In this, as in many things, so-called homosexuals had led the way for society as a whole, Bruno figured. Take him, for example—he was forty-two years old. Did he want women his own age? Absolutely not. On the other hand, for young pussy wrapped in a miniskirt he was prepared to go to the ends of the earth. Well, to Bangkok at least. Which was, after all, a thirteen-hour flight.
3
Sexual desire is preoccupied with youth, and the progressive influx of ever-younger girls onto the field of seduction was simply a return to the norm; a restoration of the true nature of desire, comparable to the return of stock prices to their true value after a run on the exchange. Nonetheless, women who turned twenty in the late sixties found themselves in a difficult position when they hit forty. Most of them were divorced and could no longer count on the conjugal bond—whether warm or abject—whose decline they had served to hasten. As members of a generation who—more than any before—had proclaimed the superiority of youth over age, they could hardly claim to be surprised when they, in turn, were despised by succeeding generations. As their flesh began to age, the cult of the body, which they had done so much to promote, simply filled them with an intensifying disgust for their own bodies—a disgust they could see mirrored in the gaze of others.
The men of their generation found themselves in much the same position, yet this common destiny fostered no solidarity. At forty, they continued to pursue young women—with a measure of success, at least for those who, having skillfully slipped into the social game, had attained a certain position, whether intellectual, financial or social. For women, their mature years brought only failure, masturbation and shame.
Dedicated exclusively to sexual liberation and the expression of desire, the Lieu du Changement naturally became a place of depression and bitterness. Farewell to limbs entwined in a clearing under the full moon! Farewell to the quasi-Dionysian spectacle of oiled bodies glistening under the midday sun. That, at least, is what the forty-somethings muttered as they regarded their flaccid pricks and rolls of fat.
In 1987 the first quasi-religious workshops appeared at the Lieu. Christianity was excluded, of course, but a sufficiently nebulous, exotic mysticism—for these rather weak-minded beings—dovetailed neatly with the cult of the body beautiful which, against all sense, they continued to promote. There were still workshops on sensual massage and the liberation of the orgone, but interest in the esoteric—astrology, Egyptian tarot, chakras—boomed. There were Encounters with the Angel and courses on crystal healing. Siberian shamanism made a conspicuous debut when, in 1991, during the long initiation in a sweat lodge fired by sacred coals, an initiate died of heart failure. Tantric Zen, which combined profound vanity, diffuse mysticism and sexual frottage, flourished. In a matter of years, the Lieu—like many centers throughout France and Western Europe—became a relatively popular New Age institution while maintaining its reputation as a “1970s-style” hedonist’s paradise, which became its unique selling point.
After breakfast Bruno retired to his tent. He considered masturbating (the image of the teenagers was still vivid), but finally decided against it. The enticing girls must be the offspring of the regiments of flower children he had passed around the Lieu, so clearly some of the old hags had succeeded in reproducing after all. This realization plunged Bruno into vague, unpleasant reflections. He tore open the flap of his tent; the sky was blue, small clouds floated like spatters of sperm between the pines, the day promised to be dazzling. He glanced at the program for the week: he had chosen option one—“Creativity and Relaxation.” There was a choice of three workshops that morning: mime and psychodrama, painting in watercolors and creative writing. Psychodrama, he decided, was best avoided. He had been there and done that, on a weekend course in Chantilly where he had watched fifty-year-old social workers rolling around on the floor whining for daddy to bring them their teddy bears. Painting sounded more interesting, but would probably be outdoors: did he really want to squat among pine needles, insects and God knows what else, only to turn out some crap?
The woman who led the creative writing workshop had long black hair and a full, sensual mouth outlined in carmine red (what he usually referred to as “blow-job lips”); she wore a black tunic and stretch pants. A good-looking woman, she had class. Probably just a slut, though, thought Bruno, crouching down in the ill-defined circle of disciples. To his right a fat, sallow, gray-haired woman with thick glasses breathed noisily. She reeked of wine and it was only ten-thirty.
“To salute our collective presence,” began the leader, “to salute the Earth and the five ways, we will begin the workshop with the hatha-yoga movement called ‘the sun salutation.’ ” She followed this with a description of an unlikely posture; the wino on Bruno’s right belched. “You look tired, Jacqueline,” said the yogi. “You shouldn’t do any exercise if you don’t feel up to it. Lie down; the group will join you in a while.”
They all had to lie down while the teacher delivered a long, vacuous speech in the style of Contrexéville: “You are plunging into beautiful, crystal water. You can feel it enveloping your limbs, flowing over your stomach. You give thanks to your mother, the Earth. Confidently, you press yourself to your mother, the Earth. Feel your desire. You give thanks to yourself for giving you this desire,” etc. Lying on the filthy Japanese mat, Bruno ground his teeth together angrily. The dipso beside him belched regularly. Between burps, she exhaled with a great “Haaaaaa,” which presumably was intended to express her relaxation. The karma queen went on with her routine, conjuring tellurian energies to revitalize the stomach and groin. After meandering through the four elements, and satisfied with her performance, she concluded: “Now that you have broken the barrier of the rational and made contact with your deepest desires, open yourself to the limitless power of the creative urge.” “Urge, schmurge,” fumed Bruno as, with difficulty, he got to his feet. The writing session was followed by a presentation in which each of them had to read what they had written. The only halfway decent babe in the whole workshop was called Emma—a fit little redhead wearing jeans and a T-shirt, who had written a completely inane poem about moon-sheep. Most of the group were positively oozing with rapture at having made contact with Mother Earth, Father Sun and family. At last it was Bruno’s turn to read. Mournfully he intoned:
Taxi drivers are fucking cunts
They never stop, the little runts
“You feel like that . . .” said the yogi, “you feel like that because you haven’t mastered your negative energy. I can feel deep, powerful desires within you. We can help you—here and now. Let’s all stand and focus the energies of the group.”
Everyone stood, joined hands and formed a circle. Reluctantly, Bruno took the hands of the old bag on his right and a revolting little bearded man who looked like Cavanna. Her whole being focused but calm, the yogi uttered a long “Om” and they were off, everyone droning “Om” as if they’d been doing it all their lives. Bruno was gamely trying to join in the resounding harmony when he suddenly felt himself pitch to the right. Hypnotized, the fat hag was toppling like a stone. He let go of her hand but was unable to break his fall and found himself on his knees in front of the old bitch, now flat on her back and writhing on the mat. The yogi interrupted her meditation and said calmly: “That’s it, Jacqueline, just lie down if you feel like it.” The two of them seemed to know each other.
The second writing exercise was a little better; inspired by his fugitive vision that morning, Bruno penned the following poem:
I’m tanning my dick
(Hair on my prick)
Down by the pool
(Hair on my tool)
I swear I found God
In Body Space 8
He has a great bod
But his hair is a state
What is our job?
(Hair on my knob)
To praise him in song
(Hair on my dong)
“It’s . . . humorous,” said the yogi, her tone somewhat disapproving. “And mystical,??
? theorized the drunk, “mystical but empty . . .” What was he going to do, Bruno wondered. How long could he put up with this? Was it really worth the effort? When the workshop ended he rushed back to his tent, not even stopping to try and talk to the little redhead; he needed a whiskey before lunch. Near his tent, he happened across one of the girls he had been eyeing at the showers. With a graceful movement which showed off her breasts, she reached up and took down the lacy panties she had hung out the night before. He felt as though he might explode, showering the campsite in a rain of fatty tissues. What had changed since his adolescence? He still had the same desires, with the knowledge that he probably could never satisfy them. A world that respects only the young eventually devours everyone. For lunch, he chose a Catholic. She was easy to spot: she wore a big iron cross around her neck; besides, her heavy lower lids gave her eyes the fervor common to Catholics or mystics (though, admittedly, also to alcoholics). Long dark hair, pale complexion, a bit skinny but not bad-looking. Facing her sat a girl with reddish blonde hair, the Swiss-Californian type: six feet tall, perfect body, obscenely healthy. She was the leader of the Tantric Zen workshop. In fact, her name was Brigitte Martin and she came from Créteil. She had been initiated into the mysteries of the Orient in California, where she had her breasts done and changed her name. Back in Créteil, she ran a class on Tantric Zen under the name of Shanti Martin; the Catholic was clearly impressed. At first, Bruno found it easy to join in their discussion, which seemed to be about macrobiotics—he had read up on wheat germ—but the conversation quickly turned to more religious themes and soon he was lost. Could Jesus be subsumed into Krishna, or perhaps into some other deity? Was Rin Tin Tin more lovable than Lucky Luke’s Rusty? Though Catholic, this woman had no time for the Pope; his medieval outlook, in her opinion, was hindering the spiritual evolution of the Western world. “You’re right,” said Bruno, “he’s a retard.” The judgment earned him a new respect from the others. “And the Dalai Lama can wiggle his ears,” he said dolefully as he finished his tofu burger.
Indefatigable, the Catholic got up before coffee was served—she didn’t want to be late for her personal development workshop, “The Principles of Yes-Yes.” “Ah yes, Yes-yes is cool,” said the Swiss-Californian as she got up. “Thanks for the chat,” said the Catholic, turning back with a smile. Anyway, he hadn’t done too badly, Bruno thought as he headed back to his tent. “Talking to morons like that is like pissing in a urinal full of cigarette butts, like shitting in a toilet full of Tampax: nothing gets flushed, and everything starts to stink.” Space separates one skin from another. Words cross the space, the space between one skin and another. Unheard, unanswered, the words hang in the air and begin to decay, to stink; that’s the way it is. Seen like this, words could separate, too.
At the pool, he found a pool-chair. The teenage girls danced around like idiots, shivering, hoping a boy might push them in. The sun was at its height; slick, naked bodies moved across the expanse of blue. Without thinking, Bruno launched into a children’s book, The Six Companions and the Gloved Man, Paul Jacques Bonzon’s masterpiece, recently republished by the Bibliothèque Verte. In the unbearable glare of the sun, it was good to find himself back in the mists of Lyons with his stalwart companion, Kapi the dog.
The afternoon program offered a choice between “Sensitive Gestalt-Massage,” “Liberating the Voice” and “Rebirthing in Warm Water.” In theory, massage sounded the sexiest. He had a brief glimpse of liberating the voice as he walked up to the massage workshop: there were about ten of them, very excited, jumping around to the directions of the Tantric woman and screeching like startled turkeys.
At the top of the hill, arranged in a circle, were trestle tables, each covered with a large towel. The students were naked. In the center of the circle, the instructor, a small, dark-haired man with a slight squint, gave a brief history of sensitive Gestalt-massage. Born out of Fritz Perls’s Gestalt—or “Californian”—massage, the method had evolved to integrate aspects of the sensual to become—in his opinion—the most complete form of massage. There were those at the Lieu, he admitted, who did not share his point of view, but he did not wish to become polemical. Whatever the truth of it—and he would like to end on this note—there was massage and then there was massage; in fact one might say that no two massages were alike. Having finished his preamble, he began the demonstration by asking one of the women to lie on the table. “Feel the tension in your partner,” he commented as he stroked her shoulders, his cock only centimeters from the girl’s long blonde hair. “Harmony, it’s all about harmony . . .” he went on, pouring oil on her breasts. “You must respect the wholeness of the body . . .” His hands slipped down her stomach; the girl closed her eyes and parted her thighs, clearly enjoying his work.
“There you go,” he concluded. “Now I want you to work in pairs. Take your time, move around the space, get to know each other.” Still hypnotized by what he had just seen, Bruno was slow to react, though this was the crucial moment. You simply approached your partner of choice, smiled, and calmly asked her, “Would you like to work with me?” Everyone else seemed to know the drill, and in thirty seconds it was all over. Bruno looked around, panic-stricken, and found himself face to face with a hairy little man with dark hair and a thick penis. He had not realized there were only five girls for seven guys.
Thankfully the other guy didn’t look like a queer. Visibly furious, he lay down on his stomach without a word, rested his head on his arms and waited. “Feel the tension . . . respect the wholeness of the body . . .” Bruno poured more oil on but couldn’t get past the knees; the guy’s body was stiff as a board. Even his buttocks were hairy. The oil was beginning to drip onto the towel, the guy’s calves had to be saturated. Bruno looked up. Next to him, two men were lying on their backs. On his left, the man was having his pectorals massaged; the woman’s breasts swayed gently, his nose level with her pussy. The instructor’s ghetto blaster pumped out synthesizer music; the sky was a perfect blue. All around him oil-slick cocks were beginning to rise toward the light. Everything seemed intensely real. He could not bear it any longer. On the far side of the circle, the instructor was advising a couple on technique. Bruno grabbed his backpack and hurried off toward the pool, where it was clearly rush hour. On the nearby lawn, naked women lay chatting, reading or simply taking the sun. Where should he sit? Towel in hand, he wandered erratically across the lawn, tottering as it were between the vaginas. He decided it was time to get off the fence when he spotted the Catholic talking to a dark-skinned rugged little guy with bright eyes and dark curly hair. He made a vague sign of recognition—she did not notice—and flopped down nearby. “Hey, Karim!” someone called to the dark-skinned man as he walked past. Karim waved and went on talking to the Catholic, who lay quietly on her back listening. She had a pretty muff of curly black hair between her thighs. As they chatted, Karim gently kneaded his balls. Bruno rested his head on the grass and concentrated on the gentle world barely a meter away within the Catholic’s pubic hair. He quickly fell asleep.
On 14 December 1967 the government passed the Neuwirth Act on contraception at its first reading. Although not yet paid for by social security, the pill would now be freely available in pharmacies. It was this which offered a whole section of society access to the sexual revolution, which until then had been reserved for professionals, artists and senior management—and some small businessmen. It is interesting to note that the “sexual revolution” was sometimes portrayed as a communal utopia, whereas in fact it was simply another stage in the historical rise of individualism. As the lovely word “household” suggests, the couple and the family would be the last bastion of primitive communism in liberal society. The sexual revolution was to destroy these intermediary communities, the last to separate the individual from the market. The destruction continues to this day.
The steering committee of the Lieu du Changement regularly held dinner dances. For a place open to new spiritual ideas, this might seem surprising, but i
t only confirmed the dinner dance as the inevitable means of sexual selection in noncommunist societies. As Frédéric Le Dantec pointed out, primitive societies also centered their feasts on dancing and the pursuit of collective trance.
A bar and a sound system were installed on the lawn, and people gyrated in the moonlight into the small hours. For Bruno, this was a second chance. Actually, the teenagers at the camp rarely attended these occasions, preferring to go to local clubs (Bilboquet, Dynasty, 2001 and, maybe, Pirates) which hosted theme nights with foam parties, male strip shows and porn stars. A handful of needle-dick dreamers stayed behind, spending their evenings in a tent gently strumming an out-of-tune guitar while their peers despised them. Bruno felt a keen sympathy for these young men. But in the absence of girls he could never hope to attract, he would happily—to quote a reader of Newlook he’d met in a café in Angers—“stick his knob in any available hole.” It was in this hope that he left his tent at eleven, wearing white trousers and a blue polo shirt, and headed down to the source of the commotion.
Glancing around the mass of dancers, he spotted Karim, who had abandoned the Catholic in favor of a ravishing Rosicrucian. She and her husband, both tall, staid and slim, had arrived that afternoon; they seemed to be from Alsace. The husband had taken four hours to work out the arrangement of the numerous flaps and guylines of their convoluted tent. Earlier, he had taken Bruno aside and initiated him into the hidden mysteries of the Rosy Cross. Eyes glittering behind his small, round glasses, he looked every inch a zealot; Bruno listened without hearing. According to him, the fellowship of the Rosy Cross had been founded in Germany, inspired by the work of the alchemists, but was intrinsically linked to Rhenish mysticism. It was obviously a cabal of queers and Nazis. You can stick your cross up your ass, Bruno thought, distractedly watching that of the man’s beautiful wife out of the corner of his eye as she kneeled by the gas stove—not to mention the rose, he added as she stood up, flashing her breasts, and called to her husband to come change the baby.