Where the Vile Things Are, page 2
I think it is all about his image. I think he chose the purest well he could find to drink from and stake his claim on—to help with whatever his long-term ambitions are. Perhaps he chose her so he wouldn’t have to fuck her beyond consummating their marriage and breeding.
I made a joke to the poor girl about making sure her husband-to-be doesn’t have Grindr on his phone and she gave me the emptiest expression. She asked what it was, but I told her not to worry about it.
I need you to ruin her. I need you to seduce her. Introduce her to all of your vices (which I’m sure there are more than even I know of) and take that virgin prize away from him. She was telling me that her parents, along with Jeremy—who is following the GOP candidate across the country right now—are very worried about her coming to a place like San Francisco.
Let those things be true.
Make their worries a reality.
What better than for that smug piece of shit to come back to collect his bride-to-be and begin their wedding planning, only for him to discover on his wedding night that she can do things no virgin would ever know how to do!
Can you imagine?!
Better still, he returns to find she has done a complete one-eighty and thrown all of her Christian convictions out the window!
Please come back and say you’ll do it!
Be here by six-thirty tomorrow evening, then leave an hour later. My cousin and Cécile will be over by eight for dinner. Return at eight-thirty to dine with us so you may size her up yourself.
She’s delectable, of course—perfectly soft and glossy hair; a wholesome but no less beautiful face; supple, perky breasts; a tight waist and long legs. She does nothing for me, but I know you’d devour her. I’m attaching a photo from her Instagram.
She, like most unaware straight girls with a “good heart,” wants a new G.B.F.—I don’t know how much is actually NEW; I think she means to say her FIRST, but whatever. I will play the part. Camp it up if I have to. She’s too desperate and too trusting. It will take nothing to get her to drop her guard, so let me take her under my wing and groom her and shape her. She’ll be my project. I’ll even take her shopping (AKA, what every straight girl wants of a gay guy). I just need you to take care of her bedroom dancing; I’ll focus on her education in everything else.
Hurry up and respond. Text me back or something. The longer time goes on and you are not here, the less interested in you I get.
MESSAGE III
To: Sophie Carnay
From: Cécile Volanges
August 4th, 20__
Oh my Lord! That was not like anything at Wheaton!
It turns out it was a party—for me—to welcome me to San Francisco! Isabelle hosted it here. She even had it catered! Very, very sweet of her. There was a good mix of people. A lot of people who work with Isabelle at SFMOMA and where I’m going to be doing my residency through my scholarship.
Everyone was drinking and talking and looking at me. I’m certain they were whispering about me. They kept referring to my refusal to drink as “quaint”. Isabelle knows that I have very little interest in drinking—and really, aside from a couple of glasses of wine, I didn’t see her drink much either.
Oh, I did meet her cousin though! His name is Oliver Merteuil and he is so fabulous! He’s gay (obviously) and is just really well-spoken and articulate (though, you know gay men are so much more cultured than we are), and he has an impeccable sense of style. He had this perfectly lean body, with just the tightest butt! LOL! Fitted black pants, the cutest black cardigan and pinstripe collared shirt. He even had on a bow-tie with little skulls on it!
He is such a beautiful man with these big, dark eyes and perfectly coiffed dark hair. See!
[LINK HAS BEEN REDACTED]
He’s really nice, though, and didn’t make me feel awkward at all. Even when I fell asleep! Yes, girl, I fell asleep at my own party. Someone accidently broke a glass or something and it woke me up. I had to excuse myself and come to bed, which I’m about to crawl into. I didn’t want to be rude, but Oliver was so sweet. He told me not to worry about it, and he would think of something to say that didn’t totally make me sound like the lame bible-college girl. We’re technically not related—not by blood anyways—but I can already tell that doesn’t matter.
We’re having dinner at his place tomorrow. I’m really looking forward to it.
Have a good night! I miss you, my friend! Kisses!
MESSAGE IV
To: Oliver Merteuil
From: Nathan Valmont
August 5th, 20__
As always, you flatter me, Oliver. You really do think I’m the perfect devil. It’s true; I normally don’t enjoy myself out here, and being at my aunt’s vineyard is usually a bore. I miss you. I still think of you and that weekend we spent together in my bed after what happened with Jeremy and that girl—whose name escapes me now—and what it was like to slip myself inside of you, and the sounds of your pleasure as you submitted to me. On lonely nights, those memories are the only things that bring me any joy in boredom.
I won’t be coming back to the city tonight. I know, you’re obviously going to be pissed by this, but perhaps once I explain, you will see why I am here and why I am obliged to stay.
You offer me this girl to corrupt: this pure, naïve—albeit hot—girl (I definitely enjoyed the picture you sent me, and I did check out her Instagram as well as Facebook.) But she would be simply too easy, and you know plenty of other viable men within our circles (well, more mine than yours) who would gladly take up the task; so ask one of them. I have in my sights a target that only I could be worthy of conquering. One that is worthy of every skill I have and that will make me a legend.
Stefan Tourvel.
His husband is the very same far-right, racist, sexist, xenophobic gay blogger Nico Mitsopoulos, who supports banning undocumented immigrants, and thinks that this new potential GOP candidate with the rug for hair and whatever color his skin is supposed to be, is the savior appointed by Christ. Though, given the man’s public history, dubious business practices, and overall spongy and toad-like appearance, how any of these Christians can think that and want to vote for him, I have no clue.
But then, they are masters at finding anything they can to justify their hypocrisy when faced with it. They have turned the Orange One into some prodigal son chosen to lead them. The truth is, they’ve always ever only had one endgame: to make the United States, and ideally, the rest of the world, into countries governed by theology—specifically THEIR theology.
It’s been a long-standing, long-drawn out coup and if this crude, grotesque creature wins—which I very well think he might, given the amount of White Supremacists and every day casual bigots crawling out of the woodwork to support him—I think we could very well see ourselves down a dangerous path of right-wing takeover that will slither about untroubled amidst our own in-fighting and tribalism until it will be too late.
But then to devour our own is to be human, and Americans are the most human of them all.
As is known, Stefan had a very public coming out and subsequent estrangement from his father—the mega-church evangelist minister-turned-South Carolina State Senator Jackson Tourvel—and has devoted himself to using his platform for various culture war causes and has been very vocal in his disapproval of CERTAIN aspects of gay male behavior. All of the “behaviors” that I take pleasure in.
He is staying with my aunt while he works with her foundation to implement some new campaign or program or something with one of those national LGBT rights groups—I forget which one. I don’t care about any of it, but I pretend that I do.
He goes with my aunt to church. Though his father has shown him the true face of religious fervor, he has still not lost faith, and I in turn have been accompanying them! So fucking ridiculous and I want to shoot myself every single fucking time, but I just stay focused on him.
He sits in the pews in his tight chinos, accentuating the bulge between his legs, and his ass! Fuck; let’s just say it is a close second with yours, and he’s always in the same Ralph Lauren and Burberry polos which cling to his chest, torso, and arms. All of his pictures cannot do him justice. His clean shaven boy-next-door-face and ruddy cheeks, the tiny little mole—like a speck of ink near his nose—and his high-and-tight dirty blond hair and brown eyes, which stare at the altar so intently, captivate me in every single way.
You’d think he was waiting for God to suddenly speak aloud. As if the plaster image of Christ on the cross will suddenly turn its head, look directly at him, and speak!
I need him. I ache for him. I think about him when I am not thinking about you. I imagine all of the things I would do to him. I think about what he would feel like: his lips and tongue sliding up and down my cock, his body helpless under me while I spread those cheeks and push my dick inside.
I wonder how many men have been in him? How many have tasted him? Not many, I would assume. He’s by no means a virgin, but I wouldn’t be at all surprised if he has only felt the strong, stiff passion of a man a couple of times in his life.
I want to be the one who he will always feel inside of him... long after I have dismantled him and discarded him.
He’ll be my greatest victory.
You, my only love and my deepest friend—my infernal twin—you will be so enamored of me when I finish, that even you will be begging me to make love to you again—to worship you as only I can.
I promise you this.
Sorry I can’t be there, but in comparison to Stefan, you can now see why I can’t waste time on this Volanges girl. Hopefully you can forgive me.
MESSAGE V
To: Nathan Valmont
From: Oliver Merteuil
August 7th, 20__
You’re kidding me, right? God, I should be pissed at you! I guess on some level I am, but then you have so obviously become delusional that I have to take pity on you.
Stefan Tourvel? What do you really hope to gain from any of this? I think there’s something to be said for having a husband as a rival. It’s humiliating if you lose and lackluster if you succeed.
Are you taking on the church? The Right Wing? Are you trying to prove that in the end all faggots can’t resist getting their dicks sucked or taking part in some recreational drug use if party favors are presented?
Are you wanting to get back at Nico for being so awful when he himself is gay? That he is a minority and is not seen as equal to his straight counterparts, and doing the shit that he does and says, and the shit that he stirs is disgusting?
What EXACLTY are you trying to get out of this?
And I’m sorry, but there is nothing THAT impressive about Stefan Tourvel. He’s basic-bitch attractive. A total fuck boy (much like your friend Carter Belleroche). And sure, he’s got the six-pack, the Abercrombie white boy face, and from the pics on his social media in his swimming trunks, his cock looks impressive, but he seems vapid—empty—like any of those other “Instafamous” dudes (God, how I despise that word. No matter how fitting it is in our current digital age), and he is most definitely one of those guys.
He mostly dresses in the usual mall brand clothes that one normally only sees on high-schoolers (though, sadly, many a gay man clinging to his youth continues to shop in these places, long after they’ve out-aged them), and he has the same perfectly-chiseled body and stereotypically handsome face that any one person would find appealing.
But when looking for imperfections, there are none, and imperfections tend to be the most physically attractive part of another person. It is what gives one character and something unique to themselves. These picture-perfect guys tend to leave little to any other type of stimulation.
He’s a prude. A prude who values God, social structure, The Bible, and all of its teachings. You will fail to drag him into the shadows and get him to abandon morality. Even if you could get him over his fear of God, you will never get him over his fear of the Devil. And yes, my love, you are the Devil if a person ever could be one.
He is twenty-four, and if you somehow get him into your arms and into your bed, the beating of his heart will not be in lust, but in terror. He will bend to you because he will be too timid to do anything else. You will be nothing more than a monster and it will be the worst sex of your fucking life.
Think again about what you hope to accomplish.
Meanwhile, you deny me this request and once again you let Jeremy Gercourt best you! LOL. I’m just teasing of course, though your reputation in this city—the one you have cultivated for so long—is starting to look less and less deserved. Not to mention, you always vowed to get back at Jeremy.
The thing that won me over and got me to sleep with you was your strong conviction—your promise—that you would one day avenge me for what he did, for how he treated me.
You told me that I didn’t deserve the withering that was happening in my heart, and that one day you would make him pay. Now, the perfect time comes and you do nothing? You deny me and go back on your promise of justice for the one you love, in order to pursue someone so basic!
Whatever. It is what it is.
Cécile has met her instructor... it’s Rafael Danceny. He’s teaching her about curating the exhibits, acquiring works, how to give tours, etc. She blushed three times while she talked about him. He’s a fan of the opera, which she is unaware of and that I plan to use to my advantage. I mean, Rafael is quite attractive. I’d fuck him. Those lips and that body! He is something. That French and El Salvadorian thing... either way, he is delicious and a perfect tool.
They both seem to be equally shy with each other, and Rafael definitely needs a little push. Well, they both do.
It will be a lot less amusing without you involved and carrying out the execution yourself.
Your dear friend Carter is coming over tonight. I’m totally bored with him at this point, and he’s the only guy I’m fucking right now—which is a shock. I’ll probably fight with him again because he’ll say something stupid. Maybe I should use that ball gag I got at Folsom a few years ago?
At least I wouldn’t have to hear him make another comment about how bored he is and how he just wants to charter a yacht in Mykonos again, and how it could be like that night at the beginning of the summer when he and I first hooked up.
I really do need to break it off with him; I’ve tried a couple of times. But his tears and pleas and the puppy-dog look on his face always makes me rescind. I really do love torturing him.
Be sure to ask Stefan to pray for me.
MESSAGE VI
To: Oliver Merteuil
From: Nathan Valmont
August 9th, 20__
So, you have no issue with abusing your power over me. You, whom I often call “an indulgent friend,” you do not think twice about attacking me through the object of my affection.
Seriously, kind of hurt right now!
You talk about Stefan Tourvel like that? Painting him with such strokes as empty, prudish, religious... “basic-bitch” attractive! Anyone other than you would have gotten their ass kicked. I really hope you won’t test me so harshly. I can’t promise I will survive it. For the sake of our friendship, at least wait until I have fucked him before you decide to tear him apart. Besides, don’t you know that pleasure alone is the only thing to make one see the truth?
But, then, what does it matter? Does Stefan actually need defending, and does he need to be putting on an image of what he thinks people want him to be? No. Stefan is just always himself, and he is adorable.
You mock him for his dress and his looks, but it is perfect, and I have seen him each morning now at the breakfast table in crisp, white little cotton shorts, the fabric tight around his junk, absent-mindedly showing it off, the thin and relaxed little white V-neck tee—transparent in the sun—showing his lean body.
His expression can seem like that of those models, but for him, it is not a vapid passivity, he simply will not fake amusement for something that doesn’t amuse him. He smiles and laughs when he feels it is warranted, not to humor others.
He has the most amazing look of joy on his face when he is helping others, and his eyes brighten whenever he talks with my aunt about all the good they hope to do. You mock his values and his being religious, to say it makes him boring? I say it is incredible and refreshing that he is so convicted—that he can be with his husband, and give his love to a man so opposite in so many ways astounds me.
He must see a different Nico when they are alone, and that is why he holds on and deals with all of the other vile things, because he is blinded by the idea that if he continues to love Nico long enough, that Nico will soften of his views or let them go. Though we both know this will never happen, Stefan needs it to happen.
Yesterday we walked the vineyards with my aunt. I led the way to the older vineyard—the very first on the property eighty years ago—where I knew many of the roots had breached the earth over the decades. Naturally, knowing to look for them, they were avoided, but Stefan—not paying attention—tripped, and I caught him in such a way that (intentionally) our arms entwined and our bodies were pressed together.
I held tight to his soft, warm skin, smelled the light fragrance of the shampoo in his hair, and felt his heart quicken. It beat against me, and his cheeks were flushed and he smiled, and I knew that the racing heart was not in fear, but in attraction to me!
My aunt joked that Stefan was worried about being so close to me, as I am such a playboy! Hahaha! A playboy! I feel so dapper! He actually began to say “No, that’s not—” but didn’t finish. Still, that was enough to enlighten me and drive me to keep pursuing this!
I shall have him; my pride and my ego demand it. I will take him from that piece-of-shit Uncle Tom husband of his, and I will take him away from that God that he adores so much. I will be the thing that will be the cause and conqueror of his guilt! It will add to my infamy when I am through with him.
Far be it from me to destroy the ideals that torture him; let him believe in virtue and monogamy, but let him throw it away for me. Let his trips terrify him without restraining him; let him wrestle with all of these things and his constant need to be good with God; let all of it terrify him, and yet not be able to escape them or get over them except for when he is in my arms.
I made a joke to the poor girl about making sure her husband-to-be doesn’t have Grindr on his phone and she gave me the emptiest expression. She asked what it was, but I told her not to worry about it.
I need you to ruin her. I need you to seduce her. Introduce her to all of your vices (which I’m sure there are more than even I know of) and take that virgin prize away from him. She was telling me that her parents, along with Jeremy—who is following the GOP candidate across the country right now—are very worried about her coming to a place like San Francisco.
Let those things be true.
Make their worries a reality.
What better than for that smug piece of shit to come back to collect his bride-to-be and begin their wedding planning, only for him to discover on his wedding night that she can do things no virgin would ever know how to do!
Can you imagine?!
Better still, he returns to find she has done a complete one-eighty and thrown all of her Christian convictions out the window!
Please come back and say you’ll do it!
Be here by six-thirty tomorrow evening, then leave an hour later. My cousin and Cécile will be over by eight for dinner. Return at eight-thirty to dine with us so you may size her up yourself.
She’s delectable, of course—perfectly soft and glossy hair; a wholesome but no less beautiful face; supple, perky breasts; a tight waist and long legs. She does nothing for me, but I know you’d devour her. I’m attaching a photo from her Instagram.
She, like most unaware straight girls with a “good heart,” wants a new G.B.F.—I don’t know how much is actually NEW; I think she means to say her FIRST, but whatever. I will play the part. Camp it up if I have to. She’s too desperate and too trusting. It will take nothing to get her to drop her guard, so let me take her under my wing and groom her and shape her. She’ll be my project. I’ll even take her shopping (AKA, what every straight girl wants of a gay guy). I just need you to take care of her bedroom dancing; I’ll focus on her education in everything else.
Hurry up and respond. Text me back or something. The longer time goes on and you are not here, the less interested in you I get.
MESSAGE III
To: Sophie Carnay
From: Cécile Volanges
August 4th, 20__
Oh my Lord! That was not like anything at Wheaton!
It turns out it was a party—for me—to welcome me to San Francisco! Isabelle hosted it here. She even had it catered! Very, very sweet of her. There was a good mix of people. A lot of people who work with Isabelle at SFMOMA and where I’m going to be doing my residency through my scholarship.
Everyone was drinking and talking and looking at me. I’m certain they were whispering about me. They kept referring to my refusal to drink as “quaint”. Isabelle knows that I have very little interest in drinking—and really, aside from a couple of glasses of wine, I didn’t see her drink much either.
Oh, I did meet her cousin though! His name is Oliver Merteuil and he is so fabulous! He’s gay (obviously) and is just really well-spoken and articulate (though, you know gay men are so much more cultured than we are), and he has an impeccable sense of style. He had this perfectly lean body, with just the tightest butt! LOL! Fitted black pants, the cutest black cardigan and pinstripe collared shirt. He even had on a bow-tie with little skulls on it!
He is such a beautiful man with these big, dark eyes and perfectly coiffed dark hair. See!
[LINK HAS BEEN REDACTED]
He’s really nice, though, and didn’t make me feel awkward at all. Even when I fell asleep! Yes, girl, I fell asleep at my own party. Someone accidently broke a glass or something and it woke me up. I had to excuse myself and come to bed, which I’m about to crawl into. I didn’t want to be rude, but Oliver was so sweet. He told me not to worry about it, and he would think of something to say that didn’t totally make me sound like the lame bible-college girl. We’re technically not related—not by blood anyways—but I can already tell that doesn’t matter.
We’re having dinner at his place tomorrow. I’m really looking forward to it.
Have a good night! I miss you, my friend! Kisses!
MESSAGE IV
To: Oliver Merteuil
From: Nathan Valmont
August 5th, 20__
As always, you flatter me, Oliver. You really do think I’m the perfect devil. It’s true; I normally don’t enjoy myself out here, and being at my aunt’s vineyard is usually a bore. I miss you. I still think of you and that weekend we spent together in my bed after what happened with Jeremy and that girl—whose name escapes me now—and what it was like to slip myself inside of you, and the sounds of your pleasure as you submitted to me. On lonely nights, those memories are the only things that bring me any joy in boredom.
I won’t be coming back to the city tonight. I know, you’re obviously going to be pissed by this, but perhaps once I explain, you will see why I am here and why I am obliged to stay.
You offer me this girl to corrupt: this pure, naïve—albeit hot—girl (I definitely enjoyed the picture you sent me, and I did check out her Instagram as well as Facebook.) But she would be simply too easy, and you know plenty of other viable men within our circles (well, more mine than yours) who would gladly take up the task; so ask one of them. I have in my sights a target that only I could be worthy of conquering. One that is worthy of every skill I have and that will make me a legend.
Stefan Tourvel.
His husband is the very same far-right, racist, sexist, xenophobic gay blogger Nico Mitsopoulos, who supports banning undocumented immigrants, and thinks that this new potential GOP candidate with the rug for hair and whatever color his skin is supposed to be, is the savior appointed by Christ. Though, given the man’s public history, dubious business practices, and overall spongy and toad-like appearance, how any of these Christians can think that and want to vote for him, I have no clue.
But then, they are masters at finding anything they can to justify their hypocrisy when faced with it. They have turned the Orange One into some prodigal son chosen to lead them. The truth is, they’ve always ever only had one endgame: to make the United States, and ideally, the rest of the world, into countries governed by theology—specifically THEIR theology.
It’s been a long-standing, long-drawn out coup and if this crude, grotesque creature wins—which I very well think he might, given the amount of White Supremacists and every day casual bigots crawling out of the woodwork to support him—I think we could very well see ourselves down a dangerous path of right-wing takeover that will slither about untroubled amidst our own in-fighting and tribalism until it will be too late.
But then to devour our own is to be human, and Americans are the most human of them all.
As is known, Stefan had a very public coming out and subsequent estrangement from his father—the mega-church evangelist minister-turned-South Carolina State Senator Jackson Tourvel—and has devoted himself to using his platform for various culture war causes and has been very vocal in his disapproval of CERTAIN aspects of gay male behavior. All of the “behaviors” that I take pleasure in.
He is staying with my aunt while he works with her foundation to implement some new campaign or program or something with one of those national LGBT rights groups—I forget which one. I don’t care about any of it, but I pretend that I do.
He goes with my aunt to church. Though his father has shown him the true face of religious fervor, he has still not lost faith, and I in turn have been accompanying them! So fucking ridiculous and I want to shoot myself every single fucking time, but I just stay focused on him.
He sits in the pews in his tight chinos, accentuating the bulge between his legs, and his ass! Fuck; let’s just say it is a close second with yours, and he’s always in the same Ralph Lauren and Burberry polos which cling to his chest, torso, and arms. All of his pictures cannot do him justice. His clean shaven boy-next-door-face and ruddy cheeks, the tiny little mole—like a speck of ink near his nose—and his high-and-tight dirty blond hair and brown eyes, which stare at the altar so intently, captivate me in every single way.
You’d think he was waiting for God to suddenly speak aloud. As if the plaster image of Christ on the cross will suddenly turn its head, look directly at him, and speak!
I need him. I ache for him. I think about him when I am not thinking about you. I imagine all of the things I would do to him. I think about what he would feel like: his lips and tongue sliding up and down my cock, his body helpless under me while I spread those cheeks and push my dick inside.
I wonder how many men have been in him? How many have tasted him? Not many, I would assume. He’s by no means a virgin, but I wouldn’t be at all surprised if he has only felt the strong, stiff passion of a man a couple of times in his life.
I want to be the one who he will always feel inside of him... long after I have dismantled him and discarded him.
He’ll be my greatest victory.
You, my only love and my deepest friend—my infernal twin—you will be so enamored of me when I finish, that even you will be begging me to make love to you again—to worship you as only I can.
I promise you this.
Sorry I can’t be there, but in comparison to Stefan, you can now see why I can’t waste time on this Volanges girl. Hopefully you can forgive me.
MESSAGE V
To: Nathan Valmont
From: Oliver Merteuil
August 7th, 20__
You’re kidding me, right? God, I should be pissed at you! I guess on some level I am, but then you have so obviously become delusional that I have to take pity on you.
Stefan Tourvel? What do you really hope to gain from any of this? I think there’s something to be said for having a husband as a rival. It’s humiliating if you lose and lackluster if you succeed.
Are you taking on the church? The Right Wing? Are you trying to prove that in the end all faggots can’t resist getting their dicks sucked or taking part in some recreational drug use if party favors are presented?
Are you wanting to get back at Nico for being so awful when he himself is gay? That he is a minority and is not seen as equal to his straight counterparts, and doing the shit that he does and says, and the shit that he stirs is disgusting?
What EXACLTY are you trying to get out of this?
And I’m sorry, but there is nothing THAT impressive about Stefan Tourvel. He’s basic-bitch attractive. A total fuck boy (much like your friend Carter Belleroche). And sure, he’s got the six-pack, the Abercrombie white boy face, and from the pics on his social media in his swimming trunks, his cock looks impressive, but he seems vapid—empty—like any of those other “Instafamous” dudes (God, how I despise that word. No matter how fitting it is in our current digital age), and he is most definitely one of those guys.
He mostly dresses in the usual mall brand clothes that one normally only sees on high-schoolers (though, sadly, many a gay man clinging to his youth continues to shop in these places, long after they’ve out-aged them), and he has the same perfectly-chiseled body and stereotypically handsome face that any one person would find appealing.
But when looking for imperfections, there are none, and imperfections tend to be the most physically attractive part of another person. It is what gives one character and something unique to themselves. These picture-perfect guys tend to leave little to any other type of stimulation.
He’s a prude. A prude who values God, social structure, The Bible, and all of its teachings. You will fail to drag him into the shadows and get him to abandon morality. Even if you could get him over his fear of God, you will never get him over his fear of the Devil. And yes, my love, you are the Devil if a person ever could be one.
He is twenty-four, and if you somehow get him into your arms and into your bed, the beating of his heart will not be in lust, but in terror. He will bend to you because he will be too timid to do anything else. You will be nothing more than a monster and it will be the worst sex of your fucking life.
Think again about what you hope to accomplish.
Meanwhile, you deny me this request and once again you let Jeremy Gercourt best you! LOL. I’m just teasing of course, though your reputation in this city—the one you have cultivated for so long—is starting to look less and less deserved. Not to mention, you always vowed to get back at Jeremy.
The thing that won me over and got me to sleep with you was your strong conviction—your promise—that you would one day avenge me for what he did, for how he treated me.
You told me that I didn’t deserve the withering that was happening in my heart, and that one day you would make him pay. Now, the perfect time comes and you do nothing? You deny me and go back on your promise of justice for the one you love, in order to pursue someone so basic!
Whatever. It is what it is.
Cécile has met her instructor... it’s Rafael Danceny. He’s teaching her about curating the exhibits, acquiring works, how to give tours, etc. She blushed three times while she talked about him. He’s a fan of the opera, which she is unaware of and that I plan to use to my advantage. I mean, Rafael is quite attractive. I’d fuck him. Those lips and that body! He is something. That French and El Salvadorian thing... either way, he is delicious and a perfect tool.
They both seem to be equally shy with each other, and Rafael definitely needs a little push. Well, they both do.
It will be a lot less amusing without you involved and carrying out the execution yourself.
Your dear friend Carter is coming over tonight. I’m totally bored with him at this point, and he’s the only guy I’m fucking right now—which is a shock. I’ll probably fight with him again because he’ll say something stupid. Maybe I should use that ball gag I got at Folsom a few years ago?
At least I wouldn’t have to hear him make another comment about how bored he is and how he just wants to charter a yacht in Mykonos again, and how it could be like that night at the beginning of the summer when he and I first hooked up.
I really do need to break it off with him; I’ve tried a couple of times. But his tears and pleas and the puppy-dog look on his face always makes me rescind. I really do love torturing him.
Be sure to ask Stefan to pray for me.
MESSAGE VI
To: Oliver Merteuil
From: Nathan Valmont
August 9th, 20__
So, you have no issue with abusing your power over me. You, whom I often call “an indulgent friend,” you do not think twice about attacking me through the object of my affection.
Seriously, kind of hurt right now!
You talk about Stefan Tourvel like that? Painting him with such strokes as empty, prudish, religious... “basic-bitch” attractive! Anyone other than you would have gotten their ass kicked. I really hope you won’t test me so harshly. I can’t promise I will survive it. For the sake of our friendship, at least wait until I have fucked him before you decide to tear him apart. Besides, don’t you know that pleasure alone is the only thing to make one see the truth?
But, then, what does it matter? Does Stefan actually need defending, and does he need to be putting on an image of what he thinks people want him to be? No. Stefan is just always himself, and he is adorable.
You mock him for his dress and his looks, but it is perfect, and I have seen him each morning now at the breakfast table in crisp, white little cotton shorts, the fabric tight around his junk, absent-mindedly showing it off, the thin and relaxed little white V-neck tee—transparent in the sun—showing his lean body.
His expression can seem like that of those models, but for him, it is not a vapid passivity, he simply will not fake amusement for something that doesn’t amuse him. He smiles and laughs when he feels it is warranted, not to humor others.
He has the most amazing look of joy on his face when he is helping others, and his eyes brighten whenever he talks with my aunt about all the good they hope to do. You mock his values and his being religious, to say it makes him boring? I say it is incredible and refreshing that he is so convicted—that he can be with his husband, and give his love to a man so opposite in so many ways astounds me.
He must see a different Nico when they are alone, and that is why he holds on and deals with all of the other vile things, because he is blinded by the idea that if he continues to love Nico long enough, that Nico will soften of his views or let them go. Though we both know this will never happen, Stefan needs it to happen.
Yesterday we walked the vineyards with my aunt. I led the way to the older vineyard—the very first on the property eighty years ago—where I knew many of the roots had breached the earth over the decades. Naturally, knowing to look for them, they were avoided, but Stefan—not paying attention—tripped, and I caught him in such a way that (intentionally) our arms entwined and our bodies were pressed together.
I held tight to his soft, warm skin, smelled the light fragrance of the shampoo in his hair, and felt his heart quicken. It beat against me, and his cheeks were flushed and he smiled, and I knew that the racing heart was not in fear, but in attraction to me!
My aunt joked that Stefan was worried about being so close to me, as I am such a playboy! Hahaha! A playboy! I feel so dapper! He actually began to say “No, that’s not—” but didn’t finish. Still, that was enough to enlighten me and drive me to keep pursuing this!
I shall have him; my pride and my ego demand it. I will take him from that piece-of-shit Uncle Tom husband of his, and I will take him away from that God that he adores so much. I will be the thing that will be the cause and conqueror of his guilt! It will add to my infamy when I am through with him.
Far be it from me to destroy the ideals that torture him; let him believe in virtue and monogamy, but let him throw it away for me. Let his trips terrify him without restraining him; let him wrestle with all of these things and his constant need to be good with God; let all of it terrify him, and yet not be able to escape them or get over them except for when he is in my arms.
