Monsieur Read Online Free PDF Page A

you’ll appreciate it. It takes place at night, then. Not just a single night, as there are many of them. A dark night, late, and the Young One on the first floor, confined to her blue childhood room, is twisting and turning between her damp sheets, unable to find peace, literally crucified by the imperative need to be filled, the craving that happens to be the only phenomenon capable of turning a young girl into a woman. Aware that any attempt at self-satisfaction is useless, as any climax thus achieved is just another hollow stimulation; as soon as the orgasm fades, all those thoughts would just come charging back. And, on so many occasions, I just lay there spread out in my bed for someone to open the door, anyone, and take me. Anyone, the son of the neighbour who seems to spend his life spying on me, the guy who comes to repair the boiler, a burglar even. The body of a man; no more, no less. The body of a man, the hands of a man and the demands of a man and the undescribable, delicious and profoundly shocking smell of man. That’s what I was waiting for, when I was smaller, for Peter Pan to come to me. It’s quite funny this Peter Pan story. Not long ago, I was writing to a boy, ‘Did you know that God invented nighties so that girls can wear them without knickers? I think that’s why Peter Pan came to visit Wendy. The little slut must have been sleeping with her legs open.’
    Have you read the actual J. M. Barrie novel? I believe it’s both the most beautiful and saddest story about the death of children and their early erotic awakening. In fact, I’m quite certain she wore nothing under her nightie . . . and what about the pesky Captain Hook?
    All this to explain how affecting the cravings of young girls are, despite the insomnia they generate, how despairing and full of paradoxes. I know so few girls of my age who have experienced a true orgasm in the arms of a man, ‘true orgasm’ meaning one initiated simply by penetration.
    I don’t know the reasons. That at twenty our bodies are still unexplored continents? That boys of our own age don’t properly understand us?
    At any rate, the only pleasure available to us is of our own making. And when we experience that almost hysterical craving for sex, it’s a total waste of time to try to reach it alone. The specific part of our body isn’t screaming. It’s a desire that takes root in the deepest part of the gut and demands, animal and instinctive, a man’s gut to rush against, because that’s the way things are. It’s a physiological fact that we are made to be filled by a man. Whether we come or not is beside the point. So, in a way, you may be right. ‘Just a cock.’
    It ain’t easy – it’s even humiliating – to be belittled thus. Reduced to crawling, begging.
    Changing the subject, I just remembered you basically telling me you had no memory of discussing your taste for Mandiargues and Calaferte with my uncle. You did actually talk about it, one weekend in Jersey or thereabouts, with my mother. The facts, just the facts: six months ago, my mother caught me yet again with the Calaferte volume in my hands and said, ‘I don’t understand how you can read that book over and over again!’ To which I responded that it was possibly one of the most beautiful books ever written. And I think she answered, ‘How funny. You’d get on well with one of Philippe’s colleagues.’
    Me : ‘?’
    Mum: ‘One of the surgeons who works at the clinic. He’s heavily into erotic literature.’
    There you are. That’s why we’ve been writing all these mails over the past days. Of course no one else needs to know. But you are as conscious of that as I am.
    3.30 a.m.
    Once again, do forgive me for the clumsy style and any spelling mistakes. It’s that time of night when I’m no longer quite in control of myself . .