The Sexual Life of Catherine M. Read Online Free PDF Page A

so civil. Aimé was a very popular swingers club. People came from very far
    away, even from abroad, to stay there. Years after it had closed, I still marveled like an awestruck schoolgirl when Éric listed the famous people—the film stars, singers, sports personalities and businessmen—I might have met there without actually open- ing my eyes enough to recognize them. Dur- ing the time we went there, a film that par- odied some aspects of the sexual revolution came out. One scene took place in a club that looked like Chez Aimé; it showed a group of men thronging round a table. There was a woman lying on the table, but all you could see were her legs, in high boots, jiggling comically over their heads. Because those sort of boots were in fashion at the time, and I wore them, and even tended to keep them on when I wasn’t wearing a stitch of clothing because they were difficult to remove, and because I must have brandished them in the air like that more than once as I lay on a table, I was vain enough to think that it
    might well be my minimal attire and my waving in the air that had fired the director’s imagination.
    The pleasure that I felt as I succumbed to a long session at Chez Aimé with my buttocks parked on the edge of a big wooden table and the overhead light hanging down over my torso, as if I were some sort of board game, is equaled only by my loathing for the journey there. It was a long way from Paris: you had to drive through the sinister darkness of the Bois de Fausses-Reposes at Ville-d’Avray, and then you had to find the house at the bottom of a skimpy garden that looked like something from the suburbs of my child- hood. Éric never gave me any warning of the evening’s agenda because I think he drew some of his satisfaction from elaborating it with surprises; it was his own way of creating weird and wonderful situations. Anyway, I played along by asking no questions. Even so, when I gathered that we were heading
    there, I would worry not only at the thought of all the strangers who would soon be for- cing me to wake up to where I was, but also in anticipation of the energy I would have to expend. It was a feeling not unlike the one I get before giving a conference, when I know I will have to be completely focused on what I am saying, and at the mercy of my listeners. Both the men met in those situations and the audiences plunged in darkness are faceless, and, miraculously, between the anxiety of anticipation and the weariness at the end, you are perfectly unaware of your own exhaustion.
    Visitors went in Chez Aimé through the bar—I don’t remember ever being taken in there (even though the feel of my pussy against the moleskin of a bar stool with my flattened buttocks lending themselves to furtive fondling belongs to my very oldest fantasies). I’m not sure I even paid much at- tention to what was going on around me, to
    the few women perched by the bar whose buttocks and thatches passersby certainly did uncover and play with. My place was in one of the back rooms, lying—as I have said—on a table. The walls were bare, there was no seating, there was nothing in these rooms except for the rough-hewn tables and overhead lights. So I could stay there two or three hours. Always the same configuration: hands running over my body, me grabbing at cocks, turning my head from left to right to suck, while other cocks rammed into me, up toward my belly. Twenty could take turns in an evening. That position, the woman on her back with her pubis on a level with the man’s as he stands squarely on the ground, is one of the most comfortable I know. The vulva is well opened, the man in just the right place to thrust horizontally and strike deeply without stopping. It makes for a vigorous and precise fuck. I was sometimes set upon so violently that I had to hold on to the ends
    of the table with both hands, and for a long time I bore the scar of a little gash above my coccyx, where my spine had rubbed against