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                                  french original | author's bio

Serge the Beauty & Rendezvous
Guillaume Dustan
translated by Brad Rumph

We met him at the Queen fairly late, at an hour when there's practically nobody left but fanatic clubbers. Going bald. Six-one, one hundred and seventy-five pounds. Body a knockout. White even-spaced teeth in a perpetual smile. Sufficiently young. Nice face. Visibly blitzed on some high-quality stuff. First we looked at each other. Then I was dancing, clinging to Stéphane, to turn him on. He moved in. We were putting on a show on the dance floor, making like we were humping one another. This got a rise out of him. I felt quantity there. Then we got unglued and exchanged a few words through the din of the music. I sent Stéphane to get us something to drink. To the other one I said Man do I ever want to blow you. He said No problem. He led me off to the toilets. I said to myself Cool, he knows what he wants. I followed with no resistance. There was a traffic jam at the toilets, a whole line to get in. I said All right what do we do? He dragged me over to a blind spot just by the doorway.
      He turned his back to the dance floor. I let myself slide to my knees. He brought out his mega-beautiful dick and I took it in my face and jerked off for five minutes or so. This was hot. Then I said Look my boyfriend is waiting for us, we gotta go over to him, OK? He said OK. Stéphane was waiting at the bar with the drinks, very cool as always.
      We rather rapidly agreed as to the next steps. First, we stop by his place to do a new American drug I haven't heard of that's supposed to be great for fucking, and after we go home because we have toys at our place and he doesn't at his. By now I'm fairly convinced that this is going to be more trouble than it's worth because of this final detail, but he is such a specimen I cannot imagine one single second not getting him when I can.
      His apartment is tiptop. Loft space. TV and speakers in the bathroom. Classy furniture. An envelope addressed to him from a TV network is lying on the extra-large counter of his eat-in American kitchen. He puts on Trance very loud. The sound is the best. We taste his powder. In ten minutes we are wiped out. Lights camera action. Our clothes peel off. He is sublime. Great dick, very large and long, big balls with lots of skin. I suck him. I lick his balls. He smacks my back, my ass. He plays macho man. I like. He's like, You're a real slut, a true one. You get me all hot and bothered. I check. He exaggerates. I'm sure he's not going to bang me but too bad. In the bathroom there was an old box of Prophyltex, full, and Prophyltex is much too tight for a cock like his. If he was using condoms inside an ass with any frequency he'd have Manix large. What's weird also is a pair of very classy women's high heels on the floor by the mirror in his bedroom. But it's the only trace of woman in the whole space. Maybe he's bi, the pretentious prick. He looks me in the eye. I do the same. We smile. He tells me Don't you look at me like that if you don't want me marrying you. I tell him It's not my fault, that's the way it is. He's like, wow wow wow!, clapping his hands while I paddle his ass with my hands to make for a sexier ambience. And then the darling is too stoned, and falls asleep on the parquet with his leather pants down to his ankles. I like this Serge, that's for sure, it's like being in love. The problem is, of course, he's not fucking me. Just a bump or two of the cock, no condom, like that, in the kitchen, the windows open, after he's snapped his cordless telephone antenna trying to insert it up my ass. This guy is not used to fucking, it shows. True you can't have everything in life. He tells me several times how sorry he is he's so wasted. I tell him no big deal.
      He falls asleep on the sofa while I'm sucking him. The stereo plays opera now, this must be what he usually listens to. I'm left alone. I go into his bedroom, I scope out a few books, a method for a perfect body and how to train it, under the table by the bed, the cassettes under the TV in front of the bed, no porn or else they're well hidden, a dresser with jockey shorts, boxer shorts, socks, handkerchiefs. I try on a pair of blue jockey shorts, not bad, then a jockstrap, not nice (I used to have the same one almost), then an old pair of Nikos, ultra-hot cut that look great on me. I put them in my jacket, then I search for a container for the powder. I find an empty film container on his desk. I extract my little present. I wolf down a slice of all-bran bread. There's nothing else in the fridge. The opera's still on. I wake Stéphane. You all right? He's OK. I leave Serge the beauty a note with our telephone number. It's nice outside. I put on my shades. The streets are already coming to life. We go home. Stéphane drives. Parking lot. Pains au chocolat. Croissants. The baker's son is still our fan. It's good to be home. So we smoke a joint. And I fuck Stéphane.
      He calls around seven, eight in the evening. Hi, it's Sergio. That's what I called him in my note. He's going to dinner, but we can meet up later. He is weird. He says I'll call back at midnight. All right, this is normal, with three it's always a little complicated. But for once there's someone who interests me. Makes an impression, the Fuck. I'm sure he's not even going to call me back.
      He calls back, only it's one-thirty. This looks bad. He apologises. I cut him short. His dinner's not over, can we meet at the Folies at three, no better make it three-thirty? I say OK. I hang up. I tell Stéphane Look, I want this fuck so bad just this once for real. I've got to go. Stéphane says it's not a problem.
I'm at the Folies Pigalle. There's a very beautiful girl in a hot pink ultra-tight T-shirt, with Babie written in silver. She dances great. She's as flashy as a faggot or a black. It's three o'clock. I did a quarter hit of acid, three lines of coke, smoked two joints and drank a beer at home before going out. High, but not too high. I chat with a cab driver. On the door of the Folies there's a guy Quentin and I had a threesome with ages ago. He says hi to me. Are you with somebody? A wave of paranoia, I don't understand what he wants to say, I tell him no I'm by myself; can I come in? He looks at me a little surprised but he's got to see I'm stoned. Once I'm in I tell myself obviously he's not going to turn away somebody he knows. And I think Wow, it's cool, I know the doorman at the Folies. This sort of stuff impresses me. I know it's stupid. Then there's a Chinese guy at the entrance, one of the organisers, he's real real tall and thin, he makes come-fuck-me T-shirts as a sideline. I ran into him at a fashion show my friend Georges took me to. He bends over nearly in two and gives me this lifeless kiss. Hi! I buy myself a beer. I smoke. I dance.
      Tonight I know absolutely not a soul in here. No buddy, no pick-up, nobody I've ever exchanged more than two words with before. This stresses me a little. Plus, the acid's strong. It gives me these pains in the back and it pulls on the cheekbones and I'm speeding, zooming, and from time to time I'm a little short of breath and I have hot rushes. I calm down, tell myself it's always like this on acid. There are the positive sides too, the light and the colours are ten times more real than in reality. Since I'm having a good trip I can't think about anything disagreeable for more than two seconds. My one and only preoccupation has to do with what I'm feeling and this absolute necessity of mine to move, to discharge the really excessive energy the acid gives me.
      Only three o'clock. I decided to be here at two-thirty to be sure not to miss him. I get off on playing the ditz. The music is good, the sound is better than before and makes me dance. When I take acid dancing relaxes my back. First I warm up, and then when I'm really cooking I get up on the stage, I take off my T-shirt, I dance with no shirt, my braces trailing down my thighs on top of my combat boots. It's best to have on big shoes when you have a tendency to fall around.
      And then the music turns not as good, too hardcore. I come off the stage. I'm dripping sweat. I go to the toilet to freshen up. Long pink corridor. There are Some North African girls getting a rise out of some North African guys. One girl's saying she can piss like a guy, in the urinal. I wasn't able to piss anyhow, so I move away for her to show us. She comes up, unzips, and then she chickens out. They jabber a little aggressively, that's North Africa cruising. I go to empty my bladder in a closed stall that opens just then. The ambience is bizarre tonight.
      The evening is a mega-success I think. There are only beautiful people who dance so well everybody looks filled with wonder, totally trashed or else very new to the club scene, or even both. Nothing to cruise. Too trendy. Whatever. Acid makes it OK.
      I don't care so much for acid, I think it's too strong, but all right, let's face it, acid does give you zip. As Soon as the music is a little less hardcore Trance, I go back and dance all the way down. Hard-hitting DJ chains together deep disco shake-that-ass, Trance pumped up to where it is almost too much reality, the dance floor begins to lay down its arms when UP! it begins all over again. Guys cry out in pain when the DJ breaks the rhythm on purpose in the middle of a mix. I take a break. Stairways.
      Gallery. Bar. I'm covered in sweat, looking a little too hardcore for a place like this, I'm not served right away, but in the end it's OK, the gin and peppermint is good.
      Ten to four and he's a no-show. I go out alone. I walk around Place Pigalle. I'm in a rage. When I get to the Transfert the doorman smiles at me. Stéphane is there, with his big gentle eyes, a slutty tank top plunging to his tits. A kiss of the tongue and then I say What's up, cutie? He says Nothing, I was getting a little bored. The fucking fuck bar. The anniversary of the Transfert. Nothing is worse than a festive occasion in an S & M venue. Cake is being passed around on paper plates. Nobody wants any, but to be polite the guys closest to the bar force themselves. The bartender has his little tantrum: No cake gentlemen? Well let me remind you there are plenty of people out there who would.
      I go around the back of the backroom, suck a little the skinhead boy hanging out naked in the big sink everybody uses for pissing. What he wants in fact is my piss, but I don't want to piss. I split. I get a few kisses, two guys tweak my nipples. I do the same to them. The guy in front of me sticks two fingers up my ass. I pull up my pants. I turn around. There's a guy in front of me I know but haven't got around to yet. He goes out all the time but I don't think he does a lot of fucking. He looks at my cock. I stroke it a little in front of him for fun. I have a discussion with a little skinhead who looks like a mouse. He's extra sweet. I tell him You make me want to do bad things. He's
      like, I do?, full of hope. But I'm not that convinced, I don't think he's slutty enough. He senses this as well, and we let things go at that. I go back to Stéphane at the bar. We get champagne squirted all over our faces. This is beginning to weigh down on me. We decide to leave.
      In the car I'm wiped. Stéphane tells me five or six times he wants sex. I don't answer. When we peel off our clothing at home, the carpet around the bed gets covered with confetti. I say to Stéphane If you want to get fucked I can do it. He doesn't look like he believes. I ask Is your ass clean? He says Yes. I take out an Olla, we don't have any Manix large, but I really like Olla. They're the ones we used in the Quentin days. They are kind of thick, but very supple and soft. I bang him first standing in front of the toilet. I make him put his head in and I fuck him. Then I bring him back to the bedroom and I fuck him on the bed, from the front, then from behind. It lasts a long time, and it's really not bad, I enter and I exit, his ass is like slurp, slurp slurp, very loud, he groans and moans, bunched up under me. I begin to lose my hard-on, his ass is too wide. I continue though. And then we have to stop because I've gone too soft. We go wash our hands. I propose he fuck me. He says he wants to piss. I flop into the tub and he pisses on me and I don't wash it off and we return to the bed. The fucking is great. Deep. Long. I let myself get fucked like never before. I find he's getting better and better. And then it becomes obvious we're too stoned to come. I search around for my watch. It's ten o'clock, we've been fucking four hours. We finish off the easy way, he licks my balls, I come, and then I offer to work over his ass with my left hand because my right hand's got cum all over it. He explodes. We cuddle. I roll one last joint. He falls asleep. I smoke half and then I realise I'm losing consciousness so I put the joint down and fall asleep.
      I awake livid because of the no-show last night. We watch TV. I try to resist and then give in and call Serge around seven in the evening. Machine. I speak in case he's screening. He picks up.
      'Hi, it's Guillaume.'
      'Hi, you all right?'
      ‘ Ahh…I have people over right now, my mother.'
      'That's nice.'
      'How was it last night?'
      I think this over.
      'It was disappointing. I mean I didn't know you weren't going to come.'
      'Me neither. I didn't know I wasn't going to come.'
      'Well,' I go on, 'you're with people and anyway I don't have a whole lot else to tell you. It's up to you.'
      'I'll call you back.'
      I hang up. This guy makes me sick. Do you realise he stands me up and I call him back, I say to Stéphane? But this is what's good about it too. Being impressed. Showing it. Like a slut. But not too much. I was happy that it had been disappointing. I was hoping he'd understand I meant to say both that he was a disappointment and that I was disappointed. I wanted to rattle his cage a little. But at the same time I still wanted him. His ultra-soft skin. His perfect muscles, not too big, not too small. Beautiful.

©Guillaume Dustan
©translated by Brad Rumph

"Serge the Beauty & Rendezvous " is taken from the novel In My Room (Dans ma chambre). The Barcelona Review's electronic version is published by arrangement with Serpent's Tail.

"Serge the Beauty & Rendezvous " also appears in XCITÉS edited by Georgia de Chamberet and published by Flamingo, 1999.

Book ordering available through  Amazon.co.uk

This story may not be archived or distributed further without the author's express permission. Please see our conditions of use.

Author bio: G. Dustan

Guillaume Dustan resides in Paris where he divides his time between Radio FG 98.2, the magazine e-m@le and running a publishing imprint which specializes in gay writing.  His name is a pseudonym. His incisive, hardcore novels Dans ma chambre, Je sors ce soir and Plus fort que moi read like the poignant diary of a sex junkie lost in clubland.  Dans ma chambre, from which this selection is taken, is available in English translation through Serpent's Tail, UK. 


navigation:                         barcelona review #16                       January - February 2000
-Fiction Juan Abreu: Tendernesschip
Guillaume Dustan: Serge the Beauty & Rendezvous
Len Kruger: Hotline
Norman Lock: In the Time of the Comet
Richard Peabody: Essence of Mitchum
-Poetry John Giorno: Three Poems
-Article January and February in Barcelona
-Quiz Federico García Lorca - win a book
Answers to last issue's Samuel Beckett Quiz
-Regular Features Book Reviews
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