The first time, it was she who had come to him, despite the fear of being turned down because she was too young. The first time, it was at his place, just after Valérie had left for work. Two days after the trip to Salins-de-Giraud, she’d appeared like a flower at the apartment. And she didn’t even need a lame excuse, because they understood each other even at the door.

She thought a man’s sex became rough, with time; the same way as hands and face become lined, thicker or cracked. She was surprised by the softness of his skin, the fragility of his testicles in her young girl’s hands. She knelt down in the hallway and took him in her mouth, because that was the only thing she wanted: this male sex, smooth and hard, this point of pride for the two of them, he fully aware of his actions, she certain that it was because of her he had such a hard-on. And, for the first time, although she thought she had something to prove, she forgot about rules, meanings and pornography. Forgot what she was supposed to do and not do, at an age when these things are of paramount importance; desire alone guided her tongue, her lips, her hands. She rubbed her face against his penis in the same way a small animal nestles, played as if nothing was more important than the game itself; she didn’t understand at all what was happening to her, she lost control when she was actually at the heart of things. All this desire made him tremble, he stroked her hair with his fingertips, pulled in his stomach for fear of being rough or clumsy, or of being caught. It was he who had made her stand up and led her to the sofa, afraid to come in her mouth. Maybe it was these moments that had determined the worth of their relationship, the one they decided to grant it. Subsequently, there had been other, very happy times, joyful sex and passionate fucks, but nothing ever matched the magic of that first blow job in the hallway, the magic as tenuous as a declaration of love.

Very soon, he stopped blowing his wages on bets after work, and started saving up to pay for a hotel. Céline loved that. She saw nothing shabby or sordid in it. The hotel was about clean white sheets and your own room, even for just a couple of hours. Her El Dorado was very much female. She also liked the fact that it was forbidden, and the difficulty of getting together. They met a dozen times, no more. Whenever they bumped into each other elsewhere, they didn’t even have to pretend: they became other people, went back to being what they were supposed to be to each other, and without anybody noticing, a new complicity was triggered by these moments.