Rien

That evening I was set to go clubbing with Josephine and two of her gay boy friends, Louis and Antoine. When I arrived at Josephine’s they had already started drinking. It was 8pm by then; I had dawdled home from the 3rd, stopping for another allongé, then at the Monoprix for some food for dinner: a tub of hummus, olives, cherry tomatoes, anchovies, and some potato chips. I didn’t feel like cooking; I wanted something I could pick at. I shared my food with the others, who were seated around the table on the Ghost chairs. I was complimented on my new white silk dress-shirt. 

Louis was in his late twenties and worked in his family business as a pâtissier. I found this impressive — he had strong arms and a rather fat gut. He was blonde, dirty blonde, and had large green eyes. He resembled a fish, the way his lips pouted a little in their resting position and got wet with saliva when he talked. I found him ugly but could see, if I tried hard enough, the ways in which other people, men, may find him handsome. He had many respectable attributes and a great personality, which was sure to count for something. He was witty, dedicated to his family business, and generous. He let me use his perfume, Comme des Garçons’ Amazingreen, which I thought paired nicely with my new shirt. 

Antoine was also in his late twenties and was the more directionless and therefore less respectable of the two. He figured himself from a Gaspar Noë film — gay, slim and muscular, still lived with his mother, a professional dancer (he trained three months of the year in preparation for one month of on-season, also referred to him as showtime) and loved taking drugs. Antoine was physically very beautiful, though, so I could see how he was able to move through life the way he does. He is given everything for free from his mother and boys he’s fucking; they feed him, clothe him, and buy him expensive perfumes. Sometimes, they even bathe him. His mother has a car, which she uses to chauffeur him around Paris during both training season and showtime. A white Peugeot 208, which he showed me multiple photos of.

C'est trop gênant.

He whined and Josephine and Louis rolled their eyes. This was something Antoine would say often, about almost anything, as if in a constant state of humiliation on account of the behaviour of others, never his own. 

Josephine frequently came and went from the balcony to smoke. We decided to go to La Marbrerie, a club in Montreuil. The three of them had begun to hound me about inviting a date to the club. 

You must put yourself out there, honey. Do you want to fuck or not?

Antoine said to me and I was forced to consider my options. There was Camille, who I did not care for. There was the Chilean, who was sexy but sanctimonious; with alcohol in the mix, we were bound to end up in a serious verbal disagreement. I could ask someone entirely new who I had not yet met, but this could lead to rejection or, worse, an entire evening wasted if we did not get along and were not attracted to one another. I resolved to asking no one. 

I thought briefly of my girlfriend back home — of all our nights out together, both with friends and without friends, getting blind drunk or high on ketamine and coke — CK, she would call it — then going home to fuck. The magic in this. Perhaps I had begun to miss her. Perhaps I wanted her here with me. 

Kylie Minogue’s Butterfly came blasting through Josephine’s loungeroom speaker and I was woken from my reverie. It had been a year since my girlfriend and I had spent a night like this. I was reminiscing, that was all. 

Antoine was portioning out lines of coke on one of Josephine’s small circle mirrors which were positioned around the house, as ubiquitously as power points or light switches. I was excited by the prospect of doing real, pure coke as opposed to the coke cut with talcum powder, boric acid, and god knows what else that we had access to in Melbourne. I did a line and waited for the effects to kick in. 

Much to my surprise I experienced nothing out of the ordinary: a sudden boost in energy — gaiety, even — inhibited sight, drumming ears, slight horniness, talkativeness, followed by an inevitable depressive slump, and a craving for more. 

At thirty minutes to midnight we took an Uber to Montreuil and around the corner from the entrance to La Marbrerie on Rue Buffon the four of us lent on an electrical transformer box and polished off Antoine’s bottle of Ricard, given to him by his mother. 

Antoine and his mother had drank the pastis that evening before eating their dinner. Ricard is referred to colloquially as The Marseille Absinthe because of it’s aniseed flavour profile, and it’s heroin-like, ritualistic preparation; one mixes a desired amount of water with it before consumption. But not Antoine. He drank it straight. Louis was appalled by this, and did not consume any of the remaining Ricard. Josephine and I remained indifferent to tradition; never mind that it was not summer, we were not in the south of France, we were not outside in the sun and we were not having it before a meal. We sipped it straight from the bottle. We wanted to get drunk. 

We entered the club after Antoine experienced some issues with the security guard by the door — he refused to show him the inside of his bag, until Louis and Josephine convinced him it was for the best, that we had come all the way out here, and if he did not comply we would be forced to return to Paris Proper and party in the apartment, or, worse, at La Station Gare des Mines, in Aubervilliers. 

The lighting inside the club was bright. This was unfortunate, as I could clearly see the faces of the other party-goers, and found not one of them the slightest bit attractive. The music was awful, Psytrance, the subgenre of trance I despised the most. 

Antoine and Louis quickly disappeared and found themselves boys to make out with. I went to the toilet with Josephine and watched her take MDMA. I helped myself to a bump of Antoine’s coke, which was now in Josephine’s possession. I drank beer from a plastic cup and accompanied Josephine to the smokers. There was no ventilation — the space resembled a cave — and even I, as a smoker, couldn’t handle it. I left after five minutes. 

Why had I come out tonight? 

I wondered as I stood by the back wall, alone, facing the dance-floor. I thought of my hopes of seeking self-fulfilment or something of the sorts abroad; they were crushed. I was sure to find nothing at La Marbrerie. 

A British girl approached me and importuned me to dance. She was beautiful, definitely, blonde hair and red lipstick. She smelt strongly of tuberose — perhaps she was wearing Maison Margiela’s Flower Market. She was donning a little black dress and a striped grey blazer. I could see her bra, which was lacy and fluorescent pink, poking out from the top of her dress. 

You’re very attractive. 

She said and touched me on my arm. She was not my usual type, and straying from what I knew to be good didn’t interest me. Not yet. I thanked her and said I had to leave. 

I located Josephine and informed her that I was going to leave. Louis and Antoine were unable to be found. Time had flown by and I had very little to show for it; it was already five o’clock in the morning.

The sky turned from black to grey to orange as the Uber approached Rue Damrémont. The street at this time of day was practically deserted, aside from the fleuriste out the front of Josephine’s, who was preparing his store for a day of sales. The air smelt sweet, and of bread. The pharmacie cross flashed green. There was no rain, but the street was wet. 

Bonjour madame.

The fleuriste said to me in an utmost cheerful tone as I stepped out of the Uber and approached the front door of Josephine’s building. 

Bonjour.

I said and punched in the code and retreated. It was far too early in the morning for niceties. I felt unhappy, though perhaps unhappy is the wrong word — I was completely unaffected. I didn’t feel enough to be unhappy. I sat in bed and composed the following verse addressed to no one in particular:

all love is a kind

of prostitution; 

who said that, 

bataille maybe.

the club was not fun.  

i would’ve preferred 

to be walked around 

montreuil by leash in

3 degree weather bare 

knees on the concrete 

than stood by the back 

door, gripping my silly

plastic cup, looking

for you.

Who was I looking for, exactly? I did not know. My romantic life felt dull. I found myself, once again, inventing subjects, creating imaginary addressees. 

I fell asleep and woke late that afternoon feeling no different.