Suntem ca două mâini care se vor usca de ani și dorințe fără să-și fi împlinit destinul… Suntem…”

Am cunoscut multe iubiri și totuși? și numeroșii mei bărbați, dar și câteva declarații de dragoste greu de înțeles. Neașteptat și… Neintenţionate. Evenimente răsucite și interesante care s-au dovedit a fi unul dintre cele care, după ce trageți o linie și ștergeți totul, rămân. Puncte de sprijin ale istoriei sentimentale personale.

Nu mi-a cerut nimic într-o zi. Ceva ce nu știam cum să refuz sau să ofer. Prea tânăr, prea naiv, prea prost. M-a rugat să-l las să-mi atingă sexul cu batista. Batista pe care, după ce i-a adus-o la nas și a inhalat-o adânc, mi-a promis că o va păstra mereu așa pentru a se simți aproape intimă chiar și atunci când nu sunt în preajma lui. Îmi amintesc scena atât de clar, ca și cum s-ar fi întâmplat ieri. Niciun om nu a mai făcut vreodată un gest similar. Niciunul dintre jocurile sexuale care au urmat – și au existat unele extrem de fierbinți – nu se poate compara cu acel moment luat dintr-o fantezie pervertită și vinovată.

Am lăsat sentimentalismele în urmă cu mult timp, iubirile tăiate cu lama pe venă, dar toate acestea fac parte dintr-un trecut care îmi aparține la fel de mult cum îmi aparțin mie însumi.

Îmi aprind o țigară. Primul fum are întotdeauna un gust deosebit. Adânc, pur, îl inspir până la granița dintre extaz și nebunie, fără milă. Așa trăiesc eu, fără milă pentru consumabile. Corpul în sine face parte din categoria consumabilelor. Așa că am decis să-l consum cu pasiune și plăcere. Conștient de fiecare mișcare, gest, decizie, alegere. Pentru că asta vreau.

Mai știi câte ispite și ispite ți-au ieșit în cale? Sau, mai degrabă, care și-au croit drum prin carnea ta? Ai știut cum să le răspunzi în afară de refuzul categoric, chinuit de regrete, sau capitularea inconștientă, dublată de o “vină” pe care ulterior o lași să te sufoce câte puțin în fiecare zi?

Scrisoare către N. “Sufletul mort este mai greu decât trupul mort. sufletul meu este mort Și trebuie să-l port cu mine, peste tot, în fiecare moment. Te-am întrebat de atâtea ori și nu mi-ai răspuns, așa că te întreb pentru ultima dată…

Cu ce sunt distanțele care separă doi iubiți traversați după ce timpul a trecut între ei, împingându-i cu pricepere pe drumuri paralele? Care sunt lacrimile vărsate în secret, după ce ochii au uitat să se privească, mâinile să se îmbrățișeze și inimile să se caute unul pe celălalt?

Cât de grea atârnă tăcerea când cuvintele de dragoste sunt terminate? Și ce să facem cu spațiile dintre suflete? Cu ce să le umpleți? Cu iluzii, amintiri sau iluzii?

Dar ce să faci cu tonul sărit o notă suplimentară sau cu claritatea aspectului? Cu rictusul unui zâmbet mort de mult și mârâitul enervant care va fi luat locul mângâierilor?

Ce să faci cu construcțiile vocalice și consoane pe care nu ți-ai imaginat niciodată că vor pluti în jurul tău? Că te vor însoți, redefinindu-ți ființa, de la fosta iubită la actualul nedorit?

Cum să accepți că trăiești în reluări eșuate, ratând în mod constant momentul cheie? Că ai renunțat la cine ai fost, în favoarea a ceea ce ai fi putut deveni, dar pe parcurs, te-ai pierdut cu… necunoscut? Cum să accepți că vocabularul “noi” nu mai există?

Cum să continui să urci în genunchi, sprijinindu-te pe coate, un drum care nu-ți mai aparține și de la care nu știi cum să te abați? Cum să te împaci cu un sine muribund, pe care îl apeși, prefăcându-te că privești în altă parte, perna peste fața ta?

Și când vei înceta să-ți țeși firul cernut de durerile lungi de astăzi? Unde să te ascunzi de precizia distructivă a dorului? Cui ar trebui să-ți vinzi singurătatea, deja veche și uzată de atâta folos?

Cu ce, când, cum, unde… întrebări pe care aș vrea să le strivesc doar pentru ca, după o pauză de catalepsie, să le reiau cu lăcomie … Întrebări care autopsează adevărul… Întrebările inutile pe care inerția nu le pune nu vor servi niciodată ca răspuns…

Întrebări care, dacă nu ar fi existat, ar fi redus umila noastră dramă la o comedie… într-un act. Pe care, oricum, nu aș fi putut să o semnez…”

P. Potrivit lui, proaspăt separat. De fapt, niciodată separat. Aveam să aflu mai târziu. Nu este o scuză. Este o realitate. P este un artist. Alunecă ușor între spațiul îngust dintre lumi, conectându-le cu fire invizibile. Arta lui este înțeleasă de puțini și nu este înțeleasă de nimeni. L-am înțeles.

Pentru o vreme, le-am pus la culcare în timpul meu. Pentru o vreme, am mers pe aceleași drumuri. Când un bărbat are mai mult decât suficient pentru a împărtăși cu tine, el îți poate menține interesul. Cel puțin pentru o vreme. Aparițiile au jucat în favoarea lui P. Victima perfectă, suferindul prin excelență, artistul chinuit de propria artă. Cel ales.

L-am înțeles. A fost insinuat între picioarele mele într-o zi obișnuită. Sau poate a fost ceva special în legătură cu asta pe care nu l-am observat imediat.

Eram la deschiderea ultimei sale expoziții și bâjbâielile noastre se extindeau în mângâieri mai lungi și mai intime, ca niște promisiuni lipicioase și elastice care ne anihilau involuntar dorințele. Nici măcar nu știu dacă P este un bărbat frumos. Sau atractiv. Sau cel puțin interesant. Nu ştiu. P este partea lipsă a întregului.

Complementul perfect. Finalul. Perfecțiune. Pentru acel cadou, desigur.

Ne-am ciocnit unul de altul pe holul care ducea la toaleta comună. Artiștii au propriul lor mod de a vedea și de a organiza lumea. Sala de expoziții a fost lăsată în urmă, cu un etaj mai sus. Nu ne-am ciocnit întâmplător, el m-a urmărit toată seara și când și-a dat seama că plec, m-a urmat. Poate că l-am văzut și poate că m-am prefăcut că nu-l văd.

M-a luat brusc de mână și m-a tras spre o ușă de a cărei existență nu-mi păsase până atunci. Un atelier. Pânze, vopsele, dezordine. Picturile au început, au fost abandonate, terminate, aruncate. Combustie. Miros înțepător, atrăgător. Mâna lui fermă îmi frământă degetele. Într-un colț, pernele canapelei, un colț improvizat, probabil un model nud avea să impresioneze aparatul de fotografiat și pictorii cu curbele sale indecente, incandescente, senzuale, obsesive. Acel nud urma să fiu eu. Mi-a cerut să mă dezbrac. Am executat ordinul ca ultimul lucru pe care l-aș fi putut refuza acestei lumi. A luat o pânză la întâmplare, pe jumătate terminată, a acoperit-o cu vopsea și m-a rugat să fiu așa cum mă simt. Și simțeam că mă deschid, că mă întind și acopăr universul, că umbra sânilor mei salvează sufletele damnaților, că picioarele mele se încolăceau pe trunchiuri puternice, că burta îmi zvâcnea într-un ritm necunoscut, lacom să înghită bărbăția ființei din fața mea.

În timp ce mă picta, nu puteam sta nemișcată. Privirile lui m-au emoționat, așa că mâinile mele au început involuntar în explorări intime pe care de multe ori le-am încheiat cu regrete, gândindu-mă că nu aș vrea ca viitorul să mă descopere descifrat. Dar așteptarea s-a prelungit pe nedrept, omul din fața mea sublimase în inspirație, iar mișcările lui precise, ondulate, frecându-mi insistent contururile transpuse pe pânză, nu aveau nimic de-a face cu realitatea mea carnală, fierbinte și nerăbdătoare. Nu am vocație ca model, iar timpul în care jocul a urmat regulile lui P trecuse deja. Am sărit în picioare și, înainte ca el să poată spune ceva, orice, l-am adus înapoi în prezent pe omul care mă făcuse să mă dezbrac, împingându-mă cu lăcomie în el, trezit brusc la o realitate fermă, plină de poftă, carnală, pervers de dulce.

P mi-ar spune că a fost cea mai bună felație din viața lui. Dar asta nu l-a împiedicat să continue să picteze, cu smucituri violente, linii întrerupte și lovituri excesiv de groase, în timp ce gura mea îl hrănea cu lăcomie cu energie.

Mi-a făcut cadou pictura. Încă atârnă și astăzi în dormitor, deasupra patului, amintindu-mi că trebuie să fiu întotdeauna mai mult decât par.

Relația noastră a continuat furtunos, cu sex prelungit, întrerupt doar de inspirația perversă care l-a luat din mâinile mele pentru a mă înlocui cu pensula. După ce ne-am despărțit, a distrus restul picturilor pe care le-a făcut pentru mine. Pânzele au servit ca fundal negru pentru o dezlănțuire demonică ulterioară.

A trebuit să o fac. Soția lui înstrăinată (dar nu chiar) s-a apropiat de mine pe stradă, urmărindu-mă după ce am părăsit atelierul său. Nu am fost nici prima, nici ultima femeie care a intrat în pantalonii lui, dar se pare că am fost prima care a intrat în picturile lui, iar acesta a fost un semn suficient de alarmant pentru ca această femeie să-mi blocheze calea. Nu știam cine este, dar înainte să deschidă gura, am înțeles. Decizia ei de a mă aborda așa m-a făcut brusc să mă simt copleșită de întreaga poveste. Ieșirea mea din scenă a avut loc odată cu intrarea ei. I-am făcut semn să tacă – ar fi fost degradant pentru noi, ca femei, să spunem ceva, orice, despre faptul că împărțim, pe nedrept și după cum știm mai bine, același penis. Și aceeași muză. Tocmai i-am spus asta. “Am plecat” și a lăsat-o să-și verse cuvintele nerostite oriunde altundeva. Probabil că a făcut-o în urechile lui P, epuizată de prea mult sex clandestin și creație.

Nu i-am mai răspuns niciodată la telefon, nu i-am dat niciodată “dreptul” să dea sau să primească o explicație, dar apariția soției mele imediat după ce am plecat trebuie să-i fi dat motivațiile dispariției mele fără cuvinte. Mai târziu am aflat că ea a continuat să facă acest lucru. , “proaspăt separat”, niciodată separat, dar deja nu mai eram interesat. Povestea noastră s-a rostogolit în tabloul de acasă și a înghețat acolo, ca o altă operă de artă, suprapusă peste pictura însăși. Fără umbre sau nostalgie.

Scrisoare de la N

“Stăm față în față. Încă nu am avut curajul să o privesc în ochi. Ceilalți ar spune că nu am motive. Că nu există niciodată suficiente motive pentru asta. Și totuși, de mai multe ori, m-am apropiat de margine, uneori periculos de aproape, pe punctul de a-mi pierde echilibrul. De fiecare dată, la recapitularea mentală, argumentul părea, în acel moment, justificat. Dar nici măcar acest lucru nu poate constitui un motiv sau o scuză. Până atunci, nici nu intenționez să-mi cer scuze. Practic, a fost doar o bâlbâială unidirecțională, un joc amar cu focul care, deși știu cât de fierbinte poate arde, continuă să mă tenteze cu pâlpâirea lui sclipitoare. Un plan dincolo de planul “z” care ar asigura, în orice situație, o cale de ieșire, nu o soluție. Nu onorabil, dar, privit din anumite unghiuri, convenabil. O scurtătură, mai degrabă.

Nu mă judeca, iubirea mea. Ispitele mele sunt cele pe care le cunoașteți, frivole, superficiale, dar sunt și ascunse, tanice, parsimonioase. Dar pot să vă spun că… Suntem față în față chiar și astăzi. Îmi face cu ochiul, iar dulceața ei (iluzorie, desigur), atât de aproape de somn și vise, îmi este oferită întreagă.

Odihnește-te în pace, draga mea.

Nici acum nu voi avea curajul să privesc în sus. Probabil niciodată. Dar apropierea ei este ca un drog. Trebuie să știu că într-un fel – probabil că nu șoptește niciodată vocea rațiunii încă prezentă – este acolo, gata să mă îmbrățișeze. Nu mă condamnați, nici eu cu cei care tânjesc după ea, nici cu cei care au avut curajul (lașitatea?) să o urmeze, nici cu cei care se cred superiori. Deasupra. Ca și cum ar păși pe un pod suspendat, solid, dar legat la capete cu… fir. Și ei, deși știu asta, se prefac că uită. Sau poate chiar au uitat. După cum am spus, nu le judec, așa că nici nu le pot considera mai bune. Pentru că nu sunt și nici nu mă consider a fi.

Dar să știți că lupt pentru ziua în care, chiar și în fața mea, nu mai simt nevoia să o salut, nu-i mai simt senzualitatea absurdă. Aceasta va fi probabil prima zi din viața mea care va fi urmată de zilele din viața noastră. Crezi în mine, nu-i așa?”

T. Prezentul. O poveste despre acum. Se întâmplă în timp ce scriu. Liniștit. Cel dinaintea furtunii, poate. încă nu știu. Și nici nu vreau să știu. Nu am abilități de clarvăzător și nici nu sunt interesat să încalc intimitatea viitorului încă nescris.

T nu mă cunoaște. Mă consideră un mister înfășurat în altul și așa mai departe, la nesfârșit, ca o păpușă matrioșka veșnic plictisitoare. Și asta îi place la mine. Nu deschide cutia Pandorei, dragă. Dar T nu este un laș și îmi place asta la el.

Logica feminină are propria sa logică. Punct. Nu mai există adjective insensibile sau deplasate, iar oamenii ar trebui să se abțină de la judecată, doar pentru a se scuti de rușinea de a fi luați în râs. Așa că nu înțeleg niciodată esențialul, așa că bâjbâie cu el, având senzația că este atât o busolă, cât și un far în noaptea feminității noastre.

Când l-am întâlnit pe T, nu am fost impresionat. Nici prea mult, nici foarte mult. Dar a avut curaj și asta mi-a atras atenția suficient pentru a accepta propunerea lui neoriginală. Cafea. în oraș, nu la el, pentru că, așa cum spuneam, nu mă impresionase prea mult. Am stabilit locul și timpul, iar în privirea lui superficială, pe care mi-a dat-o în loc să-mi iau rămas bun, am simțit o ironie vagă. Dar mi-am dat seama repede că făcea parte din strategia lui. Te vreau, dar nu te vreau. Perfect. Ceea ce nu știe este că femeile duc războaie mult mai complicate decât cele de pe câmpurile de luptă aproape exclusiv masculine.

Deci, T nu venea la o întâlnire, ci la prima bătălie a unui război în care niciuna dintre părți nu părea clară pentru a ști ce vor. Sau cel puțin așa m-am amăgit înainte de a ieși din casă. Ce naiba, îmi tremura vocea…

Cafeaua era amară, la fel și T. El detectase interesul meu indecis. Mi s-a părut că a ezitat și asta m-a excitat… Da, o nouă tactică. Dar ne-am despărțit fără să-i dăm sentimentul că aș vrea să-l văd din nou în curând. Și mi-a urmat “regulile”, așa că timp de o lună s-a prefăcut că mă “uită”. Era ca și cum mi-aș fi retrăit anii de liceu, deși tocmai din cauza asta nu aveam nici timpul, nici disponibilitatea. Mai ales că acel ușor tremur nu dispăruse. Și îngrijorător.

În cele din urmă, m-a căutat din nou. Aveam și telefonul lui, dar nu era în planurile mele să-l sun. Cu toate acestea, el a venit să-i răspundă. Cu intenții precise, pentru a putea merge mai departe.

Dar când l-am văzut din nou, m-am răzgândit. Nu arăta suficient de bine doar pentru o aventură. Dar începusem să-mi placă prea mult să-l ascult. Să mă las ținută de umeri și să-l țin aproape de mine, în timp ce lumea din jurul meu tremura sau trăia propriile drame. Ce-mi păsa de ei? Dar T mi-a anticipat sentimentele. Deodată, s-a răcit. Ne-am angajat într-un dans ciudat în care fiecare pas înainte al unuia dintre noi a fost urmat de un pas înapoi al partenerului nostru. Și așa mai departe. Cum spuneam, ca în tinerețe. Și nu-mi place deja-vu. Nu văd rostul de a dona experiențele deja trăite. E ca și cum aș fi înghețat în loc, singur, prizonier al propriilor mele himere moarte, în timp ce lumea sprintează.

M-am enervat și, la a patra întâlnire (la naiba, mi-am amintit câți au fost), l-am lăsat singur în restaurant, prefăcându-mă că merg la toaletă. Nici măcar nu m-am deranjat să vin cu ceva mai plauzibil. Nu merită. Merge!

Și s-a dus. încă o săptămână. După care ne-am întâlnit “întâmplător” și nu știu care dintre noi a fost cel nevinovat. M-am prefăcut că nu-l văd. A rezistat o vreme, apoi s-a hotărât, căci a venit direct spre mine, cu un pas hotărât, m-a luat de braț și m-a tras în sus din mulțime. M-am ridicat în fața lui și m-am uitat în ochii mei, confuzând liniile din mintea mea. I-am răspuns batjocoritor privirii. De aceea capitularea lui m-a zguduit:

– Dacă nu facem sex curând, mă îndrăgostesc de tine! Ha, nu știam dacă să mă enervez pentru brutalitatea cu care dorința a scăpat de sub control (sau poate din inimă?) sau să mă bucur pentru mica (și evidenta) mea victorie.

Am plecat și atunci, dar numai pentru că reușise să mă pună pe gânduri. Și nu mi-a păsat dacă m-a sunat sau dacă am făcut-o, până când mi-am curățat sufletul. Știam în ce nu vreau să intru, știam în ce nu vreau. dar nu eram foarte sigur de ce vreau. Și nu părea să mă ajute deloc. Mi-ar fi plăcut să-i pot spune toate acestea, măcar să ridic puțin vălul pe unul dintre mistere… dar nu a fost nevoie, pentru că, la câteva zile după incidentul de mai sus, i-am trimis mesajul pe care, mai mult ca sigur, îl aștepta. “Puteți veni. Fără întrebări.”

Așa a intrat T în viața mea. O aventură neobișnuită, o relație – oricât de mult urăsc ideea, dar este de fapt o relație – care evoluează într-o direcție necunoscută.

T știe cum să mă rețină. T mă trezește, dialogurile cu el sunt palpabile, au substanță și mă țin pe loc ca o ancoră suficient de puternică pentru a nu permite unei nave să cedeze seducției valurilor. T știe cum să excite o femeie folosind doar cuvinte, priviri, gesturi aparent inocente, intenții pe jumătate dezvăluite și pe jumătate făcute. T te atrage, te respinge și apoi te atrage din nou, chiar dacă vede că acest lucru nu are niciun efect. Dar nu se poate abține. Și asta îi completează carisma. T este printre puținii care au reușit vreodată să zguduie fundația construcției mele și pentru asta primește o porție dublă de atenție. T știe cum să privească o femeie. Când să o țină de mână, când să o mângâie și când să-i aducă flori. El este, de cele mai multe ori, cu jumătate de pas înainte și acest lucru se simte în detalii. Cele care fac bătaia. Cele care definesc întregul. Sare și piper.

Scrisoare către N.

“Eram tineri. Dumnezeu, atât de tânăr, încât amintirile mele sunt amestecate cu vise și romantizează poetic trecutul meu. Cu toate acestea, povestea noastră a scăpat cumva de roțile neiertătoare ale anilor. De aceea am reușit să păstrez atât momentele frumoase, cât și pe cele otrăvitoare. Intact. Par să fi călătorit în timp, proaspăt culese din pomul realității chiar acum, în secunda în care vi le spun…

Îți amintești?, ne certam. Aproape doi ani au fost dificili, dureroși, între noi. Le-am purtat ca pe cea mai grea povară a vieții mele… Știu, v-am spus de prea multe ori, vă spun acum încă o dată, ca și cum ar fi primul…

Ajunsesem să invidiez chiar și pământul pe care pășeai, doar că era mai aproape de tine decât de mine. Te urmăream mereu de la distanță, luptându-mă cum să reînnoiesc, după atâta timp, măcar firul unei – să-i spunem – prietenii, care mi-ar fi oferit momente neutre lângă tine. Doar vorbește cu mine din nou, doar uită-te la mine din nou. Chiar dacă nu ai fi singur, chiar dacă una dintre multele femei care ți-au trecut prin mână și prin…

M-am simțit ca un dependent în sevraj, așa că nimic nu ar fi contat în cele din urmă … A trebuit să-mi iau doza de medicament, a trebuit să te simt și să respir din nou.

Cum am stârnit – steril, știam – toate aceste gânduri! Și totuși, în acea seară, nu am premeditat gestul, ci văzându-te singur, brusc, animat de un curaj care îmi lichefiase sufletul și îl împinsese nebunește prin capilarele mele prea înguste, m-am apropiat… Pașii mei – s-au purtat natural spre tine, totul mi s-a părut atât de simplu… ca parte a unui plan bun, generos, pe care universul, la urma urmei, a binevoit să mi-l ofere în dar.

M-ai văzut, mi-ai zâmbit. Mă întrebam, uitându-mă la tine, cum am supraviețuit acelor doi ani. Cum nu muream în fiecare noapte când adormeam în lacrimi, epuizată de dorul tău… Dar apoi vocea mea nu a tremurat și inima mea nu a bătut strâmb. la urma urmei, am fost în sfârșit în locul meu …

Vă amintiți discursul stupid? Cele câteva cuvinte schimbate pe un ton de ironie crudă – din partea ta – și umilință nealterată – din partea unui eu prea tânăr? Îți amintești când mi-ai spus calm, ca într-un film stupid cu final fericit siropos, că te așteptai… prietenă??

Răspunsul tău m-a lovit cu o violență neașteptat de mare, peste față. Am simțit, imperios, nevoia să mă prăbușesc acolo, iar pământul să tacă și să mă primească cu îngăduință. Simțeam că leșin pe dinăuntru, dar tinerețea mea mă ținea rigidă, în picioare.

Îți amintești că, în timp ce mă căutam în universul spulberat de cuvintele tale, spunându-ți frânt că trebuie să plec, ai avut cruzimea să mă întrebi clar și calm dacă nu aș rămâne “între timp”?

“între timp”, N, între timp mi s-a cerut să se consume iubirea, după doi ani de dor și tortură? Doi ani în care nu am trăit? Doi ani pe care nici astăzi nu-i pot număra când spun câți ani am?

Îți mai amintești, N, cât de dor mi-a fost de tine chiar și atunci când, nu la mult timp după acest episod rușinos despre care până acum nici nu puteam vorbi cu tine, soarta a avut răbdare să mă aducă înapoi în brațele tale? Și ai râs, neînțelegând cum s-a putut întâmpla așa ceva?

N, sper – pentru lumina sufletului tău – că până astăzi una dintre femeile tale te-a făcut să înțelegi…” Astăzi am aruncat toate scrisorile de la N și am început să le uit pe cele pe care i le-am trimis vreodată.

N, blestem și binecuvântare. Cea mai profundă greșeală din viața mea, cea mai importantă lecție. Stăpân și violator de spirite. Datorită lui N, eu sunt cine sunt astăzi. Datorită lui N simt cine simt astăzi. Alfa și omega iubirilor mele, este timpul nu numai să te dau jos de pe piedestal, ci să te dau jos de pe piedestal cu totul … Este timpul să ne luăm rămas bun în cele din urmă. E timpul să te exorcizez, demon turbat, înger căzut, miracol întrupat. Călăul meu, sufletul meu pereche. Tu, cel dinaintea cinismului, tu, sursa cinismului în ființa mea. M-ai cunoscut slab și nevinovat și m-ai mânjit cu semnele tale infectate, m-ai cunoscut bun, blând, încrezător și mi-ai amputat aripile de viu, fără anestezie. Tu, om cu două fețe, m-ai hrănit cu iluzii, ridicându-mă printre nori pentru a-mi da apoi pâine, însetat. Mi-ai urmat traiectoria înnebunită cu zâmbetul pe buze și ai savurat, până în măduva oaselor, descompunerea pe care mi-a provocat-o impactul cu solul.

Fiara ta m-a distrus. Eram orb și surd, eram surd și mut, eram mut și înstrăinat, am vizitat iadul și nici astăzi nu știu cum am reușit să nu rămân acolo, așteptându-vă. M-ai descompus complet și ai sfărâmat fiecare bucată din mine, lăsându-mă împrăștiată, pentru a mă aduna, pentru a mă pune la loc dacă și cum știu cum. Și nu am știut mult timp. Am alergat după tine, flămând, însetat, zdrobit, desculț, te-am implorat în genunchi să mă primești înapoi, să mă lași să dorm la picioarele tale, ca un câine. M-ai lovit cu piciorul și m-am întors docil, pocăindu-mă pentru vina de a fi respirat nebunește în jurul tău. M-ai alungat și nu am plecat, m-ai torturat și ți-am mulțumit. M-ai amenințat și am rămas.

Și te-am iubit. De fiecare dată, ca și cum ar fi prima și ultima dată.

Până când dragostea ta a ajuns la osul meu, ea a forat în mine, mergând dincolo de ea și continuând să facă ravagii în carnea mea. Structura mea internă a rămas suspendată de o rețea de nervi isterici, sensibili doar la atingerea ta. Ce ai făcut cu mine Ce ai făcut din mine?

Suferi astăzi? Ești un om distrus astăzi? Mă cauți astăzi, rătăcind prin întunericul minții tale? N, spune, regreți astăzi? N, spune, astăzi ești complet, presupunând dragostea și ura pe care le-am experimentat? Spune, N, suferi? Aș vrea să vă pot spune că îmi pare rău, dar tot ce pot spune este… Ai murit astăzi, N.

***

Aceasta a fost cealaltă viață a mea. Cel care, desigur, a ars. Nu simt nicio pasăre Phoenix, dar din moloz, sânge și cenușă, orice ființă umană poate renaște. Nu sunt renăscut. Am creat o altă femeie. Una care își poartă cicatricile la vedere pentru că datorită lor (da, din cauza!) este cine este astăzi. Unul pentru care viața a fost domesticită în mod curios pentru o lungă perioadă de timp și pentru care tot ce rămâne este să întindă mâna și să ia. Nu a mai rămas nimic din cea care a trăit o parte din viața ei în fierbere și flăcări. Îmi place să cred că acea femeie a ars așa.

Nu sunt ea. Nu mai sunt ea .

Totul este volatil pentru că totul se schimbă constant. Chiar dacă nu o vedem, schimbarea își arată colții exact atunci când ai cea mai mare nevoie de stabilitate. Ceea ce ne imaginăm este stabil, fix, un punct de referință, este doar o stare prin care trece ceva. Una dintre poziții. În orice secundă, se poate schimba. În orice secundă, se va schimba și, odată cu aceasta, stabilitatea noastră a fost spulberată. Sentimentul nostru de stabilitate, mai bine spus.

Totul este volatil. Uneori incluzând ceea ce cred astăzi, alteori incluzând cine sunt astăzi. Feriți-vă de femeia care v-a iertat de prea multe ori!

Nu trebuie să vă fie rușine de gândurile, fanteziile și visele voastre. Un vis erotic împlinește o dorință ascunsă, reprimată, chinuită într-o realitate virtuală proprie. În plus, o îndeplinește în cel mai complet secret!

Acel sărut… I-am prins buza superioară între buze și i-am supt sălbatic limba, incapabilă să mă opresc. Brațele lui mă împleteau din ce în ce mai mult, păreau să se răsucească la nesfârșit în jurul corpului meu rupt de dorință. Îl sărutam cu patos. Imaginea născută din tulburările imaginației mele reușise să pară clară, completă. Ochii, părul, buzele, totul era senzual, prea senzual. Totul părea real, prea real…

L-am sărutat din timp. Și chiar dacă nu am făcut sex, a fost cel mai erotic vis pe care l-am avut vreodată…

Îmi amintesc des, pentru că nu vreau să-l pierd. Nu-i caut simbolismul, nu vreau să-l “înțeleg” în niciun fel. Vreau doar să o retrăiesc din nou și din nou, cu aceeași intensitate de a simți primul moment. Vreau să-i simt buzele de aer și să visez ca și cum s-ar lipi de ale mele. Vreau să transfer o imagine creată în creierul meu într-o realitate în care simțurile mele cred. Trăiește-l, validează-l, bea din el, epuizează-i esența inepuizabilă.

Cel din visul meu nu era T. Și nici măcar N. Și niciunul dintre ceilalți bărbați care au defilat prin viața mea ca un podium al bărbăției. Da, de virilitate, de masculinitate, în niciun caz de afectivitate. Cea din visul meu era o plăsmuire de dor. Periculos dincolo de vis, dar hrănitor în interior. Cu cât evit să alunec înapoi pe panta înșelătoare a ardorii scăpate de sub control, cu atât mai dulce mi se pare acest abandon căruia mă predau din toată inima în singura lume sigură pe care o cunosc. Cel din mintea mea. Cel din visul meu. Vi se pare greșit? Nu, nu a fost nici măcar un vis lucid în care am devenit, pentru câteva secunde, un demiurg conștient. Nu, a fost un vis de care, datorită inocenței sale, m-am putut bucura ca de o bucată de realitate. Veridică. Solid. Puternic. Sărutul pe care mi l-am dorit pentru totdeauna. Sărutul pe care încă îl caut, încă tânjesc.

T mă sună și mă urmărește. Și eu sunt agățat opreşte Nu vreau să te iubesc!

Nici eu nu o voi face. dar nu pot să nu văd că ceva este țesut dincolo de voința mea. Astăzi l-am asemănat pentru o nanosecundă cu cel din vis. Cât de îngrijorător poate fi acest lucru? Cât de promițător poate fi acest lucru?

T mă conduce de mână prin grădina botanică. E primăvară și copacii dorm indiferenți la T sărutându-mă sub crengile lor. Nu vedem nimic. Nu este nimic de văzut și, dacă ar exista, tot nu am vedea. Lanțul nostru transcende decorul. Lumea rămâne fundalul poveștii noastre. T a reușit să-l omoare pe N pentru totdeauna. Nu mai sunt naivă ca înainte să înlocuiesc o durere cu alta, o iubire cu alta, dar nu sunt atât de ipocrită cu mine încât să nu recunosc că mă va zdruncina profund, tocmai când eram sigură că așa ceva nu se va mai întâmpla niciodată. Dar o va face cu consimțământul meu conștient și aceasta va atenua tumultul care, oricare ar fi cauzele, va veni cu siguranță.

Din N încolo, am evitat să iubesc din nou. Tot spun că nu o voi mai face, dar… De fapt, planurile noastre nu sunt altceva decât frunze uscate purtate și coapte de destin. Dar ne simțim bine să le facem. Creăm sentimentul de siguranță și stabilitate. Planul meu cu T este să alerg fără să mă uit înapoi. Alegerea mea despre T este să-l sărut fără timp, mușcându-i sălbatic buza superioară și sugându-i limba, ca o pecete a unei fuziuni pe care nici cea mai intensă noapte de iubire nu o poate face.

Când prefer să te sărut decât să fac sex, să știi că mă îndrăgostesc de tine!

Înainte, nu o dată, am vrut să renunț. Cum am ajuns aici, nu știu. Poate că am luptat, poate că mi-am dorit, poate că am meritat. O decizie de acest fel ar fi una pripită și complet ignorantă, dar asta nu o face mai puțin tentantă!

Am cunoscut ademenirea nimicului, ca mulți dintre oamenii din jurul nostru. Dar nu avem de unde să știm asta, pentru că aceste lucruri sunt tăcute, îngropate adânc în pământ și acoperite cu zâmbete forțate. Ele sunt ascunse, ca și cum ar fi cea mai mare rușine, vina primordială, păcatul de neiertat. Și există voci care spun că, într-adevăr, este așa… Dar cât de mult se înșeală. Suferim cronic de atracția nimicului, iar în momentele mele de criză – nu puține – am îndrăznit și eu să vreau. Să vrei și să nu poți. Și asta nu mă face mai bun decât N sau zecile de mii de oameni care, la rândul lor, vor și nu pot. Sau decât cei care au vrut și au putut…

Neputința m-a salvat de un gest steril. M-am construit din eșecuri, vicii și durere.

Am descoperit esența și sensul devreme. I-am îmbrățișat fără ezitare. Nu aveam nimic de pierdut. Știam că iubirea este singurul adevăr, singura realitate care contează. În marea noastră de îndoieli, temeri, aroganță și nenumărate alte sentimente mici sau meschine, iubirea este singura certitudine. Și restul s-a decojit sub ochii mei ca vopseaua veche, inutilă, în spatele căreia cineva a ascuns comoara. Unic. Singurul. Știam asta atunci și eram gata să renunț la tot pentru iubire. Nimic altceva nu mai conta. Nu aveam nici o dorință de a trăi sau de a experimenta ceva în afara iubirii. Pentru că restul era blocaj, risipă, eșec. Dar… Dar viața nu mi-a permis să câștig fără să joc, fără să risc. Nu mi-a permis să-l dau șah mat la prima mișcare. Așa că a luat totul de la mine și m-a aruncat în lume. în acea lume inutilă de care nu aveam nevoie. M-am smuls din brațele lui N și m-am pierdut. Și m-am pierdut. Și am înfruntat totul, și m-am ridicat, și am căzut din nou, și m-am ridicat din nou, până când nu a mai fost posibil să cad.

Și astăzi, după tot ce am experimentat, după tot ce am simțit, după tot… Cea care se simte astăzi, coaptă, întreagă, diferită, dezbrăcată de inocență, ei bine, această femeie a ajuns la o singură concluzie. La încheierea fetiței ignorante de odinioară. Pentru că singurul adevăr, singura certitudine, singura realitate care contează este iubirea.

Acea iubire în care nu există mândrie, ci dăruire. Acea iubire în care cei care nu înțeleg acest lucru nu iubesc. Acea iubire de care fug legată la ochi. Acea iubire de care astăzi continui să fug, mergând pe loc, dar…

Oricât de josnic ar fi fost, trecutul ne aparține. Nu dispare, nu se dizolvă, nu se transformă, ci ne urmărește ca o umbră… O umbră pe care poți alege să calci zilnic sau cu a cărei prezență te poți lăuda la soare. Tu alegi.

Umbrele dau relief oricărei imagini. Alternanța lor cu hainele ușoare te dezbracă, îți creează măștile și, în același timp, le spulberă. Dar… Să fugi de femeia care are atât de multe măști încât nu știi niciodată care este adevărata ei față. Unul dintre ei vă va spune!

Cu T, însă, am renunțat (temporar, provizoriu?) la măști. Cumva, au căzut singuri, în zadar. T mă ține noaptea. T știe cum să-mi scrie numele când îl spune. T face ca lucrurile mici să pară importante. T mă trage înapoi la cine eram la începutul lumilor. Mă hrănește cu doze homeopate de inocență pierdută și poate de aceea au un efect atât de puternic. Nu pot face sex cu T. Cu el totul este învăluit în tandrețe, cu el se face și se desface iubirea din priviri, din atingeri, din suprapuneri. Am momente când, din nou, nu mă mai recunosc…

T îmi propune să ne mutăm împreună. Lovitura răsună violent, mă zguduie incontrolabil și mă lovește de pietrele prețioase ale realității, spulberându-mi credința nou-găsită. Dintr-o dată, se rostogolește în paradis … De când m-am transformat într-o femeie de Casă? Nu ți-am cerut niciodată să renunți * *

Nici tu, nu mă întreba! Și nici măcar nu-mi spune că ai fi dispus să o faci, pentru că nu mă interesează.

M-am trezit, pe neașteptate, din transă. Pe cine mai simt? O iubire care te chinuie, inconștient, blând, poate prea ușor să degenereze într-o iubire bolnavă, obsesivă. Transformările personalității și caracterului în dragoste sunt minunate, până când devin periculoase. Pentru că au cele mai mari șanse să devină așa. Nici măcar nu știu dacă îl iubesc pe T sau dacă mă învață cum să devin dependentă de el. T a început să joace murdar, deși oricine ar putea jura altfel. Oricine în afară de mine. Joacă subtil, neted, fin, rafinat, tentant și somnoros și tocmai din această cauză – grotesc.

Este ca și cum m-aș fi întins și acum sunt treaz, trezit dintr-un coșmar cu o înfățișare magică.

Îl refuz și dintr-o dată totul o ia razna. Ochii îi rătăcesc, mâinile îi tremură. El nu spune nimic, dar o lume se prăbușește între noi. Acea lume falsă pe care mi-a creat-o cu migală din aparențe perfecte. Da, am fost păcălit, chiar l-am primit în locul meu sfânt…

Și acum, când toată recuzita a ars și cărțile sunt expuse, mă surprinde și pe mine că… Nu sufăr! M-am dezbrăcat treptat, discret, dar cu adevărat, de prea multe văluri. T este exemplul unui om care, atunci când ajunge acolo unde nu a îndrăznit niciodată să viseze, se evaporă. Dispărea. Se contopește cu mirajul “victoriei” și tot ceea ce a fost vreodată devine fum…

T este o experiență unică. Mi se pare o expoziție exotică în panoplia vieții mele zbuciumate. Una pe care mă bazez cu un strop suplimentar de curiozitate în loc să o înfig în ace – ca majoritatea – și să-mi văd de viața mea. T a ocupat prea mult spațiu în fanteziile mele. Poate, inconștient, l-am crezut și am visat același vis ca el, dar gata!, farsa s-a terminat. Actorii sunt obosiți, spectatorii nu au aplaudat, nimeni nu cere bis, iar spectacolele de mâine și pentru totdeauna de acum încolo sunt anulate.

T nu-mi acceptă decizia. El nu înțelege. Ceea ce pentru el a fost pasul natural înainte, pentru mine este pasul natural înapoi. Nu-și dă seama nici acum că nu ne-am privit direct, ci prin prea multe oglinzi înșelătoare. Nu-și dă seama că nu este “vina” nimănui, că am tras un brownian lung și rapid pe ceea ce ne-a legat și – previzibil sau nu – ne-am rupt.

T nu-mi acceptă decizia. El nu înțelege.

Nici măcar nu i-am cerut asta. El vrea să lupte pentru “noi”. Nu mai suntem noi, dragă T. Așa cum mă așteptam, recurge la noi strategii. Cusături cu fir alb. Îmi trimite un mesager. Un intermediar care să “vorbească cu mine” și. .. să nu știu ce, de fapt. Cum poate el să creadă că o a treia persoană, un străin pentru noi și ceea ce s-a întâmplat între noi poate întoarce timpul, până în acel punct în care am putea alege o altă cale către o altă destinație? Și, presupunând în mod absurd că această persoană ar reuși într-un miracol, nu înțelege că indiferent pe ce drum am fi mers împreună, tot am fi ajuns aici, chiar dacă am fi făcut un ocol de ani și ani? Probabil că nu, pentru că altfel nu ar fi trimis-o pe Eva.

***

Ajun. Nerv. Piele netedă, ușor măslinie, ca pâinea coaptă. Invitație la mușcătură. Luate în afară, trăsăturile ei – anonime, indiferente. Împreună – o compoziție din care nu vă puteți lua ochii și intențiile. Armonie. Modul în care gura lui modelează cuvintele înainte de a le expulza este senzual. Nu știu dacă îi iubește sau îi devorează… Dacă te uiți la ea în timp ce vorbește, ești pierdut.

Eva este cu zece ani mai tânără decât mine, dar la fel de plină de viață. Nu-ți dai seama la prima vedere. Și nu multor altora mai târziu. Dar am simțit-o, am simțit-o. Și ea eu. Deci T nici măcar nu a fost adus în discuție. Amândoi știam de ce ne întâlnim, știam ce urma să-mi spună și ce urma să-i răspund. Deci, schimbul de cuvinte despre asta ar fi fost redundant. Ne-am fi pierdut timpul pe care l-am fi dedicat să ne privim, să ne examinăm, să ne admirăm, să ne adulmecăm. Nu pot spune că îmi plac femeile, nu m-au sunat niciodată cu socrii lor. Nu mă atrag secretele revelate, deși a merge mai adânc înseamnă a trece peste tentația necunoscutului, apariții cu potențial fantastic (în capul nostru, desigur), mistere și iluzii pe baza cărora construim așteptări care sunt în mare parte false, stupide…

Dar Eva nu este doar o femeie. Un suflet, parțial pierdut, ca al meu, suntem ca două fructe căzute din aceeași mlădiță și atingându-se în iarbă, în semn de reuniune completă și fără speranță și, în același timp, într-un rămas bun dureros, pentru că putrezirea lor a început deja. Eva m-a ținut de mână și m-a citit pe îndelete, cu răbdarea unei mame, curiozitatea unei virgine și interesul unei curtezane… Mâna ei moale, delicată, transparentă, mâna unei femei care își găsește cuibul în palma mea pentru prima dată. Atingerea castă în spatele căreia mă simt indecent începe să se strecoare. Eva nu-mi spune nimic despre ea sau viața ei și nici eu nu o fac. în schimb, îmi pot imagina, pot crea o viață pentru el în funcție de nevoia mea de a o potrivi cu ceea ce a trezit în mine.

Dialogul este slab, verbalizăm cu dificultate. Atâta timp cât decidem să ne întâlnim din nou. Dar nu știu în ce formulă. Ce suntem, la urma urmei, unul pentru celălalt? Doi străini care nu înțeleg mecanismul care îi împinge în capcana pe care celălalt o poartă în sine. Prea complicat. Propun să nu mergem. Dar nu o pot face.

Eva mă așteaptă la ea acasă. Locuiește într-o căsuță discretă, într-un cartier mărginit și liniștit. Un rai inocent de culori și sunete calme. Aici pare greu să te enervezi, aici pare imposibil să suferi. Zâmbetul Evei îmi confirmă prima impresie. Mă așteaptă într-o rochie scurtă, pe care o trage continuu. Mi-a prins scânteia în ochi și înțeleg că o citește ca pe un avans tipic masculin, așa că răspunde instinctiv. Pentru că Eva nu mai este fata timidă pentru care coapsele coapte expuse sunt un motiv de roșeață. Și totuși… Amândoi roșim. Îmi dau seama că este și o premieră pentru ea. Când crezi că le-ai văzut și experimentat pe toate, viața are încă rezerve, încă mai are ași în mânecă, mult mai mulți decât într-un joc corect, cu care să te abată de la traiectoria pe care ți-ai imaginat-o victorioasă.

Mă ia din nou de mână, îmi ia geanta și îmi face semn să-mi scot pantofii. Nu intri în niciun paradis, indiferent de natura lui, cu pantofii pe tine. Chiar dacă este vorba de sandale roșii cu călcâi amenințător de lung, subțire și ascuțit. Ca un pumnal predestinat să semneze deznodământul unei povești teribile de dragoste și gelozie.

Abordarea ei mă amețește. Fizic, real. Simt nevoia să mă întind, să mă odihnesc, să închid ochii, să realizez ce se întâmplă sau, dimpotrivă, să uit de lumea lăsată la ușa Evei.

Stăm pe canapeaua din camera de zi albă, simplă și luminoasă. Detaliile decorului îmi vin singure în minte. Și este curios, pentru că până acum eram foarte puțin interesată de locul în care mă aflam cu un bărbat. Acum, însă, acest loc, casa ei, face parte din ea, o extensie caldă a acestei ființe interesante. Nu o mai văd pe Eva ca pe o femeie. Văd o ființă a senzațiilor, sentimentelor, ondulațiilor și erotismului care reușește să mă atragă uimitor de repede în universul ei. Dacă mă confrunt cu bărbați chiar și atunci când picioarele mele se simt deschise la 180 de grade, pentru că emoțiile pe care le trezesc în mine mă copleșesc profund, dar efemer, pentru Eva sunt docilă, uimită, speriată, curioasă, emoționată și ușor tristă…

Eva aduce vin roșu, gros, bolnăvicios de dulce. El știe ce îmi place și nu sunt surprins și sunt sigur că nu este de la T. Bem, însetat. Am văzut clondirul prin conținutul său vâscos și viclean. Simțeam amândoi ce tranșee avea să sape vinul sub tâmplele noastre, sub sânii noștri și sub burțile noastre. Și muzica pe care am observat-o doar la un moment dat, și distanța tot mai mică dintre noi. Știu că vorbim, dar cu cuvinte străine, ale căror semnificații le pierd imediat ce le rostesc, astfel încât, de fapt, nici măcar nu au.

Mi-e teamă de ceea ce ar putea urma, dar nu am putere să rezist. Sunt emoționat, pentru că nu mi-am imaginat niciodată că voi fi în fața vreunei femei. Eva simte. Eva știe. Mă trage brusc spre ea și îmi dă să-i beau vinul. Din gura ei plină și sângeroasă de băutura blestemată care ne-a topit mințile și voințele, dezlănțuind demonii. Din gura ei, vinul este mult mai acid, mai rece, mai păcătos. Ca și cum mi-ar păsa de păcate.

Libertatea de a păcătui nu poate…

Ne sărutăm pasional. Totul este diferit. Cu ea, sunt virgin. Buzele ei sunt moi, par fără consistență, dar cu atât mai mult vreau să le prind, să le simt, să le sug mult timp. Îmbrățișarea este strânsă și patru sâni sunt presați unul împotriva celuilalt, prin țesăturile prea subțiri pentru graba noastră. Dar nu o pot mângâia, mă simt blocat în fuziunea fluidelor și mâinile mele nu mai știu ce să fac. Nici ea nu mă explorează, pentru că trupurile noastre nu urmează calea binecunoscută de a ne conecta cu un bărbat. Ne sărutăm până la punctul de delir și epuizare, apoi sorbim cu lăcomie și lene ultima picătură de vin. Sânii Evei – mici, incredibili – scapă prin decolteul larg al rochiei și se oferă privirii mele. Am mai văzut saree pentru femei, și nu mă refer la ale mele, dar nu au avut niciodată o încărcătură erotică pentru mine. Și acum, acești sâni de bebeluș – pentru că acum suntem amândoi copii răi, obraznici, indisciplinați și entuziasmați – țipă după mine să-i sărut. Și o fac, încet, extensiv, complet, pentru o lungă perioadă de timp, combinând senzațiile deja experimentate cu cele dorite.

Am mers prea departe… deși de mai multe ori gândul de a mă opri mă înjunghie brusc, să las această experiență aici, să nu duc nimic mai departe – și nu că aș regreta cumva, ci de teamă să nu descopăr cum mi-ar putea plăcea foarte mult și asta ar fi o slăbiciune care m-ar putea controla – nu-i dau nici cea mai mică importanță. Îl alung indiferent, așa cum aș face cu orice om neputincios, dar arogant, care mi-ar ieși în cale.

Am ajuns prea departe și nu mai există cale de întoarcere de aici. Sexul cu o femeie este infinit mai lin, mai sălbatic, mai indecent, mai pervertit. Ne inițiem reciproc în jocuri erotice inventate pe loc, pe care le gustăm fără rușine și aproape beat. Intimitatea cu o femeie este uneori senină, naturală, sigură, când este nebună,

Mult mai provocatoare și mai greu de abandonat. ***

Am rămas peste noapte la Eva. Am adormit târziu, aproape de zori, epuizați, extaziați, sătui de mărinimia erosului, chiar dacă nu a existat niciodată un moment între noi. Nici măcar plasticul… plastic. Ne trezim îmbrățișați, goi și uzi și facem dragoste din nou frenetic, fără a lăsa nicio parte a pielii nesărutată, nelinsă, neexplorată, neepuizată.

Nu ne gândim la nimic. După prânz, foamea ne obligă să devenim din nou ea și eu, pe verticală. Urăsc nevoia de a mânca. Aș putea trăi foarte bine numai cu iubire, dar corpul se revoltă și își cere drepturile.

Trăiesc cu sentimentul că o cunosc dintotdeauna, ca și cum ar fi făcut cândva, cu mult timp în urmă, parte din sufletul și carnea mea și cumva a fost amputată. Nu simt că mă îndrăgostesc, simt că mă regăsesc. Nu vorbim despre asta, dar nici ea nu poate simți altceva.

Mă uit la ea în lumina aspră a zilei. Este frumos. Am o revelație. Mă simt ca și cum aș privi-o cu ochii unui bărbat. O simt frumoasă și asta mă deranjează. O admir ca pe o creație delicată menită să emoționeze. Definiția operei de artă în carne și oase. Se mișcă liber sub privirea mea uimită. Este cât se poate de real. Îmi vine să plâng… Pur și simplu, momentul este prea plin. Mă vede și zâmbește. Îmi întind mâna văduvă de gestul ei – care

Îl iubesc deja. Mă acoperă. O zi este anunțată ca o viață. ***

Seara mergem să ne facem câte un tatuaj. Nu știu care dintre noi a venit cu ideea – nici măcar nu contează. Ne tatuăm reciproc numele în locuri secrete de pe corpurile noastre, accesibile numai în intimitate completă. Acesta este singurul mod în care ne putem separa, acesta este singurul mod, purtând-o în mine, eu însumi, pot să mă desprind din nou și să mă întorc acolo unde până de curând era acasă.

Dar am nevoie de o pauză. O ruptură de mine, de rutina vieții mele, de oameni, de tot… inclusiv ea, acum că m-am întors între coordonatele existenței mele. Îmi dau seama că nu aș putea niciodată să o aduc aici. Ar fi ca și cum m-aș culca cu N, iar eu nu o pot împărți pe Eva.

Nu am stabilit nimic. Amândoi trebuie să lingem rănile pe care întâlnirea noastră le-a redeschis. Și nu mă simt și înțeleg că eșafodajul ființei mele de astăzi – atât de atent construit – se clatină și vreau să fug, așa cum am făcut ori de câte ori am crezut că voi simți asta cu un bărbat. Acum, orice am împărtășit vreodată cu unul pare ridicol, subțire, lipsit de importanță. dar, în același timp, știu că Eva este singura femeie căreia i-am permis sau o voi permite vreodată să intre în carnea și sângele meu.

T mă sună. Eva nu i-a spus, nu l-a mințit despre nimic. Prefera tăcerea. Nu văd de ce aș face altfel. Mă uit îndelung la telefonul care se zbate, care vibrează. Aștept calm să se termine apelul, apoi blochez numărul. Mă poate suna de pe alt număr, dar nu contează. El va ști că l-am blocat și asta va fi suficient pentru ca el să înțeleagă. Oamenii răspund mai bine la umilință decât la cuvinte, rugăminți, lacrimi.

Ce ciudat… Am crezut că îl iubesc pe T – cel puțin pentru o vreme – când, de fapt, misiunea lui în viața mea a fost doar să-mi aducă Eva. De mai multe ori întâlnim oameni al căror scop nu îl înțelegem pentru că îl căutăm în ei înșiși, dar adesea este în afara lor. În ceva ce fac, în ceva ce ne dau. Oricât de meschin ar suna, adevărul nu ține cont de modul în care îl percepem, ci își are calea, neabătută, indiferent de modul în care ne raportăm la el. Oricât de meschin ar suna, rolul multor oameni din viața noastră este să ne îndreptăm atenția spre… altcineva. Oricât de meschin ar suna, adevărul este că mulți dintre oamenii pe care îi întâlnim nu sunt altceva decât umilele unelte ale sorții. Despre un destin care, în mod ironic, se împlinește fără a-i include. Doar folosiți-le. Așa cum face o femeie ca mine cu unii bărbați. Cu majoritatea.

Viața merge mai departe, aparent la fel. Dar știu că nu este așa. Acum o am pe Eva. Ne vedem rar, doar atunci când cel puțin unul dintre noi rămâne fără suflare și are nevoie să se întoarcă în patrie, să se regenereze.

Între timp, Eva a găsit pe cineva. Un bărbat, desigur. Nu vorbim despre bărbații din viața noastră. Nu au ce căuta între noi. De fapt, nici măcar nu contează. Nu a contat nici când, printr-o coincidență, ulterior controlată în mod deliberat, una dintre cuceririle ei mi-a ieșit în cale. Un om inteligent, cultivat, ras ca un cal de rasă, pe care nu-l poți trece neglijent. Cu o conversație absolut delicioasă, cunoștințe enciclopedice expuse cu falsă umilință și pigmentate cu un gram de piquancy. Și efeminat. Ne-am culcat amândoi cu el, pe rând, și am înțeles de ce investește atât de mult în preludiul intelectual. I-am înțeles logica și am apreciat-o. Încă ieșim împreună, întotdeauna noi trei, fără frământări sexuale care s-au diminuat deja. Și asta e fantastic. Cu toate acestea, el nu știe nimic despre mine și Eva și nici nu bănuiește, dar faptul că uneori ne încurcă – chiar dacă suntem complementari fizic și nu identici – confirmă ceea ce știm deja.

Eva – flacără și vânt… Viața mea este o carte disponibilă într-un singur exemplar… De aceea vă spun, aveți grijă la falsuri!

Astăzi l-am văzut pe R. Cu o femeie. O ținea tandru de umeri când nu plutea în jurul dorințelor ei. Și l-am recunoscut. Am simțit-o. Știam. Ciudat. O lume așezată, fixă, incontestabilă a trecut printr-o eclipsă brutală și masivă. Schimbări imposibile – deși nu sunt durabile, dar cât se poate de reale. Modificări ale percepției. Acea femeie a reușit în minutele în care i-am urmărit discret, să facă ceea ce R nu a reușit în anii în care m-a urmărit: mi-a stârnit interesul.

Mi-am amintit gesturi, senzații și evenimente. Din acea iubire inutilă cu care, odată, nu știam ce să fac. Aș ști astăzi? Nu cred, iar îndoiala este foarte perfidă. Ele se strecoară prin gândurile și zâmbetele tale și aruncă umbre lungi asupra orașelor odată singuratice. Vin furtunile? Ai de gând să-i aștepți? Nu eu.

I-am trimis un mesaj scurt. “Te caut.” Știam că este suficient. Nu mi-a răspuns pe loc, deși am văzut că a citit-o. Probabil că se agita, probabil privea neputincios lupta dintre dorință și voință. Nu cred că mi-am pus vreodată întrebarea. dacă îmi este (încă) credincios. Sau dacă a fost. Deși sunt convins că a fost. Deși nu mi-a păsat niciodată. De ce ar trebui să-mi pese acum?

El simte că este doar o amăgire. Unul nou… Dar începe cu un avantaj. Și nu a avut răbdare să renunțe la el, răspunzând mesajului. Probabil că are nevoie de timp pentru a veni cu un plan de atac. Sau, vă rog, ce crede că ar putea fi “un plan de atac”. Evident, se va dezintegra complet la primul nostru contact. Dar ce frumoasă iluzie a controlului! De putere… Înarmat cu un plan, se poate crede un câștigător. Efemer, dar contează enorm ca măcar o dată în viață, chiar și pentru câteva secunde, să crezi că ai câștigat.

De ce relațiile dintre femei și bărbați se bazează pe câștigători și învinși? Cum, de ce? Pentru că am gravat în ADN-ul nostru necesitatea competiției care, în loc să dispară când vine vorba de un posibil cuplu, dimpotrivă, crește, se umflă, explodează. Cu inima frântă, dar “victorios” în această competiție monstruoasă, bărbatul se simte “câștigat”. El poate merge mai departe. El poate pune această ratare pe lista sa de victorii. Stupid și inutil, dar cât se poate de real. Și R are acum șansa de a face asta. Mi-a spus odată, când l-am rugat să se dea la o parte din calea mea, pentru că nu-l țin în brațe, așa cum nu am ținut pe nimeni: “De fapt, tu mă ții în brațe. Dacă te-ai fi aruncat în brațele mele măcar o dată, aș fi putut pleca oricând, cu sufletul împăcat. Dar așa…” Aici, acum “l-am sunat”. Fără să răspundă, își calcă în picioare inima, dar câștigă nu doar o bătălie, ci un război în care s-a înrolat prea mult timp. împotriva lui însuși. Dacă nu răspunde, pot tăia acest moment de pe lista mea scurtă (prea scurtă în ultima vreme) de fapte bune.

“Iartă-mă că nu ți-am răspuns ieri, dar aveam nevoie de cel puțin o zi. Într-o zi… stii tu…”

Bineînțeles că știam. Scriindu-mi asta a doua zi, a încercat să facă imposibilul. Lasă-l să aibă și el “victoria” lui și șansa de a reaprinde ceva. Dacă între timp mi-am dat seama că îl iubesc? Cum pot oamenii să fie atât de autoamăgiți? Când ești îndrăgostit fără speranță, ești gata să crezi chiar și cea mai stupidă sau copilărească minciună, doar pentru a avea iluzia – nu contează pentru cât timp – că nu este totul pierdut. Ești capabil să storci apă dintr-o piatră doar pentru a dovedi că nu este utopic ca subiectul iubirii tale bolnave să-și schimbe radical sentimentele și, ca și cum ar fi lovit de demență, să înceapă să te iubească cu o pasiune devoratoare. Cum pot oamenii să fie atât de nebuni? La urma urmei, cum poate iubirea să-i scuture atât de tare încât să devină zdrențe moi în brațele sale aproape diabolice?

R reușise doar pentru o zi amară să se bucure de puterea ei, de iluzia împlinirii și de această iluzie sinistră că eu… Îl căuta, dar asta nu însemna mai mult decât ceea ce era. Pentru el, însă, a luat proporții monumentale în 24 de ore. Mi-am dat seama că aroganța mea era prea mare, că nu era nevoie să verific ceea ce știam și că el era, încă o dată, prea slab și nu a profitat de ocazie în cele din urmă, lăsând-o să se transforme în momeală… Dar, la urma urmei, de ce să te lauzi? Tot ce am făcut a fost să-i dau șansa pe care o așteptase atât de mult, pe care o implorase și după care tânjise… Și ce a făcut? I-a lipsit strălucit.

… Dar imaginea femeii înlănțuite de el, așa cum am fost odată, nu mi-a dat pace. La un nivel superficial, ca o zgârietură imperceptibilă pe suprafața strălucitoare, fără cusur a unui diamant. Dar un diamant trebuie să fie complet intact, complet neatins și toate impuritățile îndepărtate. Femeia atașată de R era o astfel de impuritate. De ce m-a deranjat prezența ei? Care a fost motivul real, profund, secret care m-a tulburat? Doar acel simț meschină al posesivității? Deși nimeni nu va putea vreodată să ia nimic din ceea ce am trăit împreună, nimic din obsesia lui pentru mine, nimic din satisfacția mea egoistă de a-l cunoaște mereu la picioarele mele.

Poate pentru că undeva, confuzi, am simțit potențialul lor de a fi fericiți, poate pentru o fracțiune de secundă am intuit că au o relație, așa cum noi nu am fi putut avea niciodată. Dar asta nu m-a justificat să vreau să-l distrug pentru ei. M-am retras, gândindu-mă la blestemul mediocrității – parsimonios, cameleonic, definitiv – blestemul femeilor care cad în capcana geloziei izvorâte din egoism, nu din iubire.

I-am răspuns. Că îl căutam să mă ajute cu o problemă care, între timp, a fost rezolvată. I-am mulțumit tăios, lăsându-l să înțeleagă că asta era tot.

Trăiesc cu teama că voi muri fără să fi înțeles nimic în viață. Fără să fi deslușit cel puțin un sens, cel puțin un fir, cel puțin un adevăr.

Am ales mai întâi gustul amar, tristețea, deziluzia și suferința. Le-am absorbit până la identificare și dezintegrare. Și apoi, sfidând propriile limite, bunul simț și educația, am ales plăcerea, senzualitatea, libertatea… Dar m-am apropiat măcar cu jumătate de pas, trăind toate astea, de ceea ce contează? Din ce ar fi trebuit să învețe? Când nu aveam îndoieli, fericirea era garantată. Totul era ceea ce părea să fie și nimic nu era pus la îndoială. Iar pacea pe care ți-o oferă o certitudine nu poate fi comparată cu nimic.

Sau optimism. Optimismul este de prost gust, dar, ca și speranța, pare să-ți dea o anumită siguranță care, în realitate, îți lipsește. Dar fără aceste ingrediente, viața nu curge. Nu se poate merge mai departe. Optimismul este legătura dintre evenimentele fiecărui destin.

Astăzi am curaj pentru că ieri am fost mușcat de prea multe ori de frică! Astăzi sunt cine sunt, pentru că ieri am căzut de prea multe ori, dar m-am ridicat la fel de multe ori. Astăzi nu mi-e rușine de niciuna dintre faptele mele, astăzi le-am ridicat la rang de împlinire. Mă ajută să mă definesc și să mă cunosc. De aceea nu mai am nevoie de confirmări externe.

Și când noua mea cunoștință V, producător de filme pentru adulți, m-a întrebat brusc, într-o conversație ocazională de flirt, dacă nu m-ar interesa un gust al lumii pe care mi-l poate oferi, i-am răspuns că ispitesc, nu pentru că asta ar fi servit ca o confirmare a carnalității și senzualității mele, ci pentru că mi se părea încă o provocare pe care nu aș avea niciun motiv să o ratez.

A fost o experiență unică. Mi-a revelat cu adevărat o altă lume și nu am simțit nevoia să pornesc pe un drum pe care reușisem să-l intuiesc perfect din primele momente. Și asta pentru că ar fi fost prea plictisitor.

Am mințit că am experiență doar pentru a sări peste pași considerați necesari de unii, dar absolut inutili pentru mine. Cu toate acestea, a trebuit să asist la filmarea ultimelor cadre ale unui alt film pentru a înțelege dinamica interioară, atât de diferită de ceea ce își imaginează laicii. Am primit un rol scurt, secundar – dar îmbibat de promisiuni de care nu-mi păsa, legate de viitorul meu statut de vedetă XXX – într-un film a cărui acțiune s-a centrat pe distribuirea unor tinere femei pentru nu știu ce meserie inventată (sau chiar inexistentă în scenariu).

Exhibiționismul care doarme adânc în fiecare dintre noi și care atinge vag suprafața în stările în care pierdem ușor contactul cu realitatea înflorise nestingherit în mine, într-o stare de veghe perfectă. De fapt, este rodul indiferenței pe care o cultiv de mult timp, indiferență care se manifestă chiar și față de impresiile pe care persoana mea, atitudinea mea, opiniile mele, corpul meu le trezesc direct în cei cu care interacționez direct. Cu alte cuvinte, nu mi-a fost rușine nicio secundă să mă dezbrac pe un platou de filmare destul de aglomerat, fără șoaptele unei alte tinere wannabe care își încuraja colega wannabe să creadă că este pentru ginecolog!!

S-au filmat multe, s-a păstrat puțin. Dintre toate fetele “intervievate” în film, trei au fost alese să participe la acțiune, celelalte fiind considerate – odată ce și-au expus lasciv miresele în fața camerei – ca fiind respinse de intervievator – personajul principal al filmului. Fusesem “respinsă” pentru că ochii lui V erau lipiți de coapsele mele și am înțeles că nu ar fi îndurat – nici măcar pe propriul platou, nici măcar în numele artei pe care o practica – să mă vadă în poziții prea intime cu alți oameni, fie ei chiar și cu actorii săi profesioniști. Nu am avut timp să regret cum mi-am “ratat” cariera neîncepută, pentru că cameramanul, plictisit de atâtea organe genitale și acte sexuale a urmărit în detaliu de-a lungul timpului, imun din abundență la sâni și fese, în timp ce mă filma, de mai multe ori, rapid și probabil neobservat de ceilalți, și-a întors privirea de la obiectiv, doar pentru a mă vedea direct, nemediată de stratul gros de lentile. Iar privirea lui proaspătă, uimită, ca și cum ar fi zărit-o pe Albă ca Zăpada în mijlocul unei orgii gay, mi-a atras inevitabil simpatia.

Faptul că ulterior am refuzat avansurile lui V a făcut ca scena cu mine să “cadă” în montaj, un detaliu care este complet irelevant. dar în omul din spatele camerei am simțit că pot descoperi ceva mult mai tandru. Dacă un bărbat care cunoaște în detaliu intimitățile anatomice ale câtorva sute de femei – deși nu toate au fost atinse sau au avut de fapt – simte ceva atunci când o femeie face ceea ce prea mulți alții au făcut înaintea ei, atunci acea femeie poate fi considerată o femeie binecuvântată cu darul unicității.

Nu sunt, nu am fost și nu voi fi o femeie perfectă. Nici măcar o femeie uimitor de frumoasă. dar consider că am devenit unul. Așa mă văd eu. Asta vreau să cred. Este treaba mea ce cred despre mine. Dar cred sincer, complet, fără urmă de îndoială, iar acest lucru îi hipnotizează pe cei din jurul meu, asumându-și această părere despre mine ca fiind, exclusiv, produsul simțurilor lor. Nimic mai fals, dar – din nou – ce contează? Contează doar că pot fi cine vreau, cum vreau, când vreau și cât vreau, atâta timp cât sunt profund convins de asta.

… atât cât vreau, atât cât știu, cât cred.

Bărbatul care a văzut prea multe femei făcând sex primește de obicei un handicap în raport cu ele. Chiar protejat de o detașare cât mai veridică, riscă să ajungă la saturație. Dar asta nu înseamnă nimic, în cele din urmă, pentru că bărbații sunt “înzestrați” cu un fel de uitare care le permite să-și recupereze interesul destul de repede. Cu condiția să nu fie, totuși, zdrobită, din nou, de mulțime. Când, însă, din mulțime, o anumită persoană iese și este identificată, situația este, cumva, salvată.

Cameramanul urma să fie următorul om din viața mea. Relația cu el a fost una dintre cele mai igienice relații: “Nu te aștept și, dacă vii, nici eu nu am așteptări de la tine, așa că nu-mi spui că mă aștepți sau că te întrebi ce aștepți de la mine … simplu, curat, fără isterie!” I-am spus de la prima întâlnire, iar zâmbetul lui fermecător, pe jumătate desenat, mi-a spus că a fost absolut încântat de idee, poate mai puțin de faptul că era a mea. Hmm, cred că mi-ar fi plăcut să nu o accepte atât de ușor, ci doar dintr-un impuls de mândrie, recunosc. Dar, pe de altă parte, dacă ar fi insistat asupra acestui lucru, nu ar fi fost posibilă o a doua întâlnire. Cum spuneam, “fără isterie”.

Atenția lui delicată m-a flatat. Atenția lui proaspătă – ca și cum aș fi fost printre primele femei din viața lui – m-a excitat. Un fin cunoscător al realității feminine, știa să separe aparența de realitate, pentru că o femeie, chiar și atunci când trăiește, profund convinsă, o experiență sexuală explozivă, nu se poate abține să nu o condimenteze cu puțină dramă. Practic, ea se află în cea mai importantă etapă a vieții ei, se poate înțelege. Dar știa cum să deslușească întregul și să aleagă, ca miezul dintre sâmburi – doar esența experiențelor.

Totul a decurs natural, fără șocuri inutile. Dintr-un anumit punct de vedere, a fost “relația”. Dar tocmai lipsa complicațiilor, a răsturnărilor de situație i-a scurtat șansele de existență. S-a stins lin, fără regrete, așa cum am prezis de la început. Încă o dată s-a dovedit că atunci când nu iubești, trăiești în absență. În absența pulsului, în absența sentimentului, în absența sensului… Așa că ziua în care nimeni nu a venit a fost o realitate cât se poate de concretă. Nu era loc pentru “la revedere”, amândoi știam că am adăugat o piesă suplimentară de echilibru puzzle-ului intim.

Fiecare relație, fiecare bărbat m-a învățat ceva. Despre mine. Despre cel care se schimbă în mod constant. Știu cine sunt în măsura în care știu cine devin, spre cine mă îndrept… dar viața nu este atât de previzibilă pe cât mi-ar plăcea să cred. Sau poate nu mi-ar plăcea deloc? Scrisoare de la N

“Dacă o rănești, femeia care te iubește va trece distanța de la dragostea nebună la ura profundă într-un singur pas … Am experimentat-o și eu, o cunosc prea bine. Dar știu, de asemenea, că nu iubești, dacă nu urăști, cel puțin din când în când, persoana pe care o iubești. Nu există pasiune fără reținere și nici dăruire completă fără mânie. Luați tot acest amalgam greu de definit odată ce ați intrat în nebunia iubirii … Și nu nega nimic, pentru că negând chiar și o mică particulă, negi de fapt întregul, iubirea mea! De ce ai nega adevărul nostru? Singurul nostru adevăr? Am trecut prin iad – împreună și separat – și am dezbrăcat viața de toate straturile ei de secrete, bucurii, dureri și iluzii. Suntem bătrâni, dar nu foarte înțelepți, pentru că distanța, cu toate fețele sale, continuă să ne definească.

Pentru că iubirea este singurul adevăr, singura realitate care contează.

De fapt, lucrurile sunt foarte simple. Oriunde ai fi, orice ai face, oriunde aș fi eu, orice aș face, există un “noi” care nu depinde de nimic. Aceasta trăiește independent de voința noastră, independent de decizia noastră, independent de faptul că s-ar putea să nu ne mai vedem niciodată. în această viață. Și știi asta foarte bine…”

Nu a înnebunit. Fie apare în telenovele, fie este la “menopauză” și gândește ca o femeie frigidă, frecvent abandonată de cineva. Unii oameni rămân blocați într-un anumit moment din trecut, incapabili să-și continue viața, incapabili să meargă mai departe. Fiecare capitol are un punct, atâta timp cât știi cum să-l închei când este timpul, pentru că dacă nu, atunci ești blocat ca o placă veche de pickup în suprafața căreia acul a săpat un groove adânc și nu poți trece la următoarea melodie. N este prizonierul unui timp care a fost și acum dă naștere monștrilor în imaginația sa necenzurată. Linia dintre dragoste și obsesie este uneori incertă, greu de stabilit în mod clar și, prin urmare, încălcată de atâtea ori.

Obișnuiam să cred că “obsesia trebuie hrănită…”, că orice obsesie trebuie hrănită, atâta timp cât te definește, pentru că atunci când o lași să moară, devii deja o versiune diferită a ta. Mai bun? Nu neapărat.. . Ei bine, în cazul tău, N, nu contează deloc. Deveniți o variantă care înțelege că, în sfârșit, “noi” există doar în trecut și că nu se poate face nimic acum. Așa cum morții nu revin la viață dacă îl jelești cu urlete, dragostea nu revine la viață dacă o jelești agresiv-siropos. Dimpotrivă, se descompune mai repede. Putrezește, în loc să fie păstrat mumificat, opțiunea ideală pentru iubirile moarte. Ceea ce știu sigur este că am dreptate.

Practic, te-am rugat de prea multe ori să-mi răspunzi… Și ai râs! Acum de ce plângi pentru că nu te mai întreb nimic?

M-ai umilit, m-ai disprețuit și nu ai dat doi bani pe mine. Și asta, fără să vrea să mă vadă, să mă cunoască, în ciuda anilor petrecuți împreună. Și acum te întrebi cine sunt? De ce, unde a apărut această femeie asupra căreia nu mai ai control? Vă spun: din rămășițele celuilalt, din puterea pe care nici nu ați bănuit-o, din revărsarea lacrimilor și din răbdarea pe care ați epuizat-o. Această femeie, la rândul ei, deși știe foarte bine cine ești, nu mai vrea să te cunoască. Pur și simplu, nu mai ești interesat de ea. Nu mai ai nicio autoritate asupra ei.

Nu uita, N, că ai murit deja pentru ea… Am fost adesea întrebat “cum?”. Nu-mi place să dau sfaturi, nu există o rețetă, fiecare femeie este o simfonie separată, unică, dar aceleași note muzicale sunt la bază.

Viața mea este o carte deschisă, dar scrisă în cod. Fiecare să ia ceea ce poate sau consideră potrivit. Nu face ca mine, fă ca tine. Nu imita pe nimeni, nici măcar pe tine însuți. Prin urmare, în loc de povestea vieții mele, am răspuns:

– Nu te vinde, indiferent cât de mare este prețul oferit! Când simți, dăruiește-te. Aceasta este adevărata ta valoare…

– Contează să fii iubit. Și să fii iubit, dar mai presus de toate, să fi simțit forța gravitațională înclinându-se și dispărând, iar levitația devine noua normalitate. Să fi simțit o clipă, o oră, o zi, o lună, un an… – nu contează cât de mult, dar să fi simțit acea separare de lume și unirea cu cerul. Singurul nostru cer tangibil. Nu din povești, nu din legende, ci din această viață defectuoasă, pământească. Contează doar să fi iubit… dar fără a te oferi pe altarul ființei vinovate cu un falus. Înțelegeți cât de jenant este acest lucru?

– Nu ai nevoie de binecuvântarea nimănui pentru a face ceva nebunesc. La fel cum nu ai nevoie de nimeni care să te ajute să-i duci urmele. Ne-am înțeles?

– Nu vă mai ascundeți în spatele eșecurilor, ele sunt doar simple instrumente de cunoaștere de care nu mai aveți nevoie, și-au jucat rolul, au părăsit scena! Dar nu tu!

– Nu lupta în războaie care nu-ți aparțin, nu încerca să fii erou pe meleaguri străine, pentru că nu vei putea scăpa de propria ta esență! Și nici măcar laurii reci nu vor ține un loc în sufletul tău …

– Dacă încă simți nevoia să te lamentezi cu blândețe, chemând brațele unui bărbat să te protejeze, să-ți fie adăpost și să fie acasă… Nu vă fie frică! Poți avea întotdeauna o zi proastă, dar asta este!

– Când ești într-o atingere, într-o strângere de mână sau într-o mângâiere ușoară înțelegi că tot erotismul universului este concentrat… Trăiește-l ca pe ultimul lucru pe care trebuie să-l faci în această viață… Apoi, uitați-l ca și cum ar fi primul dintr-un șir lung …

– Amintiți-vă, oamenii fericiți nu pot invidia. Deci, dacă te trezești uitându-te cu jind la împlinirea altcuiva, caută-te repede, ești profund nefericit și poate nici nu-ți dai seama! – Nu mai aștepta. Alege să acționezi, nu să reacționezi! – Lasă-i să te adore pentru cum faci dragoste, nu sarmale!

– Să suporte consecințele propriilor decizii! Iată un act de eroism care trece neobservat! – Când nu este vorba doar despre tine, fie te-ai rătăcit, fie te-ai îndrăgostit, ai grijă! – Nu mai fi un mincinos prolific și eficient. Riști să te minți că ești fericit și să te crezi pe cuvânt!

– Veți dori – dacă nu ați făcut-o deja – să întoarceți timpul pentru a lua o altă decizie la un moment dat. Apoi, cu atât mai mult, fii atent la deciziile pe care le iei în fiecare “azi”, ca nu cumva, în curând, să vrei să te întorci (din nou) pentru a le schimba…

– Dacă ai ars pasiune, timp, nervi și pace pentru un singur om, iar el continuă să privească mult prin tine, află că ești la fel de importantă pentru el ca fumul de la ultima țigară…

– Oferirea de lucruri sau obiecte flatează, dar nu implică … Este simplu, la îndemâna oricui. A oferi sincer tandrețe, înțelegere, interes și sentimente poate părea la fel de ușor, dar… Doar pare! Repet, nu te lăsa cumpărat!

– Te-ai întrebat “de ce”? Înseamnă că nu ați înțeles încă nimic. Și o lecție neînvățată va continua să se repete din nou și din nou …

– Curajul de a ieși din tine… Uneori o cauți toată viața, fără să o găsești, iar alteori, fără să știi cum, te copleșește și te împinge la marginea abisului propriei tale ființe. Pentru că uneori, în loc să pierzi timpul rătăcind, pur și simplu ești și faci! Această căutare zadarnică nu este altceva decât persistență în inerție, lipsă de inițiativă și acțiune…

– Lăsăm în urmă oameni și amintiri. Urme grele. Suferință. Uneori, însă, atât de necesar. Fiecare plecare – o nouă moarte. … Dar dacă trebuie, du-te!

– Dincolo de filosofiile copilărești că ne naștem și murim singuri, între aceste două momente nu este greu să fim fericiți, lipsiți de compania celorlalți. Și, de aici, marile bucurii și tristeți, în același timp.

– Pentru toți cei care muncesc din greu să te urmeze și să-ți ghideze viața, pentru cei care vor trăi mereu mai bine, mai frumoși, mai minunați și mai miraculoși decât tine, în locul tău, în viața ta, nu trebuie decât să ai un singur mesaj: “Haide!”.

– Spune: “Am încredere în tine!” și zâmbește! va zâmbi înapoi… Imaginea ta va reveni mereu! – Fură timpul! Este moral, este sănătos și atât de necesar… Poate singura modalitate de a ieși din viață cu toată mintea. Nu uita, fură timp pentru tine! – Pentru un bărbat, scoateți-vă hainele, nu Visele…

– Timpul lustruiește, ascuțește sau tocește – după caz – sentimente, iubiri, relații, suflete și corpuri. Instrument de înaltă precizie, poate ucide sau salva … Tu decizi!

– Ia-o în cap, frica nu protejează nimic, dimpotrivă, fură bucuria de a fi. A trăi așa cum vrei nu este despre curaj, ci despre o demnitate și o angajare mult mai importante decât convențiile sterile. – Doresc puțin, dar intens. Vrei esențialul…

– Fii regina vieții tale! În spatele aparențelor, vârstei și aparențelor se află același spirit feminin triumfător, chiar dacă nu vă amintiți întotdeauna că…

– Vine un moment în viața fiecăruia când rătăcirea este iminentă … Dar ce să vezi, este, de asemenea, indispensabil! Nu vă fie frică să vă rătăciți, astfel veți descoperi ce minuni se ascund dincolo de drumul drept!

– Nu fi timid să-ți strigi durerea, nu fi timid să-ți eliberezi monștrii, nu fi timid să suferi profund, dar mai presus de toate, nu fi timid să rămâi mereu, indiferent ce se întâmplă, la suprafață!

– Nu este niciodată prea târziu să faci alegerea corectă. Amintiți-vă întotdeauna acest adevăr simplu, mai ales atunci când nu vedeți altă alternativă … – Femeia care a suferit cel mai aprig știe să iubească cel mai profund. Cu cât a iertat mai des, cu atât are mai mult loc în suflet pentru viață…

– Dacă o femeie vrea, ea oprește lumea cu un simplu zâmbet și niciun bărbat nu-și dă seama. Cu excepția cazului în care este prea târziu! – Visul este gratuit. A nu-ți urma visele costă bani! – Nu privi niciodată în trecut… Mai ales dacă bărbatul pentru care erai invizibilă este acolo…

– Cu cât cobori mai jos, cu atât este mai mare forța cu care te vei întoarce la suprafață! Trust! – Fiecare femeie ascunde o “fată rea” și un înger slab, important este cum coexistă aceste două! – Atâtea drumuri, atâtea posibilități și o singură viață de trăit! Așa că ai grijă ce alegi…

– Ai curajul să fii tu însuți cu tot ceea ce este aprobat și dezaprobat de societate sau de cei din jurul tău! – Nu te bucura de nefericirea bărbatului pe care l-ai iubit, dar el te-a respins sau te-a rănit!

– Asigurați-vă că nu se poate uita în altă parte atunci când vă ține de mână, chiar dacă vă ține de mână o dată sau întotdeauna! – Și dacă mai ai momente în care ești încă dezamăgit de viață, aprinde-ți o țigară și gândește-te… Cum ai putea să te răzbuni? Scrisoare de la N

“Eu sunt cel care te așteaptă. Te aștept chiar dacă știu că o apocalipsă ne desparte. Un sfârșit al lumii în care “noi” era posibil. Te aștept și poate – îmi place să mă înșel – o simți. Simți că mă gândesc obositor, obsesiv, toxic la tine. Atât de mult, încât simt? uneori impregnat până la a refuza ființa ta, nu mai pot respira, nu mă mai pot mișca, nu mai pot scăpa… Când ne-am luat rămas bun, mi-ai spus să nu te aștept nici pe tine, cu ecoul ultimelor sunete în mintea mea, cu imaginea estompându-se treptat, mă țin de o promisiune pe care nu am făcut-o niciodată, încălcându-ți cu pasiune ultima dorință.

Cred că te vei întoarce. Poate azi, poate mâine, poate în orice zi, și trebuie să fiu pregătită, să nu bănuiești că te-am așteptat în tot acest timp, că am înghețat în secunda despărțirii, cu inima încleștată în pumn, cu mintea rătăcind printre ultimele îmbrățișări ale noastre, într-un trecut împărtășit mult prea îndepărtat, cu dorințe încă vii, pulsând indecent sub templul ușor albit.

Nu mi-e rușine să recunosc că dorul măsoară otrava iubirii tale în doze mici, letale. Nu mi-e rușine să recunosc că încă îți fac cafeaua dimineața și o las pe masă, la tine… iar seara, rece și plictisitor, cu gust de leșie, îl arunc ca într-un ritual al morții care se repetă ad infinitum, după ce te-am așteptat, ca și mine, toată ziua în zadar.

Te aștept astăzi, iubito, așa cum am făcut întotdeauna. O dată și o dată, cafeaua ta nu va avea timp să se răcească abandonată în ceașcă … o dată și o dată, voi fi cel la care te vei întoarce într-o zi, învins de viață, pentru că sunt omul în brațele căruia vei găsi pacea.

Eu sunt cel care te așteaptă, nu uita asta…” Am uitat. *** Acum știu complet și complet diferit. Acum îmi spun doar: Fii obraznic! Sau ceea ce ceilalți numesc “impertinență” din partea unei femei care nu suportă discuții cu jumătate de inimă. Lasă inclusiv bărbatul ideal, dacă simți așa, păstrând explicațiile doar pentru propria conștiință.

Afirmați și susțineți ceea ce vă face fericiți și fără pretenția că îi va interesa pe ceilalți, pentru că este suficient să vă intereseze. Loviți podeaua fără teama de ridicol dacă aveți chef, cu condiția ca pantoful să fie lustruit impecabil.

Pe de altă parte, nu tolera ca cineva să te lovească cu pumnul în față, oricât de blând ar face-o, indiferent dacă are manichiura perfectă sau nu, indiferent dacă gestul său respiră urme de masculinitate. Fii mândru de cine ai fost, cine ești sau cine vei deveni, indiferent câte greșeli ascunde fiecare etapă.

Ignoră zgomotul pe care restul femeilor îl fac în jurul tău atunci când atitudinea ta le îngenunchează. Renunță la a-ți plânge de milă bărbații nebuni și la femeile prefăcute, indiferent cât de convingător îți plâng de milă.

Dar nu renunța la nimic din ceea ce te definește, atâta timp cât nu crezi că este timpul să faci acest lucru, indiferent dacă toți ceilalți conspiră pentru a-ți dovedi contrariul. Și, din nou: nu aveți așteptări de la nimeni, în afară de voi înșivă!

Uneori, privind înapoi, mă amuză că relațiile mele au inclus… întregul alfabet. Cred că odată ce te accepți așa cum ești – vulgar, superficial, prost, genial, rafinat sau doar obișnuit – calificativele nu mai pot prinde rădăcini. Ceilalți vor continua să te clasifice, să te judece și să te sfâșie între dinții lor tociți de atâta ură fin măcinată, dar nimic din toate acestea nu te va mai atinge. La fel cum eu, acum, nu sunt afectat de modestia imaginară a celui care mă urăște cu mâna în pantaloni, a celui care mă bârfește, mă invidiază și încearcă să-mi imite grosolan gesturile sau cuvintele. Această lume burlească a neterminatului nu este altceva decât praful pe care fiecare galop splendid îl lovește pentru a-l călca în picioare și a-l lăsa indiferent în urmă…

Da, eu, vă spune unul dintre ei. Nu vă lăsați păcăliți nici de un zâmbet, nici de o lacrimă, nici de un oftat, nici de un gest tremurător… Nu știi niciodată ce se ascunde de fapt în spatele lor sau dacă, într-adevăr, ceva este ascuns. Chiar și atunci când sunt sincer, mint, știați?

Mă uit la tine și la tinerețea ta, dragă eu, și mă văd în trecutul unei alte vieți. “Acea femeie a murit” și nu glumesc, dar uite, istoria se repetă și tu ești clona ei perfectă. Masculin, ceea ce face ca totul să aibă o notă suplimentară de tragicomedie.

Nu, nu mă voi culca cu tine. Voi recunoaște deschis că mirosul tău de armăsar tânăr, scuturat de armate de hormoni gata să cucerească ceea ce niciun alt om – îți imaginezi – nu a fost capabil, mă ispitește, mă incită, mă excită … Ți-aș strica întreaga armată, aș pune fiecare arcaș al tău la pământ și aș rostogoli cu ei câmpuri de luptă imaginare, aducând astfel tinereții tale ofrandă de carne tare, respirând sexualitate brută… fluide ale corpurilor împletite într-o uniune care se dorește, de fiecare dată, supremă și te-aș sorbi, epuizat, în cupa palmelor mele mereu lacome… Ți-aș suge umezeala, ți-aș mușca coapsele cu poftă și m-aș întoarce dintr-o parte în alta, mereu nehotărâtă, mereu nesatisfăcută de gustul corpului tău erect. Nici măcar nu știi, eu, pe ce culmi ale plăcerii te-aș târî, nici măcar nu știi cât de intim aș permite atingerii tale să fie, nici măcar nu-ți imaginezi cum aș putea exploda continuu zdrobit de vigoarea ta. Nu știi și nu vei ști niciodată, eu.

Aroganța ta îmi inundă simțurile cu gânduri murdare-vinovate, pe care nu ți le voi da niciodată în dar. Du-te și îngenunchează o femeie înainte de a fi îngenuncheat de unul … Du-te și fii cuceritorul care visezi să fii, du-te și fii salvatorul despre care crezi că se ascunde adânc în tine, du-te și scaldă-te în miere neotrăvită, eu! Du-te și crește, devino bărbat și abia apoi întoarce-te. Abia atunci vei putea să-mi ții privirea, abia atunci vei putea să-mi desfaci ultimele butoane, abia atunci te vei putea lăsa pătruns, străpuns și contorsionat de noaptea simțurilor… Și nu doar o dată. Este poate singura promisiune pe care ți-o pot face astăzi…

Îi doare. Nu vreau să-i pară rău pentru mine, pentru că atunci voi fi forțată să-mi încalc promisiunea. Și nu că îmi pare rău, dar de ce să-i fie mai ușor să rateze? Și, mai presus de toate, de ce să ratez, la rândul meu, undeva în viitorul nu prea îndepărtat, o experiență printre cei cărora le ofer puțin mai mult decât corpul meu?

– Eşti rău! Am strigat la mine, ca și cum ne-am fi întors brusc la vremurile imature ale primilor ani ai tinereții, când sentințele erau date și ridicate cu o viteză amețitoare și, prin urmare, nesemnificative. Nu vreau să minimalizez nimic din ceea ce poate fi între noi, nu vreau să-l asociez cu imagini menite să-i îngroape masculinitatea în mintea mea. Pentru că fetele au mai fost văzute cu prohab înainte și nu vreau să se transforme într-una în niciun caz. Prin urmare, îi explic:

– Nu… dimpotrivă. Dacă aș fi răutăcios, aș face tot ce ți-aș spune și apoi te-aș arunca, folosit, în primul rând în calea mea. Și m-aș uita la tine înainte de a închide ușa în urma ta. Dar astfel, păstrez intact fructul posibilității: numai el conține șansa ca dorințele tale să fie vii mai mult de o oră – maximul pe care l-ai putea avea cu mine acum – și îți ofer șansa de a-l culege, doar tu, odată ce ceea ce va fi copt, copt, dulce, dulce, amar, amar, amar. Du-te și întoarce-te când te simți gata să-l colectezi. Până atunci, vom face amândoi un festin imaginar din ea…

Și înainte să plec și să-l las în pace, în garsoniera probabil închiriată, pe jumătate dezbrăcată, pe jumătate ejaculată, îl sărut, mușcându-i puternic buza de jos, agățându-mă de el, un fel de “spoiler” a ceea ce poate urma. Își adună curajul, își flexează mușchii delicioși, mă strânge în brațe și mă aruncă pe pat, într-un gest necugetat. Am simțit că nu știa ce face și, mai presus de toate, că nu știa ce să facă în continuare. Inevitabil, am izbucnit în râs. Am fost ușor mișcat de încercarea sa de a dovedi, în primul rând, brutal, superioritatea masculului în căldură care, deși a fost mușcat de femelă și nu a fost primit cu coada în sus, încearcă totuși să-și joace ultima carte pentru că așa dictează ADN-ul său și strămoșii din a căror esență a fost hrănit în timpul procreării, dar în nici un caz propria voință sau autocontrol.

– Ne vedem când vei fi mare, eu, i-am spus înainte de a trânti ușa în urma mea. M-am dus cu mașina, râzând – era prea ușor să-l dau jos de pe mine – și mi-am aprins o țigară imediat ce am pășit dincolo de teritoriul lui. Și-a ținut respirația până atunci și apoi pereții indecent de subțiri ai blocului mi-au permis să-i aud gemetele înăbușite. Nu știam dacă plângea sau se masturba.

“Ești real”, cuvintele lui I încă îmi răsună în urechi. Poate că nu ar fi trebuit să fiu sincer cu el? Spune-i că îmi plac bărbații, dar că în acest moment al vieții mele prefer… o prietena ?? Nu ar fi fost neapărat o minciună – și m-am gândit la o idee și pentru Eva – deși i-aș fi transmis că nu era pentru o relație romantică sau sexuală, ci – aș fi improvizat rapid – pentru siguranța pe care ți-o poate oferi prezența unei prietene. Probabil că nu ar fi înțeles – este prea tânăr până la urmă – ce stabilitate poate reprezenta o prietenă în viața unei femei. Pentru că oamenii vin și pleacă (și chiar dacă nu pleacă sau nu sunt dați afară, prea puțini sunt cei care rămân cu sufletul), copiii vin și pleacă, bucuriile și tristețile vin și pleacă. Dar prietena rămâne acolo, o viață întreagă, chiar și atunci când nu vorbești cu ea sau nu te întâlnești cu ea zilnic. O relație care nu are nevoie de atât de mult… frecat, dar care ascunde o doză copleșitoare de autenticitate și valoare.

În general, nu știm cum să fim prieteni cu partenerul nostru de viață, pentru că dacă am ști, relațiile dintre femei și bărbați ar fi mult mai puțin tragice. În plus, mi se pare că totul este mai ușor și mai frumos de trăit, de înțeles și de suferit, atunci când este împărțit în două…, adică în două!

Nu, nu… Cu siguranță nu ar fi înțeles ce are de făcut. Cum se descurcă Eva?

Aflu că N este internat într-un spital de psihiatrie. Nu am devenit inuman, astfel încât să fiu complet indiferent, dar nici nu pot spune că inima mea tremură de frică și de dorința de a-l vedea, de a-l ajuta, de a-i da… nimic. Îmi este milă, așa cum aș simți pentru orice ființă aflată în situația lui, așa cum aș simți pentru servitoarea din bloc sau pentru câinele cu care m-am jucat cândva, Take the edge of the world. Cu toate acestea, a făcut parte din istoria mea personală, un pretext pentru suișuri și coborâșuri în propria mea evoluție. Acesta este unul dintre momentele pe care mi le-am dorit poate odată, plin de ură și încă înșelat de dor și răsturnări, ca o răzbunare supremă a unei Karme care și-a văzut în sfârșit lungimea nasului și și-a făcut datoria. Faptul că aceasta este o realitate astăzi nu mă face să mă simt deloc vinovată, ci doar mă face să ridic din umeri, oarecum uimită de întorsăturile pe care le ia viața, cel mai adesea când este prea târziu.

Cel puțin nu va putea să-mi scrie de acolo, pentru că nu i-am auzit și simțit gândurile de mult timp… Ești mort, N, ai uitat? Restul este… nimic.

În aceeași zi, Eva mă caută și pe mine. Momentele nu sunt legate. Nici nu știu când am încetat să vorbim, să ne vedem… Gândindu-mă la ea în ultima vreme am adus-o la mine. De ce nu am căutat-o? Am simțit cumva nevoia să las pacea pe ceea ce era înainte de a continua… Și cred că, din inițiativa ei, acel timp a trecut.

Oricum, nu o pot pierde pe Eva… Ca de obicei, nu am așteptări de la întâlnirea noastră. Nu știu cum au decurs lucrurile pentru ea, dar le-am aranjat frumos în arhiva vieții. Fără energie irosită. Dacă am nevoie de ceva de acolo, totul este la îndemână, dacă nu… Nu. Simplu.

Eva este aceeași și totuși ceva radical s-a schimbat undeva în interiorul ei. Simt că mi-a lipsit. Admirând-o pe măsură ce se apropia, i-am confirmat că Eva rămâne una dintre certitudinile vieții mele nomade. Eva este un punct fix într-un univers mobil. Eva este…

Eu sunt… entuziasmat. Mă bucur de claritatea senzației ca un copil. Îl redescopăr pur, proaspăt, neînceput…

Ne ținem de mână, mai mult ca doi prieteni decât ca doi foști iubiți care aveau un dor amestecat, abia se mărturiseau, dar care acum se găseau în poziții clar definite: Eva s-a căsătorit! Nu-mi spune cu cine și nici măcar nu mă invită la nuntă. Inteleg ca o cunosc pe mire, inteleg ca a trecut intr-adevar printr-o etapa pe care nu o puteam prevedea.

Sunt fericit pentru ea cu inima reținută. Fără să-mi spună prea multe, ideea căsătoriei, ideea ca Eva să fie credincioasă unui singur bărbat, un bărbat care, cu siguranță, a trecut prin patul meu… nu-mi inspiră nimic bun. Dar Eva este transfigurată. Cred că există femei care trebuie să trăiască această experiență până la punctul de descompunere și uitare de sine. Bifează-l. Apoi lasă-l să dea din cap și să-și revină. Sau nu. De aceea mi-e teamă de cât de sus va cădea și cât de tare va fi în curând, dar probabil că este dispusă să accepte acest revers al medaliei pe care de obicei nimeni nu îl vede (sau nu vrea să-l vadă) în momentul în care trebuie să dea vestea căsătoriei iminente.

Eva mă cunoaște. Nu vorbim despre asta în cuvinte, dar mă privește cu ochi scânteietori și, la despărțire, mă sărută ferm pe buze. Este un “la revedere” temporar, știu, dar asta nu mă împiedică să mă cutremur la amintire… Sărutul ei – o promisiune amânată pentru… Vom vedea când.

– Nu ai dreptate… Nu-ți voi permite să ai dreptate… Îmi spune ușor și amândoi știm că, odată ce cuvintele sunt conturate, odată născute din potențialitate, ele au creat deja acea realitate pe care o contrazic. “Este doar o chestiune de timp”, cred. Dar Eva este deja departe… *** Ultima literă a lui N

“Ispita seamănă cu cea mai ascunsă fantezie erotică. Te excită să ți-l imaginezi cu detalii precise, rău, otrăvitor, pervers, dar nu ești sigur că ai vrea cu adevărat să-l trăiești. Vă mulțumesc pentru a putea gusta fructul imaginației voastre. În cele din urmă, nu este clar, ce este lașitatea? Că ți-ai dori, dar nu ai curajul sau măcar că ai curajul? Orice decizie implică o doză de curaj. Faptul că iei o decizie și o aplici este un act de curaj. Atunci unde este lașitatea clasică despre care se vorbește mereu înainte de “ispită”? Dimpotrivă, acolo unde există clișeul unei “bătălii pierdute”, este, de fapt, o bătălie câștigată cu instinctele primitive ale ființei vii. Nu contează dacă este bine sau rău, contează ce decizie ia fiecare persoană în propriul context. Contează că fiecare decizie este grea. Și că decizia tentației este cea mai grea, cei mai mulți dintre ei rămân “curajoși”, dar cu ea în minte, hrănindu-se cu fantezia ei. Încă o dată…

Nu vreau să te împovărez cu lucruri pe care le știi deja. Nu vreau să dau vina pe tine, ar fi o glumă și m-am săturat de glume. Au fost prea multe… Nu vă voi mai scrie niciodată. Ai dreptate, dragostea este moartă. Și eu, încet, cu ea…” … un ratat telepatic.

Sunt singur. Pentru mine aceasta este o alegere. Dacă mă uit în urmă – și o fac sterilă, doar ca “documentare” sau din curiozitate – au fost momente când am fugit de singurătate, când am văzut-o ca pe o povară, ca pe o nenorocire pe care am evitat-o cu orice preț, cu orice sacrificiu, cu orice compromis. Și când drumurile noastre s-au intersectat, am suferit ca un câine, orb și surd la chemările ei ascunse. Fără să-mi dau seama, chiar și atunci făceam o alegere, dar una incredibil de proastă, una menită să – îmi aduce dureri inutile. Am ales să sufăr din cauze mai imaginare sau înghițite de forța vieții. În general, din viața altora.

Dar astăzi, singurătatea are gustul timpului oprit de mână, pentru a mângâia și încetini agitația. Are gust de pace, liniște, culori fine, o temperatură plăcută simțurilor, senzația unei după-amiezi de duminică într-un târg de provincie unde nu se întâmplă nimic. Desigur. Fiecare sistem are nevoie de o pauză la un moment dat. Mai ales unul viu…

Singurătatea este un blestem sau o binecuvântare. Depinde cum vrei să o înțelegi, cum o dobândești, cum o trăiești… în ritmurile singurătății găsesc pace, echilibru, armonie. Găsesc și cele mai mici piese ale puzzle-ului, piese la care renunțasem cu mult timp în urmă, deși îmi lipseau în mod constant. Îmi găsesc gândurile și visele depozitate pentru un viitor favorabil. De cele mai multe ori, știm că acest “viitor favorabil” nu vine niciodată, așa că mă grăbesc să profit de singurătate.

Singurătatea te poate forța sau îi poți arăta o lume – lumea ta – ținând-o strâns. Controlând-o. Dominând-o. Exact așa cum ai face în pat cu un partener temporar, dar necesar. ***

Pe unde trec, ridic întrebări. Cu toate acestea, nu sunt atât de cinic pe cât par, nici atât de pervers pe cât își imaginează cei care nu mă cunosc, nici atât de disponibil pe cât și-ar dori cei care mă miros mai mult sau mai puțin discret. Și nu atât de sigur pe mine pe cât arăt. Am, ca orice om, momentele mele de îndoială pe care le savurez în strictă intimitate. Rufele murdare nu sunt spălate în familie, ci în compania propriei persoane. Mă întreb dacă, peste ani, mă voi schimba atât de mult încât voi regreta cine sunt și ce fac. Să renunț… căci acest lucru mi se pare insuportabil și mă întreb dacă jocul contorsionat al minții nu-mi va servi – trofeul final sau răzbunarea tardivă – un astfel de regret. Pentru a ajunge să scriu la ceea ce astăzi sunt îndemnuri patetice la puritanism. Vreau să râd și să râd de tot acum și astfel voi submina orice posibilă manifestare a unei femei care a ajuns la vârsta tuturor îndoielilor, când defectele ajung la apogeu. Mă imaginez transmițându-mi serios și încordat, din viitorul nenăscut, un declamat plin de “lecții”:

“Fiecare scrisoare începe cu “draga mea”, dar acum nu te iubesc deloc. Voi avea o răscruce de drumuri pentru a te ierta și a te iubi până la urmă. Ești încă tânăr, mai mult un copil decât un adult în multe privințe. Niciodată nu ți-ai ascultat rațiunea. Mă întreb dacă ați asculta vocea remușcării, dacă ați putea să o auziți, din viitor. Căci dacă m-ai auzi:

V-aș spune că fericirea pe care credeți că o vedeți astăzi, când priviți în ochii mincinoși ai tuturor oamenilor, este ambalajul efemer al suferinței.

V-aș spune că ceea ce considerați a fi libertatea de decizie este, de fapt, supunere oarbă – vă urmați instinctele, vă lăsați influențați de ipocrizie și vă aliniați cu gândul dreptului vostru la iubire.

V-aș spune că ceea ce ați considerat uneori iubire este doar criza de identitate a unui “el” și timpul vostru exploatat de interese străine vouă.

Ți-aș spune că ceea ce tu consideri a fi vina celorlalte femei, inclusiv a femeilor ai căror soți te-au cucerit, este de fapt vina ta, a celor care au luat decizia de a face sex cu cizmele tale pe suflet: tu din prostie, ele din nepăsare… sau invers!

V-aș spune că promisiunile lui (oricare dintre ale lui) nu sunt altceva decât speranțe menite să vă prindă în plasă, atâta timp cât există încă o altă femeie atârnată de inima lui.

V-aș spune că ceea ce considerați libertate și natural între un bărbat și o femeie, moralitatea consideră altceva; Știu că nu-ți pasă acum, dar mai târziu s-ar putea să vezi lucrurile diferit…

V-aș mai spune că experiența de viață care contează nu se construiește prin paturi străine, ascunse, de planul doi, de umbra băncii de rezervă, chiar dacă este doar pentru o singură dată, chiar dacă este opțiunea ta… Pentru că indiferent câți au plâns unul sau altul la picioarele tale, câți au renunțat la tot pentru tine?

V-aș spune că lacrimile voastre din viitor, care acum par atât de îndepărtate, nu vor fi fost din cauza unui destin advers, ci din cauza refuzului vostru de a fi acceptat o realitate lipsită de strălucire și intensitate, comună sau mediocră dacă doriți, dar stabilă și rezistentă la uzură pe termen lung.

Dar, mai presus de toate, ți-aș spune că toate acestea te-au făcut femeia care ți-ai dorit întotdeauna să fii… Și, în concluzie, când tragi linie, după o viață nu atât de virtuoasă, dar glorios de independentă, poți fi mulțumit că reproșurile pe care viitorul nu poate fi exclus să ți le aducă sunt, la urma urmei, irelevante!

QEDH! Punct! *** Și totuși… Nu, nu… de fapt, v-aș întreba ceva complet diferit, pentru că meritați îmbrățișarea sfaturilor bune, nu a reproșurilor goale! V-aș spune: Nu plângeți prea mult, pentru că lacrimile nu au rezolvat niciodată problemele, ci doar au drenat sufletul de umiditate;

Nu regreta nimic din ce ai jucat! Ridicați capul atunci când consecințele faptelor vă copleșesc, pentru a le întâmpina cu un zâmbet; Toată nefericirea ta este trecătoare, la fel și fericirea ta. Ignorați-le mai mult pe primele, bucurați-vă mai mult în lumina celor din urmă;

Acceptați fiecare lovitură de la pragul superior, acceptați de câte ori vă împiedicați de cel inferior; Acceptați fiecare cădere, fiecare semn, fiecare cicatrice, ca semne ale unei înțelepciuni care crește zi de zi; Nu te lăsa șantajat emoțional de nimeni.

Bărbații vin și pleacă și când îl vei întâlni pe cel care va rămâne, vei ști. Nu te mai panica de fiecare dată, la fiecare întâlnire, la fiecare despărțire. Nu trebuie să te grăbești, pentru că, deși viața este scurtă, nu o poți gusta decât dacă o trăiești pe îndelete.

Tinerețea este ca un vis lucid – nu știi sau nu decizi când începe sau când se termină, dar îi controlezi conținutul.

Vârsta nu este doar un număr, ea reprezintă treptele pe care le urci spre tine însuți. Nu le neglija, nu le minimaliza importanța, chiar dacă te afli în momentul în care 40 de ani par mai departe de tine decât soarele de pământ.

Oamenii mint și nu sunt întotdeauna demni de încrederea ta, dar asta nu înseamnă că nu ar trebui să le dai o șansă. Sau două. Dar niciodată mai mult. A ierta și a uita. Să uiți și să nu ierți. Să ierte și să nu uite. Nu ierta și nu uita, așa cum vrei, doar nu pierde mult timp cu oamenii cu care te-ai convins că sunt doar trecători în viața ta, cu roluri secundare sau doar figuranți. Umplere, decorare.

Inocența și naivitatea ta se vor destrăma mai repede decât crezi și pierderea lor te va răni teribil, dar aceasta este, de asemenea, o etapă necesară, nu stărui asupra ei mai mult decât este necesar.

Nu ești nimic din ceea ce crezi despre tine acum, dar este firesc să fii atât de confuz și dezorientat, este firesc să faci atât de multe greșeli pe care nu ți le asumi, din care, deocamdată, nu înțelegi nimic. Și v-aș mai spune un lucru… dacă ar fi, i-aș lua-o;

În cele din urmă, aș alege aceeași cale!” ***

Poate că nu înțelegi încă, omule, dar nu este treaba mea să-ți fac pe plac. Să-ți fac pe plac, să mă comport așa cum simți, așa cum crezi, conform principiilor, experienței și subiectivității tale, că ar trebui să o fac. Nu-mi pasă ce aștepți de la mine, ce ți-ai imaginat despre mine sau ce vrei de la mine. În consecință, dezamăgirea sau deziluzia, sau cum vreți să o numiți, pe care o veți experimenta în relație cu persoana mea este strict legată de persoana voastră. Totul se întâmplă în forumul tău interior, cu expunere, ca într-o vitrină supradimensionată, la viața mea. Trec fără să mă uit sau să reflectez în această fereastră, așa că responsabilitatea pentru ceea ce se întâmplă în interiorul ei îmi este complet străină.

Este greu de înțeles că viața mea nu se desfășoară ca un tribut adus ție, nevoilor sau dorințelor tale și că, indiferent de relația pe care o avem, acesta este un concept de neclintit. Nu mă voi schimba decât în măsura în care acest lucru este necesar pentru mine și nu pentru altcineva, în măsura în care consider că trebuie să o fac, în măsura în care îmi place.

În plus, nu îți cer nici să-mi faci pe plac, să fii sincer cu tine însuți și cu principiile tale nealterate și asta este suficient. Dacă nu-mi place, gata, mă obișnuiesc cu ideea. Te accept sau plec. Evident, reciproca este, de asemenea, valabilă!

Adevărul este simplu și la îndemâna tuturor – nu l-am dezgropat încă – dar pare să fie uitat întotdeauna. Pe placul celorlalți, pe lângă faptul că oricum nu va fi niciodată suficient de bun și nu vei putea niciodată să-i mulțumești pe deplin, unde te afli în toată această ecuație? Vă spun unde: nicăieri! Rezultatul? O viață mai falsă decât o bancnotă de zece bani.

Prin urmare, nu voi înceta să repet, oricât de mult v-ar scoate din minte: nu este treaba mea să vă fac vă rog Nici tu, nici altcineva! ***

Ura într-un cuplu nu apare de pe o zi pe alta, ci se coace în timp și, dacă nu faci nimic, doar plângi în pumni, după colțuri, crește din ce în ce mai mult până când mușcă cu atâta poftă de la ambii parteneri, încât următorul pas este… dezastru absolut. După ce N a murit pentru mine, am înțeles. De aceea nu există “Am avut ghinion în dragoste”. Ai o relație sau o anti-relație din care trebuie să obții acel ceva de care ai nevoie. Problema este că nu o faci și situația stagnează. Aștepți ca soluția să cadă din cer. . “Noroc”, cum ar fi. Ei bine, acesta nu “cade” niciodată în timp ce relația continuă să se deterioreze.

Aceasta este o cale bătătorită a alegerilor proaste pe care unele femei le fac în fiecare zi, fără să și le asume (pentru că presupunerea în sine este o deraiere incompletă), până când ajung la limită, de unde saltul în vid, la propriu sau la figurat vorbind, devine ultima mișcare obligatorie. Într-o zi tac pentru că încercările lor de a comunica au eșuat lamentabil în argumente, iar o tăcere josnică este mai bună decât o ceartă fără sens. Într-o altă zi tac pentru că sunt obosiți… O altă zi, pentru că au obișnuit așa, găini.

De obicei, în astfel de situații, bărbatul crede că are proprietate asupra femeii de lângă el, o femeie care nu ar trebui să se teamă niciodată de el. Pentru că aceasta este o femeie învinsă, zdrobită, înstrăinată… capabil doar să-și hrănească nevoia bolnavă de putere și supremație falsă, incapabil să simtă ceva.

Am fost odată și această femeie, nu mi-a fost niciodată rușine să recunosc. *** Dar astăzi, astăzi sunt o femeie sigură pe sine, al cărei decalog de “Nu”, simplu, incisiv și brutal de sincer, este ghidul ei:

Nu te uita la nimeni în fața căruia mă dezbrac, de ce o fac, când și pentru cât timp.

Nu judec, nu mă judecați. Mă judeci? Nu-mi pasă, este strict conflictul tău interior manifestat ca o reacție împotriva mea. De fapt, ceva despre cine sunt sau ce fac dislocă covorul sub care ți-ai ascuns toată mizeria. Nu datorez nimănui decât propria mea fericire.

Nu răspund și nu reacționez la oameni și situații care au doar un rol decorativ pentru mine. Nu am timp de pierdut, am timp să trăiesc și să mă bucur și, atunci când consider că este potrivit, să dăruiesc. Nu-mi spune ce crezi despre mine, nici eu face.

Nu mă invidiați, suntem doar entități comparabile cu noi înșine. Devino cea mai tare versiune a ta și vei vedea că invidia se transformă în admirație. Respect doar valorile dovedite personal. Nu dau doi bani pe cuvintele frumoase și promisiunile făcute în pat. Cuvintele zboară, chiar dacă sunt scrise.

Nu mă poți ispiti sau provoca – obișnuiește-te cu asta ideea – dacă nu o vreau. Nu vă indignați, faceți același lucru! ***

Am avut un vis umilitor. Am fost undeva în viitor – se pare că gândurile jucăușe din starea de veghe fermentează și se transformă noaptea în himere decrepite care îmi invadează visele. Trecuseră mai bine de douăzeci de ani de la ultima despărțire, de la ultimul om. O poveste intensă, pasională, dar care se terminase cât se poate de stupid. Am plâns în pumni ani de zile după aceea, iar amintirile erau incredibil de adevărate.

Cumva, renunțasem la cine sunt pentru a redeveni, în ultimii ani, naivul tinereții mele, revenind, inevitabil, acolo. “Așa sunt eu, așa voi muri, sunt deja bătrân pentru un alt destin”, m-am gândit în visul meu despre alegerea mea. Cred că am avut un vis blând, pentru că nu mă regăsesc în acest personaj hilar, pe care imaginația mea l-a creat din frânturi de realitate îndepărtată, bucăți din viețile altora, cioburi din gândurile mele… Și în toată această groază, s-a întâmplat ca, din senin, într-o zi de primăvară timpurie… S-a întâmplat. Căutam ceva într-un cartier necunoscut. Am rătăcit de ceva timp, întrebând și mergând pe aceleași străzi din nou și din nou. La un moment dat, brusc, pe neașteptate, am ajuns față în față cu… ultima. Stăteam acolo, cu ochii larg deschiși. și cu respirația tăiată.

În fața mea, dintr-o vitrină, dintr-un afiș imens, îmi zâmbea și se uita la mine… el. într-un vis, cu trăsături inventate, fără nicio legătură cu realitatea.

Pot să renunț la un vis pe care nu-l simt ca fiind al meu? Ar trebui să-l neg? Ar trebui să-l reciclez sau să-l arunc direct în coșul de gunoi?

În orice caz, era un tânăr, poate nici măcar douăzeci de ani. M-am apropiat de fereastră cu pași mici, hipnotizat, cu inima bătând ca un nebun. De la un metru distanță, era enorm. Și am rămas blocată, cu ochii ațintiți asupra imaginii care prindea viață, începea să-mi zâmbească, să se miște… A coborât de pe afiș, mi-a sărutat mâna galant și m-a invitat la o cafea. Mese de cafenea apăruseră deja pe trotuar, de nicăieri. Stăteam față în față, înfierbântați, iar eu întinerisem, mă uitam pe fereastră oglindită de tânărul din afiș și nu mă recunoșteam… Mi-a murmurat cuvinte blânde, măgulitoare, ademenitoare, astfel încât, apoi, treptat, s-a transformat în amenințări și blesteme. Speriat, am sărit de pe scaun, trântind scaunul. Și dintr-o dată a dispărut … M-am uitat în jur neliniștit și totul dispăruse – poate că era un vis într-un vis – și în fața mea era același afiș imens … și m-am trezit mai în vârstă ca niciodată .. Aș fi țipat dacă inima și lacrimile mi-ar fi ținut… Așa că am recurs la un gest care chiar și în visele mele ar fi trebuit să mi se pară jenant…

Ca un om care nu mai are nimic de pierdut, m-am prefăcut că am intrat în magazin și, cu un gest sarcastic, am dezlipit afișul de pe fereastră și am plecat cu el înfășurat sub braț… Mi-am luat bărbatul ca pachet, așa cum ar veni… și m-am trezit îngrozit.

Uneori propria noastră minte ne joacă feste, alteori propria noastră minte ne trage semnale de alarmă răsucite și bolnave, nu atât de subtile. E timpul să trecem la capitolul următor… ***

Nu am amestecat niciodată lucrurile. De aceea, acolo unde lucrez, nimeni nu mă cunoaște, de fapt. Și ar fi de preferat ca lucrurile să rămână așa.

Ieri am avut o întâlnire prelungită cu oameni din afară, necunoscuți. O plictiseală lungă, cunoscută, dar indispensabilă în opinia unora. Genul de întâlnire care durează ore întregi și în timpul căreia cei mai mulți dintre ei se ocupă discret de alte probleme, eminamente personale, în timp ce pretind că acordă atenție vorbitorului. Ascunși în spatele ecranelor laptopurilor, ca niște adevărați profesioniști, mulți trimit e-mailuri personale, navighează pe Internet sau chiar accesează jocuri video, în ferestre mici, deasupra cărora domnește ca un camuflaj o foaie de calcul Excel deschisă aleatoriu. De obicei, în timpul acestor ședințe, iau repede notițe – de mai multe ori s-au dovedit eficiente, atât ca informație, cât și ca imagine – și admir cu amuzament jocul relațiilor interpersonale, limbajul non-verbal și schimbările de fizionomie atât de plastice și expresive ale participanților. De data aceasta, a fost și mai interesant, nu a trebuit să scanez aceleași personaje cunoscute, ci fețe și atitudini noi în formă, pentru că, practic, toată lumea crea realitatea în același stil.

Dintre toate, un director regional părea cel mai puțin dispus să se alăture tendinței generale de mimă. Sau, dimpotrivă, poate că era la un nivel avansat în comparație cu restul, astfel încât a jucat perfect interesul, cu talentul unui actor priceput. De aceea nu a trebuit să-mi ascund propriul interes. Împotriva lui, însă.

Două sau trei… Contactele vizuale ocazionale au fost suficiente pentru ca atenția lui să sufere schimbări majore. Deși ezita să se uite la mine, puteam simți cum o nouă tensiune fierbea în aer. Eram la o distanță considerabilă unul de celălalt, eram despărțiți de masa generoasă și de tachinările unui coleg care era mai curios cum mă plictisesc la întâlniri decât orice altceva. Astfel că, pe moment, singura cale de comunicare a rămas cea subtilă, între gândurile și intențiile nou-născute ale fiecăruia dintre noi, dar care, agile și repede maturizate, au reușit să se întâlnească într-o dimensiune superioară celei în care câteva zeci de minți se prinseseră în hora modernă a ipocriziei.

La pauză, am simțit că ezită. Timiditatea lui mi s-a părut delicată, nealterată. Nu este prima dată când am o ușoară sensibilitate pentru o atitudine grațioasă din partea unui bărbat. Dar este un sentiment care rămâne suspendat, a cărui finalitate poate fi decisă numai prin comportamentul său ulterior. Nu s-a apropiat, dar după pauză, întorcându-se mai târziu în sala de ședințe, am fost surprins să văd că și-a schimbat locul și s-a așezat lângă mine. Colegul meu arunca deja săgeți otrăvite spre el în câmp deschis, căutând o oportunitate de a găsi un nod în graba lui. M-am așezat ca și cum nimic nu s-ar fi întâmplat, câștigasem bătălia inițială fără să ridic un deget.

Doi străini unul lângă altul. Sobru, serios, distant. La suprafață, totul era normal. Totul părea normal. Dar tensiunea devenise acută, o agitație vagă pusese stăpânire pe toată lumea. Cu coada ochiului îl văd cum își pierde treptat calmul și tremură în costumul său rigid, în timp ce se concentrează asupra butoanelor dispozitivului electronic. Nu știu ce face, dar bănuiesc și nu mă pot abține să nu zâmbesc când primesc un mesaj privat pe chat-ul intern al companiei de la un anumit M. Știu imediat că este el, prin zelul cu care îl privește acum pe director bătând pereții cu unul dintre departamente, altfel, nimic nou.

Mesajul este unul amuzant și dintr-o dată am senzația că suntem elevi de liceu în mijlocul orei de latină complicate și enervante. Dar, în loc de ghionturi și bilete, folosim cu încredere instrumentele oferite de companie și modernitate. Nu-i răspund imediat, dar trebuie, pentru că deja m-a văzut zâmbind. De pe scaunul său, colegul ultra interesat de viața mea mai are puțin și are o cădere nervoasă. El profită de faptul că discuția este de o asemenea natură, cere să ia cuvântul și începe să-l critice direct pe M.

Mă înroșesc, vorbitorul coleric roșește și mai mult, mă ridic și părăsesc întâlnirea, ca nu cumva să izbucnesc în râs la cel mai puțin potrivit moment. Mă duc la terasă și îmi aprind o țigară salvatoare. Din locul în care mă aflu, prin fereastra generoasă a sălii de conferințe, pot vedea toată acțiunea. Desigur, și eu sunt expus, dar nu-mi pasă. Nu aud ce se discută, dar conflictul pare să moară repede, nu este timp pentru subordonați să critice, acesta este doar privilegiul șefilor. Îl văd ridicându-se și părăsind camera. Știu că vine după mine – deși nu am avut timp să-i răspund la mesaj – și mă retrag într-o zonă sigură, pentru că altfel ar însemna suspendarea întâlnirii, astfel încât jumătate din companie să ne poată urma la teatru.

Când facem contact vizual, zâmbetele își întind aripile, își iau zborul și se îmbrățișează natural. Se prezintă formal și galant și își cere scuze pentru schimbarea locului, dar și pentru mesaj. Continui să fumez și să zâmbesc fără să-i spun nimic. Cel mai greu este să comunici atunci când nu ai niciun fel de feedback de la interlocutor. Tendința este să continui să vorbești, să trimiți mesaje, oricum, doar să le trimiți, cu speranța că, din când în când, vei primi un răspuns și asta în timp ce îți spui, într-un voice-over complet neutru, că deja scuipi prostii de vreo cinci minute. Minim.

Dar M nu cade în capcană. El este tăcut, brusc relaxat și își aprinde singur o țigară. Fumăm în tăcere timp de câteva minute, uitându-ne cu atenție unul în ochii celuilalt. Ca din greșeală, face o mișcare stângace și mă atinge. Un fior fierbinte se naște între omoplați și curge pe o mie de căi săpate instantaneu în carne, spre pelvis. Îmi păstrez poziția, dar răul este deja făcut. Și pe măsură ce este mâncat, îmi dau seama de ambele părți. Este clar că niciunul dintre noi nu se va întoarce la sală, cu niciun risc. Mă invită să luăm prânzul împreună, deși în mai puțin de jumătate de oră masa va fi servită pentru toată lumea. Dar conformismul nu mi-a ținut niciodată foamea.

Pur și simplu accept. ***

Alegeți un restaurant mic, cochet, situat relativ aproape, dar nu suficient de aproape pentru a vă plimba. Îi luăm mașina, parcată lângă ieșire. După ce am mers, simt cum se trage în țeapă involuntar; Cu siguranță, el crede că o anumită mașină poate fi garanția succesului unui om. Ia femei. El nu detectează strălucirea pe care o aștepta în ochii mei, așa că întrerupe programul “Am una mare pentru că am o mașină scumpă”. El oscilează, în stil, între galanteria unui gentleman și sinuozitatea unui Casanova bine versat. Dar are rafinamentul unui om obișnuit cu subtilitățile vieții , cu experiențe lungi decantate , cu comunicare criptică și fără echivoc, dar asta numai atunci când reușește să-și găsească autocontrolul, pentru că în derivă seamănă mai degrabă cu un pubescent cu cosuri care vede un sân gol pentru prima dată în viața lui și El dă drumul, dezorientat, în pantaloni.

La restaurant, se descurcă repede și primește cea mai discretă masă. Dintr-o dată, atmosfera prânzului între colegi – doar sugerată, dar nu pentru un al doilea cadou – se transformă în atmosfera cinei între iubiți. Semiîntunericul favorizează o stare de visare, prost plasată în mijlocul zilei, dar preferabilă întâlnirii din care am evadat ca doi iubiți.

Comandați vin. Filtrată prin alcool, realitatea capătă aspecte noi, tentante. Ne desprindem de beton fără regrete și ne mutăm împreună într-o dimensiune în care universul se învârte în jurul mesei noastre. Comunicăm cu priviri, gânduri, fragmente de cuvinte, fluturări, atingeri ușoare, deoarece intensitatea curentului care trece prin noi poate fi letală. Am un sentiment de d6jâ-vu, am experimentat odată senzația, dar alung gândul sâcâitor. Acum este diferit.

Întotdeauna este altceva… Ar trebui să numesc asta dragoste la prima vedere? De la cine? Cu toate acestea, să nu ne amăgim … mai degrabă, atracția irezistibilă pe care un număr consistent de sesiuni de sex ar putea oarecum să o îmblânzească. Sau nu. Rămâne să… trăi! Sfârşit

Descrierea CIP a Bibliotecii Naționale a României ANAYS M. Confesiunile unei fete rele / Anays M.. – București: Bookzone, 2018 Editura Bookzone Soseaua Berceni, nr. 104, sector 4, Bucuresti Redacția: 0774.091.579 Distribuție: 031.433.51.65 office@bookzone.ro Editor: Isabela Elena Ivan Grafică: Alina Patraș “Confesiunile unei fete rele” Anays M – București, 2018 © Bookzone © Anays M. 

BOOKZONE 

Numele meu este Anays M. Așa îmi spun aproape întotdeauna. Parcă nici nu-mi mai știu numele real. Dar nu-mi pasă. Nu am nevoie de un nume gol. Am nevoie de un corp gol, cred că mi-am construit o mare parte din viață în jurul acestei nevoi. Un corp gol în care să bată o inimă impulsivă. Caut Asia. Asta vânez. Nu, nu aștept, ca alte femei, să fiu văzută, observată etc., eventual cucerită. Mă duc la țintă, 00:00 00:00 Știu ce vreau și de ce am nevoie, o iau singură, nu stau să aștept ca cineva să-mi dea ceva pe o tavă, fie ea și o tavă argintie. Nu mai fac greșeala de a mă gândi la mine ca la un reprezentant al sexului mai slab și de a mă bălăci în slăbiciunile sale.

În lift, am luat-o de mână și am luat-o, peste fustă, între picioarele ei. Apoi i-am luat pulsul și, fără să mă gândesc, i-am deschis fanta. Membrul întărit s-a zvâcnit scurt și s-a eliberat din strânsoarea lenjeriei de corp. Mi-am retras mâna, i-am dat mâna la o parte și am început să caut o altă țigară. Întotdeauna fumez țigara după, înainte.

Introduceți transcrierea aici… Sfaturi rapide: – Ctrl+I adaugă formatarea cursivă, iar Ctrl+B adaugă formatarea aldină. – Apăsați ESC pentru a reda / întrerupe și Ctrl + J pentru a introduce marcajul temporal curent.