Free The Sexual Life of Catherine M. by Catherine Millet

my decision; Paul—who sometimes forcibly holds me back, locking both of us in the bathroom if necessary, just to excite my
    impatience to mingle in the melee of bod- ies—promises to send me a friend of his that I have not yet met, someone who has nothing to do with the art world, a car mechanic. He knows that I would rather meet this man than go to the restaurant with the others and sit wearily on a terrace or in the corner of a nightclub waiting for the same weariness to overcome the rest of them. I don’t pay much attention to Paul’s proposition and look for- ward to an evening alone. There is something delicious about those moments when the emptiness around you opens up not only the space around you but also, somehow, the enormity of the time ahead. With unconscious economy, we make the most of this given opportunity by lazily set- tling into the depths of an armchair as if to leave as much space as possible to the on- rush of time. The kitchen is right at the back of the villa, and I go and make myself a sand- wich. My mouth is full when Paul’s friend
    appears in the doorway that leads out to the garden. He is tall and dark with pale eyes, quite impressive in the darkness. He apolo- gizes amicably, he can see that I’m eating, begs me not to stop just because of him…I am ashamed of the crumbs in the corners of my mouth. I say no, no, I’m not really hungry, and I chuck the sandwich away furtively.
    He takes me away. He drives his convert- ible along the Grande Corniche above Nice. He takes one hand off the steering wheel to reply to mine rubbing against the rough sur- face of the bulge in his jeans. That swelling, impeded by the tight, stiff fabric, is an effect- ive stimulus for me every time. Do I want to go and eat somewhere? No. I think he’s driv- ing a bit farther than he needs to, taking de- tours before getting home. He keeps his eyes on the road as I undo his belt. I recognize that little forward movement of the driver’s hips that makes it easier to undo his zipper.
    Then there is the laborious process of extric- ating the member, which has grown too big to slip straight out of the double envelope of cotton. You need to have a wide enough hand to gather up all the parts in one smooth ges- ture. I am always afraid of hurting it. He has to help me. At last I can get on with my con- scientious stroking. I never start too quickly, I really prefer following all its length, feeling the elasticity of the fine sheath of flesh. I put my mouth to it. I try to hold my body as far aside as possible, so as not to be in his way when he changes gear. I keep to a moderate rhythm. I am conscious of the danger that driving in these conditions could represent, and as a result, have no inclination to court it.
    As far as I can remember, it was a very pleasant encounter. Even so, I didn’t want to stay the night with him, and he had to take me back to the villa before the group got back. It was not that I had forbidden myself
    to stay out all night, but that I wanted the time I had spent with him to stay as it was (like when your thoughts wander off into a daydream halfway through a conversation), a private place to which the others, for once, would not have access.

    The reader will have realized that, as I have explained, I exercised complete free will in my chosen sexual life, and if I orchestrated little breakaways, as I have just illustrated, this latitude could be measured only in terms of its direct opposite: the way fate brings people together, the determinism of the chain in which one link—one man—holds you to another, which links you to a third and so on. Mine was not the kind of freedom played out on the whims of circumstance; it was a freedom expressed once and for all, ac- cepting the unreserved abandonment of the
    self to a way of life (like a nun saying her vows!). I have never formed a relation- ship—however fleeting—with someone I have met on a train or in the Métro, even though I have often