The Frotteur in Love

Between Charles de Gaulle-Étoile and Louvre-Rivoli is a very sexy time. The Press happens. All bodies – nice suits on or “I love paris” t-shirts on – form The Press.

When The Press is on, we admit finally that human beings must touch each other.  Perhaps a big black guy will sag on you. Perhaps a little arab girl will rest a magazine on your upper arm. You might even be face to face with a man who looks just like you but who smells of brandy and you share the brandy now.

Philippe had his first train orgasm two years ago. Now they accounted for upwards of 80% of his sexual activity. At first he would pick nice buttocks, nice female buttocks. He would line himself up over a three minute period, each little jerk of the train acting as a kind of mechanical ratchet that Obligated him to move a centimetere more into the groove.  Unless he found himself a Fighter, he would be in good shape when he got in the groove. Trains jerk you around. He would do nothing untoward: no muscle action. She could go through her whole life telling herself it had been a courgette, an umbrella, a hip bone maybe.

He maintained absolute silence throughout. Everyone was sweating on the train, and many people had their eyes closed. In some ways he was doing nothing out of the ordinary. In some ways he was actually doing nothing at all. And when he filled his inner underpants (he always wore two pairs) he did always sigh. But then, who doesn’t sigh nowadays.

Over time he became less choosy in his target. Yes, even tourists sometimes. He carefully avoided children and men were only used when absolutely necessary.

Geneviève was an unusual woman. She was an attractive short-haired redhead who dressed nicely, but she loved money in a way few women at the bank did. There were many successful, high-powered women at P______ bank. But they loved their own money and they loved success. They did not love the intangible substance of Money. Pure Money – the measure of man’s confidence in the future. A number that appeared on  screens now, in wheelbarrows in Weimar Germany, that would disappear if a big enough war came around.

After very big transactions were done, there were a few people at the bank who would sit around later and watch the aftershocks of what they had done. Geneviève and Philippe were two in this group. And after they did a big thing to Belgium she invited him for a glass of wine in the café below their office.

A glass tuned into a bottle: the everyday magic. They laughed and enjoyed silences together. There are few people with whom you can do both of these things comfortably.

Philippe had not been with a woman for three years. And he looked back on those days as something like his childhood: necessary but done and sealed and half forgotten and half invented. But when Geneviève looked at him, he could feel something else sealing. He could feel the nature of his present, the Lighting of his present start to change.

The evening came to the point where it has to transform. They paid and left. He noticed that she was a heavy tipper, or perhaps that she carried too many coins with her. He expected it was the latter.

He planned to part at the train station with four kisses. But then she came down with him.

“You don’t normally come on this train, Geneviève,” he said and of course there was a hint of panic in there but underground tunnels and new social encounters mask panic well.

“No, but I promised my sister I would come and look at her taxes with her tonight. I hope she won’t mind I’m half drunk. Most of the tax inspectors are, so it will actually be a very good simulation.”

Philippe had a good laugh and soon with horror they were on the train together. But at least 40 centimetres apart.

He thought through the route. At this time of the evening, there would be no spot where they would be closer than twenty centimetres apart.

At Franklin D. Roosevelt, thirty-five Italian teenagers got on board. Large breasted Italian teenage girls take up a lot of space and the boys add a lot of kinetic energy to the train. August orgasms, during the tourist peak, are full of incredible teenage energy.

But they should not be here now. This was not the season. This was not good.

At Concorde a massive surge of English rugby fans exploded into the train with a masculinity that could not be countered. With gallantry, Philippe shielded Geneviève from impact, but found himself groin to navel with her, unable to move even a little.

“Here we go! Here we go!” they chanted.

The train moved off. His half erection was now full. Fuller than it had ever been. He could hear the skin stretch, it seemed to him, in the way you can hear strange things happening in your body. It pushed against her muscular abdomen. He could not feel his clothes or her clothes, but he was sure he could feel the soft down around her belly button, which was gentle and slightly curved.

“No,” he said. At first inside, a million times. Then one time out through his lips. The orgasm was too big to hide. As she looked at him, in extreme discomfort, trying to wriggle free of him, he made a big grunt like a big pig and the thing in his trousers punched her under the ribs.

The blank resignation in her face made him feel like what he truly was and had carefully never thought about. The train kept lurching. The wine they had so pleasantly shared seemed like poison in his belly.

Carelessly, he vomited in her face. A fat red puke, full of carelessly chewed meat tumbled onto her freckled face, spilling in an uncatchable stream into the chasm between her breasts.

She bucked like a donkey and quickly came.

Her tongue flashed reflexively to her cheek, licking at the bile she had smelled there.

The train stopped and they both got off.

He always carried several handkerchiefs, so they were able to clean her off nicely.

It was quiet on the platform, and a few unremarkable people passed by.

“I wish there were no such thing as memory, so we could be in love,” she said.

They shook hands and went their separate ways.

As he went to bed that night he thought about her words. He realized that she was like him and so he knew what she had meant. They could never have a moment as good as that again.

——————————————

Élodie Malade,  is a former champion fencer and ghostwriter for the
“Osez…” series of books, including “Osez… tout savoir sur
l’autofellation.” She is the Paris bureau chief for ZizekPress.com

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2 responses to this post.

  1. Elodie – bienvenue a notre petit maison de la paraphilia.

    Merci pour votre histoire d’amour.

    C’est tres belle et tres ‘sexy time’.

    QRG
    x

    Reply

  2. I adore this whole story; out of everything in the collection, this is easily one of my top three favorites. The line ““I wish there were no such thing as memory, so we could be in love,” she said.” is just too fantastic. Excellent work!

    Reply

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