He indulges in moments of relaxation, TV in the evenings, when he’s tired. After being on your feet all day long, on the lookout, it’s nice to be able to come home and unwind. When Estelle hasn’t got her period and is in a good mood, things can get a bit wild. Emmanuel loves sex. He feels a bit ashamed afterwards but he feels free. It’s not like in the films, though. It’s never like in the films.
What Emmanuel likes best is breasts. He finds big breasts comforting. When he was little, he stared at breasts the whole time. Now he tries to be more discreet. Just a glance to size them up without looking at the girl, and he thinks about them again afterwards. In the street or in the métro, he fixes an image of boobs in his mind like a photo and thinks about them again, staring vacantly, sometimes for hours. When he has sex with Estelle, he thinks about other girls he’s seen, about all the ones he’ll never have, tall and short, brunettes and redheads, the girl in the bakery. There are so many. He doesn’t think about seducing them. Shadows. He fixes the image firmly in his mind and that way he can think about it whenever he wants.
On Sundays, Estelle goes to see her mother. He stays at home.
It’s become a habit. He goes into the sitting room and draws the curtains, then he takes off his clothes and sits on the sofa. That’s when it all begins properly. At first, he rubs his belly with the palm of his hand. He continues like that for five minutes, thinking about a girl he’s seen. He always has a little rag beside him. What would Estelle say if she found a stain on the sofa! Best not to think about it.
Then he twists round and rubs himself against the sofa arm. Like Granny’s dog against visitors’ legs. Sharp little thrusts. Convulsive, his naked body racked with tremors, his back to the coffee table. His legs are straight, paralysed, his feet on the floor, his hunched body espousing the curves of the armrest. He rubs himself again. When he feels he’s about to come, he stands upright on the sofa cushions and finishes the job by hand. He grabs his penis with both hands, pumping hard. His feet dig into the deep foam cushions. Hundreds of images flood into his mind. Bodies banging into each other. A crowd of bodies. And he rubs against them all as if trying to get inside them. He dominates. The girl from the bakery is always there. Her face stands out. She smiles at him. Emmanuel loves that.
When it’s over, he wipes everything, puts his clothes back on, opens the curtains and sits on the sofa re-living it all, waiting for Estelle. He finds the images that go through his mind at those times a bit smutty, but that’s what he likes and anyway, he’s not doing anyone any harm. Other people must do the same.
Sometimes, when he’s sitting on the sofa with Estelle, he thinks about it. It makes him laugh a little. Right there, where the two of them are watching TV! Honestly! He’s a bit ashamed and he stops thinking about it. He stares at Estelle’s big breasts and goes back to watching TV.
The living room is not very big but it’s got all mod cons. A sofa, a TV. They’ve even put in a little bar with lots of different bottles on it. It’s for when they entertain. Which is rare. Estelle says she doesn’t enjoy herself because she’s in and out of the kitchen. And anyway, five people eating around a coffee table isn’t practical. They eat out, it’s more convenient.
There’s a little Italian on the main road. Emmanuel and Estelle have dinner there sometimes. The two of them, gazing into each other’s eyes. He always has lasagne, which irritates Estelle. He never has anything different – the lasagne’s good, he doesn’t see why he should have something different. They know them there, him and Estelle. The waiter looks like a real Eyetie. His name’s Édouard. Estelle always wants to leave him a tip. She always says he’s stylish. Sometimes, Emmanuel’s jealous. At the same time, he likes it. It’s simple, whenever they come home from the restaurant, Estelle wants to do stuff. It never failed. Driving home, he gets himself in the mood. He chooses the girls he’s going to think about. He’s happy, he feels as if he’s earned his treat. It’s never especially passionate, but it’s worth it anyway.
Then they go to sleep. It’s a school day tomorrow.
‘Call me Nanou.’
‘OK, Nanou. I don’t normally do this, you know. I’m a school supervisor. I’ve got responsibilities.’
‘Stop talking, will you. Do you like my breasts?’
‘Yes, they’re big.’
‘Do you want to play with them?’
‘Yes, can I rub myself against them?’
It’s worse when it’s cold. I see the customer coming (I wish there was another word, I’m not running a business), we’re going to be in the warm. I swallow my pride for some dosh and ten minutes’ electric heating.
I’m not in good health, I stink of the street. I’m a girl who’s spent her whole life doing this, who doesn’t know how to do anything else. I think that’s what they want. It’s OK to despise me. It makes them feel civilized, it gives them a sense of power. They get turned on by an old trollop who reeks of syphilis and mulled wine. They find it comforting to taste destitution, to defile themselves a little. When they get home, they’ll have a shower and forget all about it.
I wash myself too, but it doesn’t come out. Their filth is under my skin, under my nails, in my hair. Their smell clings to my body. I scrub myself raw but I can’t get rid of it. Even though I’ve been doing this for a long time, you don’t get used to other people’s filth. It contaminates you as much as it did on the first day.
These are not the days of cheerful brothels and soldiers on leave. The guys don’t boast about it. There’s nothing clever about damaging me a little more. I can tell from their body language that they despise me. That’s my only contact with men. It’s quite something.
Selling my body and my cunt, my mouth and my hands is a freedom that I give myself. It never lasts long, five or six minutes at most. The rest is chit-chat, answering their questions, laughing at their jokes – that’s another form of prostitution.
Every morning I loathe myself a little bit more. It’s all very well telling myself that I don’t have to get up at 5 a.m. and jump on a commuter train, put on white clogs Crocs and serve frozen meals in a works canteen, it’s all very well telling myself that I have my freedom, I don’t have to work nine-to-five or file tax returns or fend off a lecherous boss, I still loathe myself.
There’s no going back. You’re a prostitute for life. The ones who give it up will always remain whores. You’re branded, a tattoo on the heart.