The French Disconnection

From Germany, Matthew was pretty much thrilled to realize we were one of the fastest rail trains in the world.  I was surprised he wasn’t already aware since he seems to know every detail about every train ride he schedules.  I let him schedule because a train’s a train’s a train to me but not Matthew; there are very real differences, he has very real preferences and the choice is important to him. Anyway, at 200/MPH, it is crazy fast. If you happen to be walking, you feel yourself rise up off the floor a bit, approaching weightless, just like on a plane when it suddenly loses altitude, when the train goes over a little rise in the landscape.  It’s kind of breathtaking.  The train has two decks, we’re upper with spectacular view. The ride is pleasant, blur of green and yellow out the window, crop fields covered in mustered fly by, train snacks, French people.

We were only in Paris a couple days, a couple hours at the Louvre, lunch at L’Opera, didn’t really shop, got Matthew’s screen replaced because he’d dropped his phone in Ireland and shattered it. The apartment was cute, lovely art, lovelier owner, Alexis, my ideal of the beautiful tiny Parisian boy, fine features, small boned, pretty body, engaging smile, oversized eyes.  American boys aren’t that pretty even when they’re pretty. We didn’t go out Wednesday night; the club I wanted to visit for their weekly piss party was closed for some reason.  Since moving, I’ve been feeling the disconnect between what our relationship is and what I need it to be, feeling the gap of time that fills the void when he’s engaged with his other family, wondering how long I can sustain what feels like half a relationship without much hope of ever feeling fulfilled, relegated to secondary status by virtue of history and relationship critical mass that he has with Ann and that I can never compete with.  He is protective of her in a way that creates a bubble around their relationship that I cannot penetrate.  Ann and I don’t exactly get along although no one knows why. I intimidate her, or threaten her, who knows, she won’t interact with me. His life with her will always be a separate thing, important, present but unfamiliar and unknown.  These thoughts and feelings have kept me at arm’s length since his arrival and as we’ve been occupied by Easter in Berlin fuck parties, there’s been no time to discuss it, but he knows I am distant.  It all came to a head Wednesday night. I let him know I was feeling rather done with whole thing, that I’ve tried to make it work for me but he doesn’t have the bandwidth to manage two relationships, two families, that I don’t have bandwidth for the resultant complications, the messiness of it all, the compromises, accommodations and the emotions that come up for him, trying to please everyone but unable to, melting into a puddle of grief and remorse every time he feels he’s let someone down, dragging everyone else down with him in the process.  He really can’t manage the complexity either but his nature drives him to it like moth to flame.  That’s supposed to be cliché but it does fit here.  Anyway, the conversation went as well as it could. I got a lot out that’s been on my mind for a while, really since the onset.  We both cried and cried.  I don’t want to give him up but it hurts me too much longing for something that I feel I can’t really have with him but seeing so much potential at the same time.  It’s a difficult place, and one I don’t seem to get any more comfortable with over time. He seemed to hear and understand me, only went off on irrelevant tangents a couple times, He didn’t at all seem surprised and I still wonder if the complications are wearing on him as well.  We talked late into the night, tabled the conversation without resolution until the next morning, both still emotional but neither wanting to address the issue yet.  

We had a lovely lunch together, talked a bit more and that evening, went to l’Impact, a naked bar down the street.  I had pretty low expectations for an early Thursday night and was surprised to find it quite active with a lot of attractive men and a much cleaner space than its German counterparts.  Since arriving, we hadn’t had the opportunity to play with each other much so I was focused on him in this public space.  I fucked him for a bit until I realized he wasn’t clean and needed a touch up.  I bent over him and whispered in his ear, “We need to find the restroom.” and so we wondered aimlessly through the play space, forgetting where the stairs to the upper level and restroom were hidden, trying to find the exit to get to a bathroom to clean up.  It’s the usual layout - bar, lounge area and restrooms on the main floor, lower level labyrinthine play space, a vinyl upholstered platform, couple slings, a few cabins with glory holes.  They all pretty much look the same.  I washed my dick off and while he cleaned up, headed back downstairs and fucked a bottom who was kneeling on the platform offering up his ass.  I knelt down to taste it, the warm, salty taste of fresh cum mixed with sweat, my kind of boy. Matthew arrived and I switched off to him, getting fucked by a big dick top while I fucked him, like I like it.  I fisted him, took a couple more dicks, another top switched off, fucked me, fucked Matthew, fucked Matthew’s face while I fucked Matthew, tried fisting Matthew while I fucked his face.  Odd as it sounds, we connected again in this familiar scenario, publicly displaying our bodies, our sex. We didn’t stay long, a couple hours at most but had a very enjoyable time, really connected finally in a way that we hadn’t so far this trip.  We both felt each other, felt the love and connection between us.  It was a lovely day together for sure, even while overshadowed by doubt about the sustainability of the relationship.

We arrive at La Fistiniere Friday.  The place is lovely, 17th century farmhouse, attached barn, beautifully restored and updated into a functioning guesthouse while retaining its original charm, manicured lawn, gardens and pool.  Francois greets us, well actually, the house Labrador, Issy greets us, barks back to the house that guests have arrived, then Francois greets us with a friendly hello, warm handshake, kiss on both cheeks.  Francois is a big man, handsome, maybe 6’3”, late forties/early fifties, big well-groomed beard and mustache that curls up at the ends giving him the air of impresario or ringmaster of this circus.  I notice his meaty, ample hands, so soft and smooth, nicely manicured, and his happy, smiling eyes like Santa.  He takes us to our room, up a rickety looking exterior staircase, enter and pass through the play space to get to our room  The playroom is quite large and well equipped, very well equipped with a dizzying and creative array of contraptions to accommodate any fisting position, some with pulley and winch systems for elevating asses to hand level, some festooned with mirrors mounted and angled in various locations providing participants with amazing views not otherwise possible, and accessories… so many straps, toys, dildoes, baseball bats, bowling pins, construction cones, one with a golf ball glued in the top opening for we presume a more gentle entry, speculum sized for humans and livestock, even chopsticks used for anal dilation, one stick at a time until there’s a bundle of them opening up your hole.  The walls are covered with murals, black and while drawings of beefy muscle men, Tom of Finlandesque but more extreme, shaved heads, partly prolapsed rectums blooming around arms or into the mouths of others in groups engaged in multiple, simultaneous sex acts.  There’s a small bar, platforms, slings, a mocked-up “motorcycle” with handlebars, knee pads, rear view mirrors to see what’s comping up behind you, helmets hanging on nearby hooks to complete the ensemble, something for every taste and fantasy. Francois escorts us through and to our room which is conveniently adjacent.  We arrive at cocktail hour, Francois invites us to come down to the salon for a drink when we get settled.  It had been along travel day and I really just needed some horizontal time, so we laid in bed a bit and chatted, eventually another knock, Francois again reminding us to come down for an aperitif. We settle in and walk through the balance of the house.  Other than the peppering of erotic gay art, and particularly the aforementioned fist-specific art, the house is really lovely, very French countryside, open spacious, exposed, hand hewn beams joined with pegs, stone/plaster walls, tile floor, nicely furnished.  I’m not quite ready for social interaction but there are only three, Francois, his partner Juan Carlos and another guest named Chris.  Juan Carlos is from Columbia, Chris from a small town in eastern France, bordering Germany.  Chris is bald with a long beard, bad teeth and a lot of tattoos from what little can be seen under his hoodie and jeans, large gauge grommets in both ears, cigarette in hand.  Chris is also straight, an artist and musician with keen interest in body manipulation, and tells us how a few years ago, Francois and Juan Carlos posted a short documentary video on YouTube as marketing for the place which went viral, particularly with those in the French music industry, creating a lot of buzz and unintended celebrity status for Francois and Juan Carlos, who are now inundated with calls from voyeurs who want to come hang out and watch.  Apparently La Fistiniere is a big deal. We learned the routine is aperitif at 9, buffet at 9:30, play party at 10.  Having traveled all day and not really feeling up to it, we begged out after cocktails and stayed in the room, to the apparent dismay of the others.  With our room adjacent to the play space, we could hear everything that went on, soft chatting at first, followed by quiet and then loud sounds, almost animalistic, barking like the sounds of Tourette’s, then more groans, pleasurable screams decrying intense sensations.  I could tell Matthew was dying to see what was going on, even though I thought it rather obvious.  Nice as they were, I really wasn’t into playing with either host nor the other guest, at least not then, too tired, too filled with insecurity and doubt from the conversations and thoughts of Wednesday and just needing some quiet time.  We talked a bit and finally fell asleep.  It was lovely out when I woke the next morning, sunny and warm enough to be naked so I put on ball weights and left Matthew sleeping for a stroll around the grounds.  I took a series of photos of the buildings, capturing the textures and colors that define the French countryside, smelled lilacs, played with some of the many friendly cats, ate breakfast, and brought Matthew coffee to kick start his morning which would otherwise drag into midafternoon. The day passed quickly, relaxing, while M prepped for a later fist session.  We joined the group for a cocktail at 9, three more people had arrived, all old, all ugly, but my mood was better and so when it came time to join the play party, I was in for whatever happened.  It’s amazing to me how we as gay men can have these crazy surreal experiences that most if not all straight people can’t possibly conceive or imagine.  It really is like another world, Fellini, Cocteau, pick your favorite surrealist film maker but this isn’t film, this is my life.  I’m actually sitting on a barstool, talking with a naked man covered in beautiful tattoos and managing very well in broken English to tell me about a funny video he shot that day of an unsuspecting dyslexic tourist who mistakes Fistiniere for Finistiere (a region in France) only to discover the obvious folly of his inaccuracy, another man in his 60’s , white hair, beach ball belly in a zippered rubber suit that is open in the back with two smaller zippers on the chest, open, exposing both nipples stands next to him.  Matthew is getting an explanation on how one particularly interesting but confusing piece of “furniture” works by Juan Carlos.  We’d already played a bit, he’d had his first orgasm.  Earlier in the day, we’d explored the empty play space, trying out the various pieces of equipage, determining which were actually functional and which were just strange, not understanding a few obtuse ones whose purpose wasn’t immediately apparent.  I was crazy horny and shot a huge load up his ass so I was in a rather mellow mood now and just taking it all in.  The two hosts were offering up fists to any guest in need but it was not really sexual and looked more like a therapeutic treatment, like a massage, no one had an erection, most were hanging out at the bar talking.  Juan Carlos is describing to Matthew how to use a particularly elaborate station that neither of us could figure out earlier.  I stop over to eavesdrop, curious myself.  The set up isn’t so strange, a basic bench supports the bottom in horizontal, face down position with arms and legs resting on a platform below, but the genius of it are the well positioned random mirrors, clearly thrift store finds, in little frames mounted around the head of the bottom at precise angles and reflect other mirrors strategically located around the ass of the bottom so that no matter where you look as a bottom, you get perfect porn views of whatever’s going on with your ass.  I find myself agreeing to try it out with Juan Carlos volunteering to fist me, though I warn him my pelvis is too small and it’s never happened, try as I might.  He has a bit of South American swagger, that he’s an expert and that the issue is my inability to relax which is not true, but rather than argue the point, I get down to it and let him work his magic, all the while fascinated by the viewpoints afforded by the mirrors. Matthew rests his head on my back so that he too can appreciate the angles and views I see in the mirrors. I open to him easily, no tension, and he works his hand in slowly, lots of lube, some enjoyable massage techniques, feels good but also not in a sexual way.  Try as he might though, it won’t go in all the way. Once you hit the bone, it just doesn’t go any further. He works it for maybe half an hour at which point, I’m feeling a little soreness and ask to stop. He cleans me up in the most tender way, thanks me for letting him play with my ass, we hug, kiss and next up, Matthew wants to try it out, and Francois volunteers to work him.  Matthew is an expert fisting bottom, can’t quite yet take two but we were working on it.  Both enjoy the experience, I took Matthew’s place, head resting on his back, enjoyed watching, later moved to his dick and milked another load after he’d been sufficiently stimulated.  He seems to enjoy this more than anything.  It’s not difficult for him but neither is it easy, it’s intense, after he’s dizzy, exhausted, has that purged, clean feel like after a cathartic religious experience.  It is religion for him, a sort of meditation to get out of his mind for a change, fully immersed in the physical.

We forge on by car, train, bus and ferry to Ile du Levant, the naked island.  It’s not an easy journey, we have to drive back to the train station, return the car, train to Paris and then Toulon where we spend the night.  Next day, bus to Le Lavendou, and then ferry to Ile du Levant.  It’s a lovely day, clear sky warm wind from the south, the Mediterranean still the color of sapphire, deep blue fading to emerald near the shore.  Matthew’s never seen it before and though he’s not a beach person, seems pleased to be in Lavendou seeing the sea for the first time, runs out onto the beach to touch the water as we walk to the ferry. The boat ride too is very pleasant, lovely to be on the water, making our way to the large, rocky outcrop, jutting its way to the sky off in the distance. Again, it feels so good to be with him, so comfortable, just like it was meant to be.  He seems to feel the same way so I keep questioning if I read him right or am I just finding in him what I’m looking for because I am looking for it and he’s happy to let me think I’ve found it when truth is, I may not, but it feels so right.  My instincts have never failed before. We arrive at the tiny dock, in the only small bay that provides harbor and a beach on the otherwise impenetrable coastline. Waves crash on nearly vertical rocky coast.  Naked places are always remote, difficult to get to and generally not anyone’s first choice for a vacation spot, but we take what we can get and make do, make it a good experience. Passengers disembark, meet those waiting to greet the, a kiss on each cheek, yes, we are in France.  Near the dock, there’s room for exactly one restaurant, the tourist information booth and a small turn around area at eh end of eh one road that leads up a 45-degree incline to the village and hotel. He’s not real used to physical exertion, we’re both dragging suitcases and he’s wearing his standard SF uniform, military issue army-green acrylic sweater, tight dark jeans and lace up boots with not one but two jackets and it’s a warm day, the hill is steep. Reading the look of concern on my face, he grabs his suitcase with gusto and takes off to conquer the hill.  GPS to the hotel shows it quite a way off so we mentally prepare for a hike and head up the road. About halfway, we stop to breathe. Mathew checks his phone again, realizes the hotel has no address, just a name and that GPS is simply taking us to the center of the island.  We have no idea where the hotel is. Luckily, just then, what I call and Island Van pulls up alongside us driven by a beautiful brown island boy.  Island van is an old model, nothing newer than the 80’s van that’s been subjected to salt air, rusted through spots add a lace-like appearance and questions of structural integrity; door handles are missing, replaced with coat hangers and special tricks only the driver knows so we stand helpless until he lets us in.  Asks where we’re going and we tell him, he says Oh! with a slight scoff, we hop in and he pulls around the next corner and parks.  At first, I don't understand why he’s stopped so soon and then I realize, we are at the hotel.  We were very close and didn’t know it. Anyway, our host greets us Alain, handsome, strong built man in his late 50’s, wearing only work boots and gloves, big, pretty uncut dick, good body. The apartment sits on the edge of a hill, entering off the street, the backside faces the sea and the western view is spectacular, sunset over the water, the village scattered amid palm and eucalyptus trees in the valley below us. It is a beautiful place. We settle in, I get naked, we go shopping for supplies. It’s quiet, there aren’t many people, still early, before the season.  We find the small store which carries groceries, produce, car parts, tires, clothes, tools, typical island store with anything you might need and nothing you won’t. We go in like this, me naked, him in warm clothes and begin to shop.  The adorable little shop boy/waiter/cook for the store also has a restaurant and they’ll rent you a room to boot, greets us with a giggle and friendly hello. He’s a tiny little French boy, skinny with dark hair in a single braid in back, bandana wrapped around his head, shirtless, shorts, gappy teeth, huge smile and clearly learned English by watching American late-night television commercials, every word from his moth sounds like one or Humphrey Bogart impersonation, the frenetic way his tone and timber changes like spinning a dial on commercial radio a little disturbing at first but he’s harmless, funny. Everyone we meet is funny and they’re all so insanely happy. We dine to a beautiful sunset at a newly opened pizza restaurant, return to the hotel and relax in bed. Next morning, it’s still nice out, warm and weather reports not looking good for the rest of our stay so I take off to hike the nature preserve naked since it looks like my only opportunity before a cold front moves in. The hotel is right on the edge of it so it’s just a few meters to a trailhead and I’m surrounded by green, dense woods, rocky trails, not unlike the greenbelt but greener, and the views from the top are spectacular. I pretty quickly circumvent the whole park, check out all the swimming spots, work my way around to the dock, the only place on the island you can’t be naked and look for a way around since I have no cover, find one, head up a walkway around the restaurant and cut over above the dock to connect to a trail on the other side that leads down to the only, tiny beach on the island. I follow along, it’s quite a long hike but finally land at the postage stamp of a beach. It’s still early, the beach deserted. It’s tiny but lovely. The warm sand feels good, the crystal water cool, too cool to get in. I spend some time and head back to the hotel.  Matthew’s up when I arrive. Wind is picking up and clouds are slowly moving in. The weather turns. We walk back to the store to get forgotten items and walk through town, checking out restaurant options, see where all the roads go, spend time together, being together, enjoying each other’s presence. The next couple of days are very cool and cloudy, clouds hang low, filled with rain. I think we got in one more outing, photographing flowers in the flat, cool light but then in began to rain and we stayed in the balance of our time.  As the heavy clouds began to leak, release their burden of water, pent up emotions pour out of us, we talk, so sad, so desperate to find a way, really opening up to each other but it just feels like we aren’t on the same page, needing different things and my heart despairs.  I love him so.  I don’t understand why we can’t just be together, I want it so badly, but He can’t do it. I feel grief inside like I haven’t felt since Eero died, welling up in me and bursting through, the rain, my tears, I cry like I haven’t in ages, sobbing, filled with grief. He holds me, consoles me, lets me cry, sobs himself. We hold each other not wanting to let go. Again, I know I won’t find love like this again, it’s too late for me. I’m not just grieving the loss of Matthew but the loss of love in my life. It’s too hard for me to meet people I find interesting, burdened so by overwhelming social anxiety. That part of my life is over.

We Spend our last night in Marseille, the closest city with an airport and a decent train station.  I will be flying to Berlin the following afternoon and Matthew will take the train to London, traveling alone for a week or so before flying back to SF from Copenhagen. Despite the exhausting intensity of emotion, the processing, the difficult conversations, it’s been a lovely trip and I’ve enjoyed every second, spending the time with him. I love him so. I always enjoy being with him regardless of circumstance, feeling him near, familiar, feeling his love.  None of the conversations would be described as fights. We both opened up, expressing our feelings for each other, crying for each other, both searching for a solution to make it work for both of us because it does feel so good, we both know how important and rare it is and we don’t want to give it up lightly, without considering every possibility, but now the trip is basically over and the dread of admitting there’s no apparent fix has left a pall over the two of us and we hardly speak, both inwardly focused, eyes down in despair. We don’t do much, find food, eat in the hotel room, go to bed and talk more.  It’s a little more energetic, desperate, I frantically want to stay with him but in the end, feel like maybe he doesn’t really want to be with me in the way that I envision, coupled, married even, still open to others, I have no use for exclusivity, but committed at least to one another.  The concept terrifies him and it’s plain to see that I terrify him.  I’m too intense. He keeps asking if I’m sure I’m not Italian or Jewish or catholic because I’m overtly expressive in a way that intimidates him.  I am what I am…. I’ve sensed this fear in him all along.  It’s what’s always held him back, keeping me at arm’s length, never really letting me into his life. It’s also the last straw, the nail in the coffin.  I can put up with a lot and have over the past couple years, but if there’s no possibility of it ever being more than an occasional get together from long distances, phone calls and texts, I can’t do it.  Deep down, I believe he really wants something more casual, less emotionally intimate, less taxing, requiring much less investment in time and resources and he really doesn’t want to share with me the kind of situation he has with Ann, cohabitation.  She’s so much more docile than I, requiring very little of him, easy.  He can’t imagine being trapped in an apartment with me.  He even used the word “trapped.” He thinks if we move in together and things go sour, we’re trapped with no options, stuck in an unhappy relationship for all eternity, living hell. While I appreciate his sudden candor, it would have been more useful much earlier in the relationship, I’m also shocked and taken aback that he views me this way.  I ask why he believes that, present the reality that if we live together in Berlin and it ends, we split up, so what? We’re in Berlin!  What’s so bad about that?  If you don’t want to live in Berlin, move someplace else, you’re completely free to live anyplace you want and at least you’re not in the states.  Why does he think we’re inseparable and why would we remain in a bad relationship especially since I’m clearly ending it now because it’s not working for us?  It makes no sense. This concept I’m describing of being able to live apart seems to be mind blowing to him for some reason.  He really believes that he would have to stay trapped in a bad relationship, unhappy forever and can’t really explain why. I guess on some level I knew he feared me, but to hear it… Crystalline. Got it. It’s all clear and I am devastated, crushed, feel suddenly hollow, breath resonates inside me like wind blowing through a haunted house.  I wonder aloud if any of this has been real, has it all been a fantasy because that concept is so completely inconceivable.  If he felt that way about me, why did he continue to see and encourage me?  If I felt that way about anyone, I surely wouldn’t encourage them with statements of affection and undying love.  Anyway, my heart turned cold as a stone in that moment. I needed to get away, I turned inward instead, pulling back to safety. My body is with him, but I am shut off.  We spent the morning sitting on a sunny bench in front of the train station overlooking the town.  The Beaux Arts station sits atop a tall hill and the view across the city below to another hill capped with a church on the other side is spectacular, framed by ornate cast iron street lights at the edge of the plaza, the colorful people of southern France all around us, not like Paris, a little crazy looking, more extreme clothes that I wouldn’t call fashion, group of kids making a political film about the French presidential elections. Life swirled around us as we sat, mourning the loss, or maybe I was mourning, I’ll never know about Matthew. We’d spent much of the night talking, exhausted, emotionally drained, we talk some here but mostly we just sit with each other feeling sad. Finally, time comes for my train.  We walk together to the platform, stop for a minute.  I tell him I will always love him and appreciate everything I learned from him, a hug, just goodbye and board the train.  I hear him call out to me as I do, but almost under his breath, insincere. Like the last scene of a French movie, through the train window, I watch him on the platform, standing, alone; I see him turn and walk away as the train starts to pull out and my body aches all over, unable to cope with the finality of it.