Dead Horsemeat

Saturday 21 October 1989

A pleasant awakening. It’s already late morning. A grey light, drizzle, body aching slightly. Today, he can take his time. A long, hot bath, images from last night floating around his head. Fascinating, the packets of cocaine that Le Dem delivered, one by one, from the mares’ wombs. Then a cold power shower. And the shaving ritual, the whole works, since he’s in no hurry. A long, supple shaving brush, English soap, and the best razor in the collection, a Swedish-made open razor. The silky caress of the steel on his skin, the precision and tension of the gesture, no room for error. This face and this body suit him.

And then, a carefully prepared breakfast. Frothy eggs scrambled over a bain-marie, and a very fresh goat’s cheese with bread, washed down with steaming coffee, a whole pot. Daquin eats lounging on the sofa, his feet on the coffee table, flicking through yesterday’s papers. Fancies a fuck. A few precise images of certain lovers’ bodies, an especially tender gesture or caress. Need to go cruising. But for the time being, he’s got to go down to the Drugs Squad headquarters. A whole day of work ahead of him, in the office, in the utmost calm. Go through the files, read the statements carefully. Don’t overlook a thing, think, plan the next stage. A fresh pot of coffee. Good.

By evening, the rain has stopped, the whole city plunges from greyness into night. Leaning on the parapet of the embankment, he watches the Seine flowing past, dark and peaceful. Once again, like this morning, desire. For life, for sex.

The Marais district isn’t far. Barely more than five minutes on foot. He turns into a narrow little street between ancient buildings, full of memories like a familiar garment. The tarmac is drying out. Young men and women, mainly men, amble around amid the lit-up shops, shady bars and cafés spilling onto the pavements. The occasional burst of music. Dreadful music, but it’s part of the scene. Gorgeous boys walk in the middle of the road, tantalising arses and bright eyes, all attainable, all anonymous. Daquin walks behind a tall, slender fair-haired guy, tight sweater, hip-hugging jeans, with a slit below the buttocks. Couldn’t be more explicit. The outline of a pack of condoms discernible in his back pocket. His shoulders sway as he walks, exchanging greetings, smiles and banter with various people. A regular. Daquin slowly draws closer.

Ten minutes later they are together, leaning on the bar of a dark, overcrowded café, having a drink: Daquin a margarita, and the fair-haired Adonis – ‘My name’s Michel’ – fine features, huge eyes, delightfully calm and available, a rum.

Daquin slips his hand inside the slit jeans, feels his way to the inner thigh. A burning in his belly. Kisses the velvety base of his neck. Discovers the taste of his skin, a faint citrusy tang, or is it the margarita? His lips move very slowly round to the corner of Michel’s mouth. Not yet. Take his time, prolong the ache of desire until it becomes almost unbearable. And then, the cool lips under his tongue, the warm mouth. The ever new thrill of chance and discovery.

A few drinks later, Michel: ‘A friend has lent me a studio flat just around the corner. Shall we go there?’

A small apartment on the top floor of a seventeenth-century building, exposed beams, white walls. Daquin slides his hands inside the tight sweater, smooth, narrow chest, nipples tautening at his touch. Removes the sweater, then pulls Michel by his jeans belt, has him kneel on the big bed in a dark wood frame with a white crotchet cotton bedspread. Undoes the buttons, one by one, very slowly, to reveal the paler skin on his stomach, feels a pang, the curly tuft rough to the touch, the pubes of a fair-haired man, sparser than usual. Slips the jeans down over his hips, then down his long, slightly too slender legs, which feel hard under the curly down that electrifies the palms of his hands.

Michel now completely naked on the bed, golden as warm bread. So happy to be gazed at, admired, caressed and licked. Your pleasure kindles mine. You are the one I’ve dreamed of.