vendredi, février 27, 2009


When I was 15 years old, living with my father (he'd have turned 70 today), we had a strange man as a neighbour. He was my father's distant pal since highschool, a brilliant philosophy student who became odd. When he was young, he was beautiful, smart, driving sport cars and proud to have slept with about 400 girls. A real aryan, blond with blue eyes and also a sex addict. I remember his strange theories: the "blue ones" (blue eyed people) should be sent to America while the "browns" remain in Europe. He even recorded an LP to spread his belief. He divorced because his wife was a beautiful algerian woman, with dark eyes and hair. He was kind of rich and I remember that we could collect in his house, when we were kids and while he was away, big banknotes on the floor, everywhere in his dirty one level house.

Piles of porno novels and magazines were about to collapse from the top of dusty closets. One afternoon, he invited my best friend Stéphane († 1987) and me to share the traditionnal Saint Nicolas hot chocolate and special pastries together, called manala and schnakala. In fact, he wanted us to loose virginity and proposed us to sleep with his 16 years old girl friend, after playing a courte paille (draw lots) game with matches. I won. I knew Pascale from my balcony and watched her naked body lying into the sun, during the summer. She was a beautiful girl, tall, blond haired, her nice face and quirky smile looking so nasty. Jean-Pierre insisted to be present in the room; he wouldn't do anything. I refused categorically. After a long and difficult negociation, he accepted: we could eventually lock the door, with a key that he couldn't find for hours. After this first experience, Pascale soon became my secret sex instructor. For me, there was only one broken match from Saint Nicolas to sex.