Why won’t you speak to me? Since that ghastly evening when you sent me the photo, you have hardly talked to me. I can’t tell you how I felt when I received that photo on my phone. I broke down in tears. I left our friends’ house in a panic and I came home to wait for you. I was ready to talk to you, to face your anger, your repulsion. But when you arrived, you didn’t even look at me. You acted like I wasn’t there. Like I didn’t exist. You went straight to our bedroom and you started to pack. I asked you where you were going, what you were going to do, and you remained silent. I pleaded, I begged, but you took off. I don’t know where you went that night. I sent you all those messages you never answered. I went to the residence often, got kicked out by the guards, and one day you finally came down and you were so abominably cold. Do I deserve this, Clarissa? Do I deserve the way you are treating me? I’m not asking for a second chance. I know I haven’t got one. I just want you to understand. That’s all I’m asking.
Hear me out, please. Please read what I have to say. Don’t crumple this letter up and throw it away. This is extraordinarily difficult to write. I want to start from the beginning. I’m no writer and I have none of your skills.
I first heard about the brothels fifteen years ago. There was one that opened up not far from Montparnasse. Perhaps you remember. There were quite a few articles. I was curious. I wanted to try one out. Should I have told you? Maybe. But we were going through a difficult time then. I knew what I’d already put you through. And so, when I went there, I figured I didn’t need to tell you about it. And honestly, I thought I’d only end up going once or twice. I had no idea how addictive it was going to be. For all these years, I’ve been trying to tell you. I was never able to. In the end, I always said I’d been having affairs with more women. I wasn’t. I was lying. I was going there. To the dolls. I was going there twice a week, even more.
I was expecting a sleazy, sordid place. But everything was clean, bright, and tidy. I saw no one, because you reserve online and you are given a code. You use that code to get in. You have a room number and you go to that room. From the start, I experienced pleasure. I never felt I was doing something deeply wrong, because to me, I wasn’t being unfaithful to you. This was a doll. A toy. Not a woman. Not a human being. A sex toy. A silicone doll.
For about a year, I continued going to the brothel in the fourteenth arrondissement. Once, I bumped into the owner as I was leaving. A young guy, in his thirties. Polite and respectful. He said he was having trouble with the police. The people in the building weren’t happy about his business. He said he couldn’t understand. The men coming here were courteous and discreet. Couples came, too, he said. There were four female dolls to choose from. He had a male doll, too, at one point, but he told me it was hardly ever hired. You could pick an Oriental doll, a dark-skinned one, a Caucasian one, and a smaller one, apparently, that looked like a very young teenager, almost a child. The guy told me the problem came from that doll. I asked why. He told me, in all honesty, that the child doll was the most popular one in the brothel. He hardly had time to clean it properly for the next client. He said he believed the child doll was helping to keep pedophiles off the streets. It was safer, according to him, to let men with those predispositions interact with the doll and rid themselves of their unnatural inclinations. I don’t know, Clarissa, if he was wrong or right. I have no idea. I never used that doll. All I know is that he had to close down his brothel because of protests concerning the child doll. He began another business near République, and I went there, for some time. I found out similar brothels were opening up in Brussels, Barcelona, Madrid, so I went there when I traveled for my job. You never knew.
You could say I was hooked. It was like a drug. For fifteen years, Clarissa, I hid this from you. I let a chasm open up and grow between us. You were wrapped up in your writing, and hypnosis helped you get over your grieving. Once your first book was published, I felt you needed me less. You weren’t distant, not at all, don’t get me wrong, but you were leading your own life. You were independent. I didn’t know where I stood with you. We had little intimate time together. When I first met you, you were fragile and touching. You were such a sad person. You were desperate. You let me help you. I was there to take care of you, and I loved doing that. Things became different. You turned out to be tougher than me. You blossomed into a strong woman who doesn’t need her
