Delta of Venus - Anais Nin [49]
‘He takes me all day, in front of mirrors, on the floor of the bathroom, while he holds the door with his foot, on the rug. He is insatiable, and he disregards the male in me. If he sees my penis, which is really larger than his, and more beautiful – really, it is – he does not notice it. He takes me from behind, mauls me like a woman, and leaves my penis dangling. He disregards my masculinity. There is no fulfillment between us.’
‘It is like the love between women, then,’ said Elena. ‘There is no fulfillment, no real possession.’
One afternoon Miguel asked Elena to come to his room. When she knocked at the door she heard scurrying. She was about to turn away when Miguel came to the door and said, ‘Come in, come in.’ But his face was congested, his eyes bloodshot, his hair wild, and his mouth marked by kisses.
Elena said, ‘I’ll come back later.’
Miguel answered, ‘No, come, you can sit in the bathroom for a little while. Donald will be leaving.’
He wanted her to be there! He could have sent her away. But he led her through the little hallways into the bathroom which adjoined the bedroom, and sat her there, laughing. The door remained open. She could hear the groans and the heavy panting. It was as if they were fighting there together in the dark room. The bed creaked rhythmically, and she heard Donald say, ‘You hurt me.’ But Miguel was panting and Donald had to repeat, ‘You hurt me.’
Then the groaning continued, the rhythmic creaking of the bedsprings accelerated, and despite all Donald had told her, she heard his groan of joy. Then he said, ‘You’re stifling me.’
The scene in the dark affected her strangely. She felt part of herself sharing in it, as a woman, she as a woman within Donald’s boy’s body, being made love to by Miguel.
She was so affected that, to distract herself, she opened her bag and took out a letter she had found in her letterbox before leaving but had not read yet.
When she opened it, it was like a thunderbolt: ‘My elusive and beautiful Elena, I am in Paris again, for you. I could not forget you. I tried. When you gave yourself entirely, you also took me wholly and entirely. Will you see me? You have not retreated and shrunk beyond me for good? I deserve this, but do not do it to me, you will be murdering a deep love, deeper for its struggle against you. I am in Paris …’
Elena got up and ran out of the apartment, slamming the door as she left. When she reached Pierre’s hotel he was waiting for her, eager. He had no light on in his room. It was as if he wanted to meet her in the darkness, to better feel her skin, her body, her sex.
The separation had made them feverish. In spite of their savage encounter Elena could not have an orgasm. Deep within her was a reserve of fear, and she could not abandon herself. Pierre’s pleasure came with such strength that he could not hold it back to wait for her. He knew her so well he sensed the reason for her secret withdrawal, the wound he had dealt her, the destruction of her faith in his love.
She lay back weary from desire and caresses, but without fulfillment. Pierre bent over her and said in a gentle voice, ‘I deserve this. You are hiding away, even though you want to meet me. I have lost you forever.’
‘No,’ said Elena, ‘wait. Give me time to believe in you again.’
Before she left Pierre, he tried again to possess her. He again met with that secret, ultimately closed being, she who had attained a wholeness in sexual pleasure the first time she had been caressed by him. Then Pierre bowed his head and sat at the edge of the bed, defeated, sad.
‘But you’ll come back tomorrow, you’ll come back? What can I do to make you trust me?’
He was in France without papers, risking arrest. For greater security Elena hid him at the apartment of a friend who was away. They met every day now. He liked to meet her in the darkness, so that before they could see each other’s face, their hands became aware of the other’s presence. Like blind people, they felt each other’s body, lingering in the warmest curves,