CHAPTER 1: THE CABARET OF NOTHINGNESS
Madame F / Paris, 1940
“Would you mind taking my fur, please?”
The maître d, dressed as a funeral attendee, draped my coat on his arm and limped away. As he disappeared into what I assumed was a cloak room of some sort, it struck me how it was near impossible to tell the front of him from the back, the grey of his suit matching his hair and the grey pallor of his sagging skin.
And thus began my first experience with sexual deviance. Albert insisted on taking me to the gothic nightspot near the Bois Boulognes where les habitués (the regulars) pondered mortality, worshiped Jean-Paul Sartre, or simply stared at the dust languishing on the coffin that doubled as the bar. The waiters, also dressed as funeral attendees, served cocktails, mostly named after morbid diseases. Albert ordered me a paralyzer.
Albert said this was where the more adventurous rich and aristocratic crowd mixed with the surealist writers and painters.
After a few more drinks, Albert led me to a back room that smelled like camphor. There, an embalmer took off my clothes while Albert watched. Once I was naked, the embalmer who said her name was Morticia explained that to prevent rigor mortis from setting in, she would massage my body and muscles with a special oil. For this, she also undressed herself completely which affected me, exalted me.
As she massaged, Morticia told me she’d heard of me. I was that woman with the ability to make everyone feel they had a special place in my heart; very special. I could also see through personas and, oh yes, everyone remembered the exact moment they’d met me. I knew exactly who everyone was, and demanded they be the person they were. Just by looking into their eyes.
“I felt that magic when you walked in,” Morticia said, “though I think you must really love people who are trying to make something of themselves. Instead of being like the others, I mean. Is that right?”
I smiled. On the outside, I’d modeled myself after someone like she described. Though, on the inside, I felt empty.
On our way out, Albert and I shared another cocktail called a Corpse Reviver. Though I didn’t need reviving. Despite an orgasm that left my body spent, my spirit lifted me into a state of perpetual vibration.
I only found out much later that Morticia was Albert’s wife and my husband Pierre's mistress.
* * *
“Where were you?” Pierre demanded to know when I staggered in.
“I died and went to heaven.”
“Would you mind taking my fur, please?”
The maître d, dressed as a funeral attendee, draped my coat on his arm and limped away. As he disappeared into what I assumed was a cloak room of some sort, it struck me how it was near impossible to tell the front of him from the back, the grey of his suit matching his hair and the grey pallor of his sagging skin.
And thus began my first experience with sexual deviance. Albert insisted on taking me to the gothic nightspot near the Bois Boulognes where les habitués (the regulars) pondered mortality, worshiped Jean-Paul Sartre, or simply stared at the dust languishing on the coffin that doubled as the bar. The waiters, also dressed as funeral attendees, served cocktails, mostly named after morbid diseases. Albert ordered me a paralyzer.
Albert said this was where the more adventurous rich and aristocratic crowd mixed with the surealist writers and painters.
After a few more drinks, Albert led me to a back room that smelled like camphor. There, an embalmer took off my clothes while Albert watched. Once I was naked, the embalmer who said her name was Morticia explained that to prevent rigor mortis from setting in, she would massage my body and muscles with a special oil. For this, she also undressed herself completely which affected me, exalted me.
As she massaged, Morticia told me she’d heard of me. I was that woman with the ability to make everyone feel they had a special place in my heart; very special. I could also see through personas and, oh yes, everyone remembered the exact moment they’d met me. I knew exactly who everyone was, and demanded they be the person they were. Just by looking into their eyes.
“I felt that magic when you walked in,” Morticia said, “though I think you must really love people who are trying to make something of themselves. Instead of being like the others, I mean. Is that right?”
I smiled. On the outside, I’d modeled myself after someone like she described. Though, on the inside, I felt empty.
On our way out, Albert and I shared another cocktail called a Corpse Reviver. Though I didn’t need reviving. Despite an orgasm that left my body spent, my spirit lifted me into a state of perpetual vibration.
I only found out much later that Morticia was Albert’s wife and my husband Pierre's mistress.
* * *
“Where were you?” Pierre demanded to know when I staggered in.
“I died and went to heaven.”