Page 49 - The Thief's Journal

The Thief's Journal
I know that he knows that he derives this pleasure from me, that he awaits it from my hand which is pulling him off, but I feel that the only thing that concerns him now is his coming. Though we are bound together by my prick, all our friendly relations are cut off. Our mouths, which might be able to reestablish them, can not meet. He seeks only to be further impaled. I can not see him, for he has murmured, “Put out the light,” but I feel that he has become another person, strange and remote. It is when I have made him come that I feel him hating me.
At the beginning, when, naked in bed, I would turn him over—the hoodlums I talk about say of themselves, with amused cynicism, “I turn over like a flapjack”—and start threading him, he frightened me, for he would groan. I would gently stroke his rump, as I would a horse's, so that he would remain still and not rebel when I started operating. His shuddering still excites me even to−day; it is the sign of the pleasure which his nostrils have just sniffed. I cling to him, to his twig, which I squeeze a little squeeze—so as to feel beneath my fingers the delicate pulsing of the flowing spunk which is about to penetrate the mattress.
On him: the mark of a diving−suit on his wrists. And the opening for the two arms of the white undershirt. Each of them has the vigor and elegant individuality of a nonchalant and obscene sailor.
I saw the letter A tattooed under his armpit.
“What's that?”
“My blood type. When I was in the S.S. We were all tattooed.”
He added, without looking at me, “I'll never be ashamed of my letter. No one can ever take it away. I'd kill someone in order to keep it.”
“Are you proud of having been in the S.S.?” “Yes.”
His face bore a strange resemblance to Marc Aubert's. The same cold beauty. He lowered his arm; then he got up and straightened his clothes. He shook the bits of moss and bark out of his hair. Having jumped over the wall, we walked among the pebbles in silence. In the crowd, he looked at me with a touch of roguish sadness.
“People may say about us that we were fucked by. Hitler. I don't give a damn what they say.”
Then he burst out laughing. With his blue eyes protected by a fur of sun, he cleaves the crowd, air and wind with such lordliness that it is I who shoulder the burden of his shame.
“You like being screwed?”
“Sometimes. I like it when you're about to come. It relaxes me when you've got me groveling.”
1
After knowing Erik, after loving and then losing him, whom did I meet but...
know the terrible joy of belonging to the vilified army. Though the former body−guard of a German officer, he is gentle. He was given a brief course in a camp where he was taught how to use a dagger, to be always on the alert, and to be ready to die to protect the officer. He saw the snows of Russia, pillaged the countries he went through, Czechoslovakia, Poland, and even Germany. He kept none of his booty. The court of justice condemned him to a two−year prison term which he has just completed. He sometimes speaks to me of this period, and the memory that overshadows all the others is the deep joy he felt when he saw the pupil of the eye of the man he was about to kill grow big with fear. He swaggers in the street; he walks only in the gutter.
The Thief's Journal 47
Like the other, he too was to