The Erotic Potential of my Wife (12 page)

Brigitte had to leave to go shopping, they needed to eat. In the aisles of the supermarket, she was an ageless woman. A boy was hitting on her at the fruit and vegetable counter, she was a desirable woman, many hands would have fantasised of penetrating her
décolletage
, to take her breast and forget their fingers there. This supermarket flirter offered to take her out for a drink, to jump her in a scummy motel. She was imagining herself legs akimbo, surely she would have taken some pleasure, like that, by chance. Some hit the spot with chance. And then after, nothing, they would not discuss literature; and when he would draw the curtains, he would not flinch in front of the inevitably dirty windows of every motel. It was already boring her. She wanted to wash windows.

Hector was also going out. He loved to take the sixth Metro line. There were many sublime moments on that line. He found the compartment’s windows to be dirty. Imagining his wife cleaning those windows, he was remembering how awkward it was to have an erection in public places. There was something for which to be happy in that (a certain idea of a return to life). Nevertheless, in the tunnels, he felt some hot flushes. He had the impression that he himself was becoming this Metro that was being swallowed by black holes. Hector got off at the next station. Chance had it that this station was called ‘Montparnasse-Bienvenue’. Without this little word of ‘
bienvenue’
, he would surely have put an end to his days. It was a nominally human station, one of the rare underground places where, in the face of emptiness, we did not have the physical fear of being pushed in the back.

Slowly, their lives were alive again. They tried to laugh at the turn of events in their story. They would have a small washing, then they would go to bed. Hector was regaining an appearance worthy of a semi-modern man. They had officially announced their return from their holiday, everything was going to start again in beautiful clarity. They would finally be able to satiate Brigitte’s bizarre fantasy. They had not been able to do so previously since this fantasy required being invited to their friends’. They had chosen Marcel and Laurence (but did they really have any other friends)?

Marcel opened his arms as wide as possible, as far as the walls allowed him. Laurence, all sparkling, greeted the couple hurriedly because she was still very busy in the kitchen (a roast). Hector, already uncomfortable, was dreading the evening. But his wife had already offered him so many washes that he did not really have a choice. Brigitte suddenly seemed perverse, the smile of an easy woman could even be detected on her face. It was as though she had always led this type of ceremony, and, sufficiently sure of herself, she took the time to relax her partner. For that, she had no alternative than to do what followed: while both couples were sipping a Marcellian punch, a zest of lemon and three zests of surprise, she was going into raptures about it being such a beautiful apartment. Laurence, even if she was a high level athlete, was never insensitive to compliments regarding her way of keeping house. She felt proud that a woman respected her. But very quickly that feeling was wrecked by another of Brigitte’s observations: ‘On the other hand, if I may … I think that your windows are not quite clean.’

Hector spat out his punch. Marcel started to laugh until the moment when he crossed Laurence’s glare. After almost having climaxed from the compliments on her interior, she took a slap in the face about her windows. She stammered that she had not had enough time … Well, yes, she had neglected them … In short, she was asking for forgiveness. Brigitte told her that it was not serious in the least, and apologised for her frankness, but frankness was a pillar of friendship, wasn’t it? Brigitte, pushed by her audacity, rose towards the window.

‘If you don’t mind, I am just going to pass a quick spritz for this living room to be perfect – ’

‘But you’re crazy!’ Laurence was up in arms. ‘It’s up to me to do it! We are in my home!’

In an impulse that he could not suppress, Hector shouted: ‘No, let Brigitte wash the windows!’ Then, understanding the peculiarity of his remark, and also the sudden way in which he had become inflamed, he continued, less proudly: ‘Yes … Erm … She likes that … washing windows … Well, it’s just that she doesn’t mind … Well, you see …’

What Laurence and Marcel saw was that they had invited maniacs for dinner.

Brigitte had managed to pull a fast one. Hector was suddenly excited, and ready to satiate his wife’s fantasy. But when she turned, she was confronted by three still faces. Marcel and Laurence were gazing at her intensely. It was strange that her attitude, doubtlessly daring, provoked such an effect on her hosts. Fine, it was not really the done thing to criticise the cleanliness of a place where you are invited; even less to want to remedy the situation. But there it was, it was almost a game, there was no reason to freeze. No one was talking, so she felt obliged to justify herself: ‘No, but it was just a joke!’ Suddenly, Marcel and Laurence cheered up, and came back to reality without really knowing what had just happened to them. They laughed, understanding Brigitte’s sense of humour. They sat at the table.

Hector was not very hungry anymore. His wife had excited him too much, and then nothing. He had to have dinner, even though he was still fixed on this uncompleted washing, or at least too expeditious. Thankfully, socially speaking, the subject at dinner was focused on the United States; a subject they unfurled mechanically, like in the good old days of mythomania. And then the roast was almost ready, so, true to the ritual, Laurence called Hector to the kitchen. He rose with a sigh, resigned for his testicles to be groped. As usual. More and more excited, this time he took the initiative, and placed his hand on Laurence’s breast. Shocked, outraged, she slapped him on the spot: ‘What the hell is wrong with you! Fat swine! …’ He was speechless and brought out the roast. Still shaken on his way back to the table, he could not believe what he had just discovered: nymphomania is a one-way street.

Brigitte had washed the windows, Hector, too turned-on, had received a surprising slap; this dinner seemed very promising. And the fantasy was not yet put in motion. The fantasy was dozing very near the dessert. Before that, he had to digest the roast that was a smidgeon too dry. But with what had been said with the aperitifs, it was out of the question to criticise anything. Everything was exquisite, but could we, for the twelfth time tonight, have a bit more water? ‘Do you find it dry?’ worried Laurence. ‘Of course not,’ the dry throats answered in unison. This roast could have been drowned in an ocean of sauce before being eaten. Finally, the dessert course ended this pitiful dinner with a floating island in the form of mediocre apotheosis. The island was actually struggling not to sink and Marcel, as an amateur of one-liners, rebaptised the thing a floating Titanic.

Brigitte hesitated; she was no longer certain of wanting to satiate her fantasy. She could especially not guarantee that this sensual urge was not a response to the washing. A vital means, according to her, of equalising their relationship. To be honest, in remembering all these erotic moments in the darkness of her room of virgin adolescent, these moments where she touched herself in a still imprecise way, she did sometimes have strange images in mind. She imagined a man who she would love, a man who by love for her would be able to … No, it was not possible that such a thing could have crossed her mind … Everyone had their fantasy, she repeated to herself while drinking a bit more of the thankfully treacherous punch. Her vertigo progressing, she took courage, and her crescendo desire, for once, would not agonise in frustration …

She gave Hector a sign.

Then.

Then he rose abruptly and began to undress.

In prevision of what was predicted, he had worn a simple shirt and trousers without a belt. Thus, he was naked in a few seconds. Terribly awkward, he glanced over at Marcel amicably. The latter who had gathered the secrets about the washing was not really surprised. On the other hand, Laurence overplayed the prude (oh really) by covering her eyes. Hector’s genitals were quite short genitals, only a tad cumbersome. Brigitte was more and more excited by the idea that her man was the target of these looks. (Laurence did remove her hands to analyse the Hectorian anatomy.)

‘Can I ask what’s happening to you?’ asked Marcel.

‘Nothing … It’s just that I wanted to have your opinion about my genitals. I could only allow myself to ask such a question to friends. It is very awkward for me, but I would like you to be honest …’

‘Listen, you’re taking us by surprise …’

‘Oh, I thought so … you find it small?’

‘No, it’s not that,’ Marcel reassured him. ‘It’s just that we do not have many points with which to compare it to. For my part I haven’t seen many other than mine … And I don’t think Laurence saw more than two before me …’

Laurence almost choked. Then became angry: ‘OK, this behaviour is just unsuitable! You come to eat dinner at our house, we’re not in a swingers’ club! But if you want to know, your genitals are average, no more, no less … It is without interest, it has no particular quality … It seems a bit flaccid on the pre-testicular zone …
(getting carried away suddenly)
The gland for its part is slightly dichotomous … You have everything of a premature ejaculator … Well, I can’t be entirely sure …
(shouting)
In any case, you’re a sprinter! There is no doubt about that! It’s a sprinter’s dick!’

She stopped abruptly when she looked at her table companions’ bewildered faces. But, very quickly, the strangeness of that moment was engulfed by the strangeness of the whole evening. There was no more energy to focus on the details (well …).

Hector was on the lookout for a sign from his wife; she allowed him to get dressed. On that note, they got up and left, warmly thanking their hosts for this delicious evening. To be honest, they were not going to linger after their act of terrorism. Moreover, as is usually the case, once genitals have been unveiled, there is not much left to say. Marcel and Laurence blamed their friends’ sudden extravagance on their recent trip to the United States. Americans have ten years advance on us, Marcel affirmed. I would not be surprised if soon all men were to show their things at the end of a meal.

The following summer, they would surely go to Chicago.

Thus Brigitte’s fantasy had been that Hector show his genitals. More precisely, her fantasy was that her husband’s dick be a topic of conversation, that everyone analyse it like an insect under a microscope. She had loved his little face all embarrassed like a darling little man. He had been so brave that she would wash the windows all night if he wanted. They had both satiated their fantasies. They were finally a couple like any other (were they going to consider buying a house in the suburbs?) They decided to walk home. They were walking hand in hand in the moonlight, crossing all these other couples in love who were walking hand in hand. Paris is a fantastic city for those who love each other with such a commonplace love. Midnight. The Eiffel Tower sparkled with precision, there were always civil servants behind the magic. And it is on the bank of the Seine that Hector had the following intuition: ‘Was it really your fantasy?’

Brigitte laughed.

‘Of course not, that wasn’t a fantasy! My fantasies are a lot simpler than that … My fantasies are to make love in a cinema or in a lift … I just wanted to know what you were capable of doing that for me, to prove your love … After all, I am going to be washing windows my whole life to excite you … little pervert! So I wanted to make sure that you deserved it … Come, I have a feeling the windows in our home are dirty …’

Everything was like in the time of their best days. Hector wanted to take Brigitte to the library, to breathe in the foetus of their love. Their hands would naturally find each other in front of the
Atlas of the United States
. Hands did not have a brain, but a memory of love. They separated at the entrance to be able to create an element of randomness in front of the book. Brigitte thought back to this book by Cortázar where the lovers walk in the street until the moment where they meet – finally. She had read it the day of her eighteenth birthday, while she was on holiday at a slightly fat uncle’s house. Passing in front of all these students, she skimmed the memory of her youth. Her life seemed surreal to her, and yet in contemplating all these static napes, she understood the point to which she loved her life that was so out of the ordinary. The surreal was a language that tickled her heart. She started to walk faster; it was the moment in films where they zoom in on the heroine. Nothing existed other than the movement of her legs. Music always ruins these scenes. Applying music to women should be forbidden, their silence is their melody.

They rediscovered themselves in front of the book, and kissed in front of the red spines.

Often it only takes slight happiness to no longer notice the misfortune of others. In the present case, it was actually the opposite. Ever since he had understood his brother’s pain, Ernest had grown closer to him. The day of his birthday, he had not believed the alibi of the fall (he had been a witness to his little brother’s drifting so many times). Hector had told him everything. In persuading him that they were a couple like any other, Brigitte had removed any guilt-feeling from him. He was now able to evoke his fascination for the window washing. Weird fantasy, thought Ernest. Hector then specified that he was again and always dealing with compulsive hoarding. His wife was regularly satisfying his desire to allow him to survive.

‘You are the happiest of men!’ raved Ernest.

Hector seemed surprised, and asked whether Justine did not satisfy him sexually. For the first time, they were having a conversation about their rapport with women. Ernest, in wanting to talk about himself, began to stammer. The appearance of his successful life transformed itself into an uncertain, almost blurry, mass. He had never allowed himself to be a topic of conversation. To be honest, he had never found a human being able to play the role of best friend. So his newly beaming brother pushed him to confess.