Victor talks a great deal. Rémi smiles at him. Victor had a good time and has returned tanned, rested. He talks of nothing but Mario, a young notary from the city. They have become very good friends. Rémi refrains from asking him the fateful question, because it would cast a shadow over the tranquillity of the moment. Mario took over his father’s practice, just as Victor did eight years ago. Mario is handsome, apparently, and ten years younger than Victor.
Rémi says nothing because now they are making love. He does not understand. The alcohol? They drank a bottle of wine. Victor laughs, caresses and kisses Rémi as he rarely does. Rémi lets himself be dominated, remains silent and enjoys it. That thrust of the hips, that happy rocking… Mario? Is Victor truly capable of it? Earlier, Victor said he was considering working with Mario. Mario has ideas, Victor has contacts; they have chemistry. Rémi is not jealous; he is trying instead to understand. But at this moment, Victor is coming inside him and scratching his back.
Victor says, “Your turn,” as though it were a normal mechanism. I enter you, I come, you enter me, you come. Rémi truly wants it. He keeps quiet so as not to break this fragile moment. He slides gently into Victor. Victor says, “Yes.” Rémi is troubled. He has never said that before. Nor have they ever stopped using condoms. One negation after another. After what Rémi has experienced over the past few days, that “Yes” seems all the more vulgar.
Rémi moves his hips, loves Victor’s body, its suppleness, the ease with which it submits and grows moist. Why is Victor still making love to him? Perhaps he is taking revenge. Keep quiet, because it feels too good, intensely good, to pierce him. Rémi loves the bodies of all men; he remains silent because he no longer knows the difference. Here or elsewhere, he comes.