Page 48 - The Thief's Journal

The Thief's Journal
V. was not deported. I came across him again in Montmartre. He introduced me to a friend of his, a priest, with whom he cruised at night.
“Why don't you chuck your cure?” “I don't know. He's a swell guy.”
When I meet him he often talks to me about it. He says “my cure” with a certain tenderness. The priest, who adores him, has promised him a warden−ship in his parish.
Without suspecting what they were destroying, the police tore up ten or twelve drawings that were found on me. They were unaware that these arabesques represented the tooling, sides and back, of old bindings. When A., G., arid I were planning to rob the museum in C., my job was to know the lay of the land and the possible swag. This theft, which was carried out by others, is, however, too recent for me to go into details. Not knowing what excuse to give for my numerous visits, I hit upon the idea, after hearing someone speak very highly of the old books in certain locked showcases, of asking to be allowed to make brief sketches of the bindings. I went back to the museum several days in succession and stayed for hours in front of the books, drawing as best I could. When I got back to Paris, I made inquiries about the value of the books; I was astounded to learn that they very were valuable. Never before had I thought that books might be something to go after. We didn't get hold of those, but that's how I got the idea of browsing in bookstores. I rigged up a trick briefcase, and I became so clever about these thefts that I pushed delicacy to the point of always carrying them out under the bookseller's very eyes.
Stilitano had Java's muscle−bound, slightly swaying walk, as if he were cleaving the wind, and if Java gets up to go, if he moves from one place to another, I feel the same emotion as when a high−powered automobile silently and smoothly gets under way in front of me. The first had perhaps more sensitivity in the muscles of his buttocks. His rump was more sinuous. But Java, like him, took pleasure in betraying. Like him, he loved to humiliate whores.
“She sure is a bitch,” he said to me. “You know what she just told me? You'd never guess. That she can't come tonight because she's got an appointment with an old guy and that old guys pay better. She's a bitch. But I'll fix her!”
His nervousness made him break the cigarette he was taking out of the package. He was fuming: “I'm going to shove my prick up her ass.”
When I buggered this handsome twenty−two year old athlete for the first time, he pretended to be sleeping. With his face crushed against the white pillow, he let me slip it in, but when he was stuck, he could not keep from groaning delicately, they way one sighs.
Deeply threaded by my prick, he becomes something other than himself, something other than my lover. He is a strange part of me which still preserves a little of its own life. We form one body, but it has two heads and each of them is involved in experiencing its own pleasure. At the moment of coming, this excrescence of my body which was my lover loses all tenderness, clouds over. In the darkness, I sense his hardness, and that a veil of shadow is spreading over his face which is contracted with pain and pleasure.
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