Thinking about women was just about what was left for old Mr. Me. I didn’t fuck them anymore, or so few of them, and so far apart. Considering the billions of them on this planet, in all truth, I’m a loser. Law of big numbers. What’s wrong with me?
I wished I could sometime chance to gaze at a woman’s naked body. I don’t know anything more beautiful.
I was living in Paris then when one day I won the lottery, I mean big time. Not that I was expecting to win the lottery since I hardly ever played it but that evening, I was hanging like usual in that funky bar, The Eden, where I’d buy cigarettes and drink beer just about every day. They also sold all kinds of lottery tickets among other stuff. The bartender was a kid from Corsica named Dampierre. He loved to play backgammon, me too. So we played when he wasn’t busy. The rest of the time, I’d drink beer and chat with the regular patrons before going home with the last train, a bit drunk and high.
Dampierre was always buying me rounds, or I would win them with the dices, anyway Dampierre knew I had a small pension. So that night, after I had beaten the shit out of him at backgammon, he told me: “Shit, Mr. You, you’re so goddamn lucky today, I’ll buy you a lottery ticket.” And he did.
That night, I went to sleep imagining what I’d do if I’d win. I realized I didn’t care that much. What was I going to do? Buy a private jet? Bathe in caviar? Purchase a huge house that would be empty, with just me and the old lady? We had a small apartment and it was already too big. Buy a car? Sure, I like to drive. But a Ferrari? Old Mr. Me in a Ferrari, what a joke. Really I didn’t need anything. I didn’t even care for food anymore. This allowed me to wonder about what I’d really want and, all of a sudden, I had a pretty good idea of what I would like to do. And I went to sleep with sweet dreams.
The next day, I checked the numbers on the ticket. I had won. Big time! Right out of the sky. Aliens’ money! I remembered what I had imagined the night before. Now it was daylight. I still wanted the same.
So here’s what I did. I gave a great share to my dear wife, then big chunks to my dear kids and dear grand-kids, then big bits and pieces to my dear brothers and sisters and nephews and nieces, and big tips to dear cousins to make sure, and I gave another great bit to a foundation that takes care of kids because aliens had been that generous. When all was said and done, no relatives of mine had to complain. Then, with what was left of the money, and it was still comfortable, I said goodbye to everyone, kissed my wife and kids and grand-kids and left, never to come back, I hoped.
This separation was a lot easier than I thought it would be. I guess that when you show up with your hands full of money, full with a lot of money, people are very forgiving for eccentricity. It made me realize that, had I won the lottery 30 years before, it would probably have been just as easy. That’s the extent of love I guess.
I flew to a warm southeastern Asian country, a one-way ticket, and searched for a somewhat secluded mansion by the beach and the ocean – well I had people looking for it since I didn’t speak the language. Until they found it, I settled in a nice hotel in the capital. I had seen several houses there but liked none of them. On top of it, I was enjoying my life as a rather rich expat in this capital. I had plenty of stories to tell, quickly knew people at the occidental embassies. So I was in no hurry. One day though, I had good news. I had found my house and bought it right away, just looking at a few pictures of it. It was cheap enough for an occidental French fuck like me looking for exotics.
It was lost way south, near a very small town. The first train station was 35 miles away. There was a wild beach, the house was surrounded by the jungle and there wasn’t a neighbor for a few miles around. There would be typhoons sometimes, I was told, but no less than in New Orleans I though, and it would be warm year round. And the beach and the sea were right in front of the house and I could swim every morning and enjoy the sea.
Upon moving in, I decided I would hire – or rather try to hire – three women to keep me company, whatever their age. Their obligations would be somewhat common – keep the house clean, cook, keep company to an older lonely occidental French guy – but the key would be that they’d have to be naked around the house, at least when I’d be there.
See, through a man’s life, there is never really much time to gaze at a live naked woman, to enjoy her nude presence. Come to think of it, not a single art piece in the world, in my life, has thrilled me as much as a naked woman’s body. Not a movie, not a photograph, not a pornstar. Save for Courbet’s ‘Origine du monde’ of course.
It’s not so much the forms and the beauty than the fact a woman would be there, alive and real, naked for you and welcoming your eyes. Sweet Jesus!
I’m no judge, no cop and no moralist, I just think that, as long as there’s consent out of free will, and given, of course, there are no chains and pain, nudity is one of the most sincere things a woman can give a man: just going naked around him with no fear and make him feel there‘s no need to nuke anyone.
I don’t think the other way around is as valuable. Watching guys naked? Then again, who knows? Everyone has his favorite actor or actress. In any case, aliens had been good to me and I had decided to finish my life spending the time looking at the most beautiful thing I could think of: nude women.
And swimming some.
Next episode (II) : Adam says I need a contract
Iconography: Guillaume Seignac – Jeune femme denudée sur canapé