When she once again took up her narrative after a long interval, she said:
“And now I'll tell you whatever you want to I know, just as if I were confessing. If you want to know names, I'll give you names. If you want frank language you can have that too. If I forget a detail, ask me and you can have it.”
“What are we going to call this history of yours?”
“The story of all the hairs in my ass!” said she, laughing.
“We'll never get finished. There's enough material there to fill a hundred volumes.”
“This will only be a condensation for use in elementary schools!” she cried, laughing even more.
Charlotte had changed completely. She was gay now and it showed all over her face. If I had been her most intimate girlfriend, she couldn't have, told me the story of her life with more frank-ness and abandon.
“While we're on the subject of elementary education, I began mine at the age of ten. Ricette is the only one of us who was properly educated in a girl's hoarding school with a bunch of young society girls who say their prayers every night before going to their room and beating off.
“I went to the public school in my quarter and was one of those who conducted themselves with the most propriety. You can guess why. On leaving the school, there were those who played ball in the fields nearby or engaged in their little bitcheries with the daughter of the man who ran the creamery, a girl who hiked to show her hairs to those who were willing to run their tongues around her asshole. And of course there were the others who played with any boys who would let them jerk off their pricks.
“You can easily realize why I wasn't curious about the pricks and the hairs. And besides, mama was always waiting for me. Classes ended at four o'clock and there were days when I was being cornholed at a quarter after. I barely had time to get back.
“The next year I made a first communion the like of which there are certainly very few. A friend of mine who mounted me an average of three times a week amused himself by making me learn a catechism of his own composition which I had to recite. There were sixteen pages of it and nothing but filth on any of them. The morning of the ceremony he came at seven o'clock and wanted me to suck him so that I should have some come in my stomach… Mother said that under those conditions it was hardly worth bothering to have a first communion, but he had given a hundred francs and… And that was only the beginning. What a day! I can really look back and call that day my first one as a real whore. All my lovers came and wanted to take me under my communion dress, and they all wanted to cornhole me! There were twelve of them. Can you imagine that? We didn't eat until nine in the evening on that day, and I was cornholed five times! Five times! And I sucked four men! I don't know how the other three came, but my pretty white dress was as full of come as if it had been dipped in it. I'll never forget that first communion!”
Charlotte shook her head with a smile that seemed somehow consoled. Her sadness had completely gone, and she narrated her story vivaciously. She ruined the effect several times in trying to prepare it, like all young girls who are inexperienced at telling tales, but her errors only served to underline the ingenuousness of the rest of her story.
“I know you're not expecting what I'm going to tell you now, but really I've seen everything in my life. A year after that first communion five dirty little urchins made fun of me because I was still a virgin!”
I've got to admit that at this point in Charlotte's narrative if I was expecting a coup de theatre she hadn't come up with it.
“I promised you,” she said, “the story of all the hairs in my ass, and we've only begun. I was twelve years old and I'd been a whore for four of them when my pubic hair first began to sprout. But they didn't take long once they got started. By the end of six months I was as hairy as a woman of thirty.
“You're beginning to know me now. I never was one of those passionate girls who take you by the hand and say, 'I'm burning up inside…' No. I don't burn, but I overflow often and for no reason at all. And when my cunt is flowing I want to finger myself. And when I want to finger myself, I do it.”
She turned over laughing. Her good humor had transformed her completely.
“So it was when I was twelve that I learned how to beat myself off and began to do it as much as I pissed. And now I can't even say that truthfully because, today for example, I haven't pissed as often as I've come.
“Mama always advised me to finger myself when there was someone cornholing me, obviously, but she was also happy to see that I would do it alone in front of her too. And since I was very clumsy at first, she had the patience to teach me herself, first doing it with her own finger and then taking mine in her hand to help me. God, how stupid I was! When I think that my mother had to take my hand in hers to teach me how to finger myself!
“At that time I was still going to school and we were living in a part of Marseilles where there were hardly any whores and even fewer virgins. I think that all the girls at school fucked more or less often: some with their brothers, others with their fathers, their cousins, their neighbors… I knew one little wretch who used to brag that she would give herself at least six good ones every evening against a paling at a construction site near! her home. There was another one I knew named I Clara who was as skinny as a little skeleton. You! could even see the bones in her buttocks, and she! didn't have a hair on her body. Once, in front! of me, she sobbed to a woman of forty that she! had to sleep every night between her two brothers I and that they did it to her both at once, one from! the front and the other from behind, they were! so hard up. And the woman replied, 'Ah! Howl I'd like to take your place!' I've got some real) memories of my childhood.
“One time I was in a corner of the schoolyard! with five of my girlfriends and each was telling how she beat herself off. When I said (without mentioning mama) that I stuck a candle in my rear while I rubbed at my snatch they thought it was terrific and invited me to come with them into a little garden at the home of one of them, a girl named Regine. There we were going to show each other everything and amuse ourselves like little queens. That was a day when mama had to go out in the evening, so I followed my little friends and then…
“Ah! The things that happened to me that day! But first I have to tell you that I had one of those virgin cunts that you hardly ever see; a mere pencil mark on my body. The other five lifted their skills first: none of them were virgins; the three youngest had no hair whatsoever, and the other two had only a little light down. When they lifted my skirt and saw my virgin slit surrounded by a great tuft of black hair they screamed with laughter. They'd never seen such a thing. Then, you know, the little beasts made a ring around me and danced around repeating their same filthy little joke over and over: 'Look at the bearded virgin, the bearded virgin, the bearded virgin! Look at the bearded virgin, the bearded virgin, the bearded virgin!'
“I was crying with rage when I told mama about it that evening; and very few things have ever been more important to me in my life, for mama decided that my girlfriends had been right about two things.
“First of all, she said that I had too much pubic hair for my age. And you'll never be able to guess what mama did for me! Do you know, she found the time and patience to shave me herself for three years after that! And it wasn't easy to do, because I had hair everywhere, under my arms, on my stomach, in my pussy, on my thighs, and even between my buttocks. When I was fifteen I still had a shaved cunt like a harem girl, and everyone liked it like that, from lesbians to men. I don't know why they've never done that to Ricette.
“Next, when mama saw how ashamed I was to still be a virgin, and that all my friends made fun of me because of it, she promised to find someone to break it, knowing very well that I'd never do it myself.
“But first… Have you ever broken a girl's cherry?”
“Yes and it isn't funny. You're a very good girl not to have yours now, especially since it was only a pencil mark.”
“Good! Then suppose that someone said to you: here's a kid named Charlotte. She's twelve years old; you can cornhole her in any position you want; you can come in her mouth; she'll lick your stomach, suck your balls, kiss your ass, and do anything you want. She will eat out her mother in front of you or cornhole herself with a dildoe, etc., etc. And all that will cost you only twenty francs. But if you want to take her virginity it'll cost you ten thousand. What would you say?”
“I'd say it was one hell of a lousy joke.”
“Then it wouldn't surprise you if I had to wait a long time before I lost my virginity and that Ricette still has hers.
“Besides, mother was really in no hurry. I had learned to take it from the rear and she was happy. And all the more since the older I got the better I liked it. What good would learning to fuck do me?
“But I was really happy when the time came for me to learn something new. Guess what. Look at me and if you like what I'm talking about you'll be able to guess… You can't guess? Then it's because you don't like it… Flagellation!”
“You're right. I don't like it at all. But why are you so good at that?”
“Because I cry like a fountain and that makes the people who like it happy.”
“My poor Charlotte!”
“For the twentieth time: you don't know what being a whore is like. Imagine this scene: here am I, age thirteen, dressed in a black schoolgirl's apron with pigtails down my back, on my knees next to the bed, my dress pulled up… I hold up my buttocks. My little ass, which will naturally be cornholed at the end of the session, is in the air with the shaven cunt beneath it. And a man stands there whipping me with all his might, only getting a hard-on when I burst out sobbing. Of course, mama was always there to make sure they didn't kill me, but all the same… What a time! And it was always on those days that the things happened that I told you about earlier. The man who did those things to me used to bring his mistress with him, a great horse of a woman who looked even more ferocious than he. He would cornhole her on top of me then take his prick out of her ass and make me lick it so hard that I would always wind up crying. He liked that so much one time that he began to play with his cock in my mouth until he finally came, and then he blamed me for having made him discharge too soon, because he had also wanted to stick it into my whipped behind. He gave me such a slap in the face that, although my lips were shut tightly, the come squirted out of my mouth like the juice out of an orange.”
“Your mother permitted all this?”
“Now don't speak badly of mother. I've seen her whipped harder than me and it hurt me more than it did her.”
“That's typical of you. And was the gentleman happy?”
“Probably. I never cried so hard in my life as the night he gave my mother such a slash with the whip that she was bleeding from the lip of her cunt to the middle of her ass. I thought I was going to have a fit. After that, mama never tried that sort of thing again for 'almost two years!”
Charlotte sat dreaming for a second and then smiled vaguely.
“That was the year I was most successful with lesbians. There are girls who never come until they're eighteen or twenty years old, but I had started early and with mama's idea to shave me I was considered a prodigy.
“Take a lesbian who's lying on a bed sixty-nining with a little shaven virgin licking her and getting as much come (and what come) as a wet-nurse can give milk… you think she gets excited? I said, 'And what come.' You know that there are two kinds of lesbians, those who lick their maids' asses because there is more taste there than in those of their friends, and those at the other extreme who are always seeking the most delicate of sensations. For these latter, a virgin cunt without hair that flows like a gypsy is something they can't keep their tongue out of.
“I had a lot of lesbians when I was thirteen and, would you believe it, I suffered almost as much as when I was being beaten. A tongue down there irritates me. It's ten times more than I need to come. You saw how I beat myself off a few minutes ago — hardly even touching it? I can even do it without touching it at all. Would you like me to do it for you?”
“How?”
“However you want. You can cornhole me without me beating myself off and you'll make me come with your prick as if you were really fucking me.”
“Then why do you finger yourself?”
“Oh, it's still better that way. I can come when I want to.”
“Charlotte,” I said. “You say the moat horrible things.”
“I'm not surprised. I'm so stupid!” she said hiding her head.
And when I took her affectionately into my arms and she felt secure, she said with a laugh that changed her whole manner, “If the 'Story of the Hairs in My Ass' is going to be a hundred volumes, how many would it take for the 'Story of my Stupidities'?”
“Why do you have this mania for self-injury?”
“Tell me what I said that was so awful.”
“You pretend that I don't know anything about your life as a whore? And I reply to you that you don't know anything about your life as a lover.”
The sentence was put so clearly that even Charlotte understood.
“A lover?” she said, throwing herself on me. “Haven't you been listening to what I just told you? Who am I supposed to be in love with? The pig who cornholed me three times a week and then made me swallow his come before my first communion? Or the cow who was fifty years old and a grandmother six times and who rubbed her ass across my face? Or the madman who shit on my body while my mother was sucking him? Or the maniac who forced me to watch him whip my mother's cunt, the cunt from which I was born, and who whipped it until it bled? I don't know what other way I can say it so that you'll finally understand. Whores, like virgins, have only one love that can really console them: their fingers.”
After a quick shudder, she got control of her-self again.
“You've made me say more than I've even thought. I don't have the right to treat those people like pigs, cows, and madmen. They never raped me… But what I'd like you to understand… is that the more whore you are the more virgin you are also.”
This time I took her face in my hands and with my eyes close to hers said, “That's the nicest thing you could say.”
Who would have thought it? And yet that sentence expressed Charlotte herself body and soul. She looked up at me out of her pretty eye without in the least penetrating into my though)!
“Why do you compliment everything about me? My hair, my eyes, my breasts, my pubic hair… None of it is worth a hundred sous, my sweet. Go to any whorehouse and you'll find better. As for my buttocks, you made my night when you told me that you thought they were beautiful; obviously, they're the best thing about me. But don't mock me by admiring the words I speak…”
“The words that you speak come from the sentiments that you feel.”
“That's another point. Whores speak with their hearts like other young women speak with their cunts.”
The sentence had been spoken without any effect intended, as if it were the most obvious verity in the world. But I did not reply. I felt humiliated. Charlotte thought herself to be without any thought, any spirit, and yet every one of her replies had been more interesting than any of mine. I found (as my reader undoubtedly finds) much more pleasure in listening than in interrupting, and I was awaiting the rest of her narration when she cried, stupified: “What? You getting a hard-on again?”
“It's your fault.”
“What have I done to cause that?”
“You've shown me your hair, your eyes, your breasts, which aren't worth a hundred sous, as you claim, and I should probably find much better in any whorehouse. Right?”
“Am I giving you this hard-on without even touching you?”
“I'm afraid so. I'm going to complain to your mother.”
“And what do you want us to…”
“I don't want anything.”
“You're joking now! But that makes me feel like doing something!”
“Be patient. Be like me. I'm in no hurry.”
“All right then, I'll do it myself. Let me alone.”
“No you don't, dearie. I forbid you to deliver yourself to the vices of onanism on my bed. Moralists and doctors are agreed that…”
“Shit on them. My cunt is getting wet and I feel like beating myself off, and when I…”
“And when you feel like beating yourself off you do it. I know it by heart. All right, but you're not going to beat yourself off until three in the morning.”
“With me next to a young man who has a hard-on between my legs that goes halfway up to my ass? You don't want that to excite me?”
“On the contrary, that's exactly what I want. It will liven up your story.”
“Don't defy me,” she said. “I'm always tired and lifeless because I play with myself as much as I want, whenever I want. You won't be able to recognize me if you make me wait. You'll have me spouting all kinds of idiotic filth that I'll regret. Are you vicious enough to do that to me?”
With one hand over her eyes and the other on my shoulder, she whispered and repeated:
“Oh, God yes! All kinds of filth! That's all I can say astride a prick like this with you holding me in your arms.
“And besides… Oh, fuck it! You know that I'm a whore, the lowest of the low, a whore that everyone can cornhole, that will suck anybody's prick and even the prick of a dog; it's the same price.”
“Charlotte!”
“I don't give a fuck! You know that I've done everything with men and women and boys, and little girls; I've drunk the come of donkeys and horses; I've done everything! I've eaten the turds that whores have shit! You know that I've lived my whole life in come and shit.”
“You're crazy!”
“In come and shit!” she cried. “Even with you. Your prick had just come out of my behind when I…”
“But you yourself…”
“And now I disgust you so that you get a hard-on against my ass and you still don't want me. Even when I'm getting myself wet from my cunt to my knees!”
“But…”
“Do I have to disgust you so that you won't even shit in my mouth when I tell you three times that… that…”
She burst out sobbing. In a case like this there is only one solution: namely, to fuck as soon as possible, or rather to cornhole, should the female prefer it that way. Making women come in order to shut them up is a principle known and used throughout antiquity.
Unfortunately, if desire had pushed her to spout so much filth, as she had warned me, this same filth had destroyed the desire which I had had. There are some things in love which are not reciprocal. Besides, Charlotte seemed to be in too much of a frenzy to know what I was doing and what I wasn't. She was crying and fingering herself. Being unable to stop her tears, I decided not to stop her hand either. When she finally realized that I was letting her do as she wished, she stopped crying, raised her eyes to mine, and said in a low voice but without changing her tone, “Tell me with your own lips that I'm a slut.”
“No.”
“Yes. It would make me happy.”
I finally understood. She was speaking to me in a very low voice and trembling from head to foot.
“Call me a whore while I beat off for you. Whore and slut and trollop! Say that you'll corn-hole me for four sous, will you? You'll stick it into my asshole right to the bottom, to the bottom! You'll cornhole me for a half an hour, scraping me with all your force, and then you'll give me four sous afterwards. If you don't want to come in my ass then I'll suck you besides. I always want to have my mouth full of your come. Not only my mouth, but all my body. I'll beat you off into my face. But what do I have to say to get you to call me slut? I'm pulling out my finger; I'm hardly touching myself. Now call me whore and slut and bitch. Tell me that you'll piss on my knockers and you'll shit in my mouth! Tell me while I'm coming that you'll make me eat your shit! Say it! Say it! Say it!”
She half swooned and was silent a long time before she again opened her eyes. Her first words were, “I must be cracked!”
Then seeing that I had said nothing to contradict her, she said, “You must have a fine opinion of rue! And it's all your fault… No, it's mine. You had no way of knowing.”
“What did I do?”
“Mama always says, 'When Charlotte feels like beating herself off, it's better not to try to stop her. Hold her up for five minutes and she goes nutty.' You held me up…”
“I won't do it again.”
“Are you sure? That's funny for a man, isn't it. To see a girl that can't help shouting all kinds of dirt when she's in heat.”
I took her in my arms and, speaking in a low voice, holding her head so that she wouldn't have to look into my face, said, “Now you're going to make me a little confession. Or rather I'll make it for you and you can answer yes or now. Ready?”
“Yes.”
“The men that you have are hardly ever attractive to you; but… be frank… you like being a whore.”
“Yes.”
“Not only do you like to make men come, but you like to be at their feet, at their command, something like a slave.”
“Their whore.”
“That's less than a slave?”
“Yes. You rape a slave, but with me…”
“And something that always excites you in the arms of a man is…”
“Is for him to tell me that I'm the lowest of all sluts; that there isn't anything a girl can do that's lower than offering her asshole and her mouth to every man that comes along for him to do as he wants. Yes, I said it despite myself a few minutes ago. But, I beg you on my knees, tell me that I'm right! Try to Understand that I would kill myself if that didn't excite me a little! And instead of consoling me, hurt me. Well… Go on…”
She smiled without insisting on the tragedy of her last words. She smiled more and more. It was as if she were playing.
“Be kind to me for once. Do what I want you to do. You see? I'm not fingering myself any more; I finished coming. But now that you know what I like, do what I want. Treat me like a slut and a bitch and a whore. Tell me that I cornhole myself like a girl in a whorehouse or a gypsy behind her wagon. Are you going to call me whore? Call me whore, whore, whore. What a numbskull! He doesn't say a damn thing!”
Always smiling and trying to defy me with her impatient teasing, she insisted:
“And in my mouth? Tell me what you're going to do in my garbage pit of a mouth. You can do it… I want you to… I want to be treated like that by the man I love… And for you to fill up my mouth… Say it. Say what I'm asking you. You will…? You will…? You're as stubborn as a mule!”
I replied simply, “Are you going to finish your story?”
“Ah! Now that you know all about my character!” she said, laughing. “And then — poof! Too bad! I don't give a damn! I'm completely naked, I'm not hiding anything.”