The Mammoth Book of International Erotica

“Yes.”

“More important than me?”

I remain silent and kiss him. His mouth is both small and fleshy, like the mouth of a child. As a matter of fact, Trevor is no longer Trevor. He’s just a fifteen-year-old who does not understand the meaning of words like failure and frustration. He’s a shy high school boy with cauliflower ears who will never get used to wearing spectacles.

Trevor is no longer the man whose face is so close to mine. He is another who looks like me, but is so much weaker.

“I’d better go, now.”

“Stay a little.”

“I can’t, Trevor. I have things to do.”

I quickly slip on my sweatshirt and my jeans. I walk towards the window and note with satisfaction that it isn’t raining any more. My hair is dank with sweat, and brushing my fingers through the strands fails to revive them.

I miss my things, my house. I want to listen to my phone messages and check on my electronic mail. But Trevor takes me into his arms, holds me against those broad shoulders that make me feel both small and gracious in comparison. I have taken a decision, now is the right time.

“I will not be going to Toronto with you,” I say to him.

Trevor’s embrace tightens, becomes more insistent.

“You know all too well that my son lives there. I can’t abandon him. He’s only two years old; he needs me. You just can’t ask me to stay here forever…”

“Actually, I wasn’t asking you to.”

“What do you mean?”

“That you must return to Canada, Trevor. There’s nothing here for you, neither fame nor fortune.”

I move away. Trevor is attractive, but I no longer want him.

“So, what about this night? Why did you come here and stay the night?” he keeps on asking me.

“To fully understand that this was the right thing to do. To take control again, Trevor.”

I concentrated and stared straight at the door.

“And if you do manage to leave, it will mean once and for all that I control you, Trevor,” I said in one breath.

Trevor’s only reaction was a feeble laugh, but there was no joy in it. Right now his shoulders were so much less imposing. Hate is such a sterile emotion, so empty and impractical. Unless you have the means to avenge yourself.

“So, you’ll be going to New Orleans with Maxim, will you?”

“Yes.”

Trevor’s voice is already full of resignation.

“Will you sleep with him?”

I remain motionless and silent.

“Will you go to bed?”

On my way out, I am cheered by the fact that the rain hasn’t broadened the streets, that the night wind hasn’t blown the manhole covers away. The mild air brushes against me harmlessly. I’ve stopped shivering. I hurry along, and should be home in an hour or so. Of course, one day I should learn to drive, but for now I have no need for it. My independence will not be threatened by a spring storm. And of course there are so many advantages to travelling by foot, small occasions when you can meet people along the road. I see a photographer’s sign and walk into the shop. I speak to the owner, a quiet, pleasant man in his fifties.

Photographs. I have a house full of them, but always want more. I just can’t resist the temptation of a midday snap. Four flashes in quick succession, four small stamp format images and it’s done. Now I wait for the film to dry, thinking back to what Danila said, all the chatter about my metallic eyes, owls, birds of prey, predators of all ilk.

Danila is mistaken when she confuses me with an owl. Owls are creatures of habit, and their rhythms always remain the same, sleeping by day, hunting at night, or so it goes. I’m a coldblooded animal. I assess the dangers ahead, analyse them. I pretend to be dead, defenceless, and all the time I am observing. I evaluate the adversary, extrapolate his movements, determine what his weak points are. Then I devour him. Assimilate him.

I take over everything I can from him and can then imitate him. It’s a natural talent of mine. Like being ambidextrous or owning iridescent eyes of an indeterminate colour, capable of changing according to the light or the darkness.

I take the photograph and look at myself.

My face is no longer my face. There is no longer any trace of youthful fury, or unrestrained and improductive ambition.

There is no longer any evidence of passion.

All excesses have been polished away.

My eyes are not the colour of grey metal. Now, they are gems, limpid green emeralds, sharp and defined.

I meet Maxim at the Hotel Diplomatic. I have brought with me a copy of the Chet Baker biography, the present I had bought for him. It will keep him company when he takes the plane that will return him to London. Maxim always talks of London. He’s both in love with and a prisoner of that city. In his books, he writes with infinite subtlety and in excessive detail, chapter after chapter, of places, because he has been everywhere, and knows that nothing compares to home.

Maxim will travel again, I know. But he will always return home. He does this time after time because his dance with the cosmos is complete. Mine has barely begun.

“You have nothing to lose,” he says.

It’s true. I can pack my cases at any time, without leaving anything behind, neither a true friend, nor an unforgettable lover. My life is so pitiful, barely a speck in the sky. But today the sky is greyer than usual. The sky is a dark cloak that hides important things from view.

2

The young woman’s fingers were caressing his chest. The sort of caress that awakens you.

“You’re very pretty for your age,” he said.

Her name was Lisa.

In the darkness of the room, Trevor admired her white skin and the small, firm breasts peeping out of her lacy bra. Lisa allowed herself to be examined, displaying no embarrassment. She continued to brush his skin with a light touch. She seemed at ease, much more so than Trevor. She now began licking his chest and his stomach with the expertise of a professional. Trevor closed his eyes. Lisa’s face buried itself between his legs. The heat from her tongue penetrated his veins, warming his body and senses. Clinging to her, Trevor began moaning. He took hold of her head, pulling her sharply against his stomach. Trevor was excited, but also annoyed by the assurance Lisa displayed beneath the sheets.

Love. Sex. Lust.

What do you call a blow job on a first date?

“I’ll call you a cab.”

Trevor moved to the bathroom and began running the water. Once it was hot enough, he stirred it firmly with his extended fingers. Small bubbles of air remained stuck to the hair on his arms. Blame it on the chlorine, he thought.

“The taxi has arrived,” Lisa shouted out from where she was standing at the door.

“Do you want me to see you off?”

“It ain’t necessary. See you tomorrow.”

Trevor has hung a copy of the poster from his exhibition on the bathroom wall. A successful show, although it