Pique

"A town in France?" Jules smiled at me, as he lay naked atop the counterpane, so I threw a pillow at him and we tuggled, I was naked as well, so what the hey?, we made love. And had sex. And kissed. And he said, "Do we have to globe trot any longer? I mean it's getting a bit boring."

I cuddled him in my arms and felt the wonderful smooth pale skin and whispered in his ear, "We're 21, not out of university yet and we have to find ourselves." So Jules went for my crotch, held on and looked mock-seriously up at me, as he said in that hopelessly cultured British upper crust accent, "I've already found myself." So I reached for his crotch and told him, seriously, no mock about it, "No, you've found me. What I've found is yourself," as I pressed his ascending hooded cock. So we lay there mid-morning in a chalet out from anywhere in Switzerland, a glorious snow and sun dancing on it, the slopes visible out our bedroom windows and skiers on those slopes.

We had had a splendid breakfast, warm buttery huge croissants with marmalade, pancakes of the almond variety, and endless cups of the best tasting coffee in the world, for Jules was right. We had hop scotched the world on more scotch than you would care to remember and we had been in love and that was why it hurt so much. I had to believe that.

Only he didn't know we were no longer in love, please, and I could not bring myself to possibly tell him. After all, who was I to know for sure? I blew warm breath on his long dark hair and kissed his cheek and neck to which he replied, "That feels marvelous, love."

I felt so rested and so warm in our deep feather bed and the fireplace with a nice blaze at the wall beside us. I never could understand accents and their effect on me. The British ones especially—all those cute boy movies I guess from there, and the Hammer horror movies and the novels and TV shows, so many of them British or with or by Brits. And I guess that was what it came down to.

I would have to give up all of those things I had loved from childhood onward because they would remind me of Jules and my heart broken and never to be mended. And I rubbed Jules' hairless chest and his almost invisible little brown hard berry nipples.

"I know what it is," I told him. And he reached to my left hand and held it, which made me want to squirm away a little—that had been happening more and more—as it did this time, I thought run away, ditch him first, go put on your clothes, take a car out of here, and remember you did it to him first—nana na naha—as I would stick my fingers in my ears and stick out my tongue at him. Yeah, right, and that would be me falling down the steps into the heavy, albeit, beautiful snow and I would have broken my leg and he would have to take me to the medic—oh forget it.

With him it would sound reasonable and logical. It would be adult and above board. He would say things like—you are much too hard on yourself, you must find the magic in you, for there is such wonder in you that you do not see—and then I, the little boy, of course would say, "Then why the fuck are you ditching me?" And he would hold my hand briefly, as he would guide me to the bed where we would sit and hold hands, that Brit holding hands thing was truly getting annoying, it always seemed to lead me into sadness, like there was me back there at ten and scared and alone and wishing to God in Heaven someone would hold my hand at night or any time at all.

And he would make it worse by telling me with the compliments of me I just don't see, which of course meant, I had screwed up again, not only with him, but with the majesty of me—what it all was, was for it to hurt harder that way and to make me feel like a mewling infant, of course without meaning to at all, which just makes it worse.

He rested the back of his head on my groin and said almost wistfully, "There should be a town in France, or in anywhere for God's sake, called Pique. I think we all live on the edge of it pretty much all the time." Thank you for stealing my symbolism, Jules love, but well dammit I thought it before you said it; in fact, you never would have said it except for me. Bet you would like to steal another interesting, bitterly fascinating word, like, visage. Sure you and your Visigoths just have a plunder and slaughter good fun time, you thieves, why I could break—

"Steven," Jules said. Great, now my name is off --limits; any time I read my first name or hear it, any time I read his first or second name or my first or second name in anything, or hear any of them singular or in a mix—it will remind me of someone I never liked that much anyway. I held Jules' hand to my penis and he began to rub so nicely and warmly—great, I shall also have to cut my penis off when we are through—well for that matter all the parts of me, but I'm stuck with them.

It was just he was British you see, my fondness for things British. He really wasn't much better looking than I; I mean he was an ok lover, as I suppose was I; if he lived down the street from me and didn't have that accent, I'd never notice—dandy, now I have to apologize for what I cannot tell him I've been thinking and he will do that "eh, mate?" and fuck it, I'll fall in love again. With what? That accent and his tony way with things and all. It's learned from baby hood, I giggled almost, on up. Were he born in Arkansas to a redneck family, he would talk and act like that and would be named Bubba Doowaw or something. Marry his mouth and larynx and tongue and teeth, might as well.

Jules took my penis in his mouth and sucked me hard. And with vigor. Not to mention valor. And yes Jules you do a good job of blowing me and I succumb to what I don't want to feel, for I shall miss it all so terribly for I loved it and him, beyond words, face it Mack, have to take a new name, for after the person, who in one minute more would be taking my cum in his mouth so happily, I felt--everything—and I buck and waver and swan my body as I look at him with my coming penis in his mouth as he looks at me the whole time and rubs my hot almost feverish balls.

Later on, in our warmest clothes, in the brisk cold top of the world scent of pine air, and downiest jackets, we sat in the exterior part of the chalet bistro, sipping our chocolate—I think British now—hot chocolate, dammit—and his explaining the Brit meaning of biscuit—I shall break down and sob when buying Lorna Doone cookies—double whammy—so long Lorna for your name too---move to Mars, the only way to get rid of the Jules memory cooties. No. He is in my heart forever. Death will not let me escape him and the things he loved that I pretended I loved too and the things I loved that he did not even pretend he loved because I loved him. So I pretended to love what he loved and pretended not to love what I did love, and he would all but pet me on the head as he would say, "You are coming along nicely" and I thanked him! He liked doggie sex too. No need to paint the obvious coupling of that.

Jules finished his choco—his hot chocolate dammit—looked at me. Do not make me look at him. I planted the seed today—a monstrous Triffid—another novel and the movies based on John Wyndam's "The Midwich Cuckoos" I will have to detach from my brain—good luck—I forget nothing, especially the land of sad hurtful—the horrible casket closed lid sealing now—ready for burial—"pique"—he knew it was over, it occurred and grew in him at that exact second. I looked at the mountains with such rich bounteous snow and dizzying heights right to the golden sun. The experienced skiers and the comical routines of the beginners on the baby slopes which also looked gigantic to me, the waiters serving, the chatter at the tables, the discordant music, the white linen tablecloths, the endless winter snow chiffon in the air and on the ground, the trams hauling people up and down the mountains, and then of course, being an idiot, the theme to "Charade" playing in my head, for so many reasons, then I fished my eyes all the way to him. And I was wrong.

Well, about some things, partly, he reached across the table and told me there. I had not planted the seed in his mind this morning. He even used the you are wonderful line. He had to leave in an hour, train to Zurich, to meet a friend there. Jules had been sorry for me, knew how in love with him I was (there he was wrong—he scared me silly) and wanted to build my confidence, but he had met some persons—"...and you know how that goes—ha ha"—no, I have no clue as to how that goes—and he was warm and kind and real, as he had always been—and came over to me—put his hand on my shoulder and said "Goodbye, love." Thus killing forever for me "Charade.," Henry Mancini music, all the actors, well, all of them were already gone, especially the sweet Ned Glass. One degree of separation between Jules and everything I loved. He would be in everything. But he would not be in me, only memories. I would forever be that one degree of separation.

I sat there, not caring if we had upset anyone with his parting gestures. Thinking----maybe it's something missing in some people. Not because it's me—but real people break up with real people fore reasons they don't understand, or do understand, just get tired of each other—Jules said, early on, he got bored quickly, so I started to try not to make him bored---not that was an effect he wanted—he was just being honest—but it seems people can be decent good persons and love you and drop you one fine day out of the blue and can't understand why you don't see it like they do.

I walked to a tram to take me to the top. So I wouldn't see him go, suitcase in hand, not knowing if he would look to see if I was still there, at that table, to give me a goodbye glance, for I knew he would not. I looked up that forbidding ice jagged mountain, lowering my stomach by 3 notches, closed my eyes and heard these words not necessarily originating from me—welcome to your life, get used to it. I tried to play the theme to "Charade" to cover the pain of it, but the first notes and the starting lyrics made me feel on fire, like I was being crucified—I looked to my left but there was no one to hear me. I no longer heard the grinding gears of the tram or of hearts breaking or of the world. I was no longer scared of the wind gnarled tram, longer lumping its loopy way up this mountain so people could risk killing themselves skiing to impress themselves and fake being young forever. I did not fell myself seated or not. Or hanging onto a strap, but being a ball in a pin ball game, landing on people who pushed me away, back and forth, and me feeling nothing. Was this how it feels to be normal? Had I actually made it? A happy ending?

So I just opened up and howled like a mad man. Because I was.