The Voyeuristic Lives of the Author

V sipped his beer, observing two friends dancing with a single girl. The girl rubbed her hips between the bodies of the young men, who had her locked in between them, one kissing her lips, the other’s hands pulled her waist closely against his pelvis. A few minutes later they paid and left the bar. V waited a few moments and followed after them. When he stood outside, he was just in time to see them slip into the little park across the street. V followed at some distance.
V’s latest novel had been a great success, reaching the top five of every bestselling list. His trademark was to invent perversions of ordinary characters by describing the most intricate, common details of their day to day lives. Often journalists and critics asked how he came up with his descriptions, how he was able to see the extraordinary in the ordinary and some politely suggested he was depicting none other than himself. But the truth was that V. was simply an average character with little fantasy or imagination, nor did he possess a lot of life experience. He was by account of everyone who knew him, a very stable and reasonable person who disliked extravagances. His only mischief was perhaps that he was extremely curious.
The phone rang. V answered, it was A. They met an hour later at the Auberge de la Butte. A felt exhilarated, she kept on talking without end, panting in between words. S called me yesterday. You know, I didn’t want to see him anymore after we broke up last month. But we talked for an hour, just as friends, and I realized how much I enjoyed talking to him, so I felt there was no harm in meeting simply for dinner. So we ate at this small restaurant S knew and that serves foie-gras specialties. Before I knew it, it was midnight and we were the last and only guests still present. They didn’t push us out of course, but you could tell from their impatience that we were obviously holding everyone from being able to go home. So we decided to leave and walked without a particular sense for direction until we suddenly stood in front of his apartment. S asked if I wanted another drink perhaps, and before I knew it, we were fucking like animals in the staircase. V had been listening quietly with full attention and expectation. He interrupted A with brief to the point questions. Were you still wearing your clothes or had he undressed you by then? Did you kneel down and suck him? Did he come? Did you use a condom? Did you say anything? did he call you names? A unraveled rapidly the thread of what had happened, answered V’s questions diligently, as V ushered her into the detailed descriptions of each moment. V did not understand how any event could really have meaning, come to life, without the slow sequence of scenes following one another patiently in full detail. It were the details of the single word that brought the fucking in the staircase to its culmination, not the impatient pounding of two lonely people pressed against the wall. A however kept stumbling over her words and excitingly rushed on, while V interrupted her.

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