Where is Wally

Suddenly, at the end of the evening a guy entered the restaurant. His eyes fixed me so steadily I forgot all the other other clients and any other existence in the universe, the connexion was instant and complete, he left quickly.

The feeling of his posture, his look and his body made me think of you.

I never told you how attracted I was to you. I never even really talked to you. Maybe two or three random conversations and a sum of distant admiration.

Your stare when you're close to me, that brings me the smell of your mature skin, hits me when I see a picture of you on the screen of my computer. 

Your wit, that caresses me whenever I read some of your creations.

Your smile, that is like a balm whenever I remember your lovely face.

We never happened for several reasons and if I forget we don't live in the same city anymore, I can't find any valuable reason why we shouldn't spend our days together...maybe just because you have no idea of my feelings...

I hope to meet you again and find the courage to drawn in your light blue eyes, drink your endless smile and get drunk with your perfume...

Where are you Wally with your striped T-shirt and endless charm?

First time

Bratislava, May 1998,


We're living with my high-school sweetheart Diana, in her mom's flat in the center of the city. As we both work for international companies and travel a lot, we decided to take in a flatmate.

We now live with Daniele, an Italian guy that came to Bratislava for work.

Living together is very easy as the flat is huge. Nevertheless, one day as we were making love with Diana in the bathroom, Daniele surprised us, but he wouldn't walk away and we wouldn't stop. Having him watching us actually raised our excitement. We came as he was staring at us, silently, with a partner in crime complicity.

After that, I went for a business trip. When I came back I found Diana and Daniele laying naked in our bed. Instead of freaking out, I just undressed and crawled next to them. We slept for a few hours and when we woke up none of us felt embarrassed. We started making out. We had threesomes all the time from that day on. I never actually touched Daniele, but I got used to his smell and to the sound of his voice. His presence was turning me on as much as he was turning on Diana.

Then it was Diana's tour for a business trip. The night I came home and found Daniele waiting for me with a bottle of wine and dinner. We ate, we drank and we talked a lot. When I said goodnight, he asked me if I was planning on sleeping on my own. I had no answer as I didn't consider the eventuality of spending the night with him. He took my hand and started kissing me. It was the first time ever, I kissed men's lips and felt his rough skin against mine. I let him lead me to my bed, undress me and discover my body.

I discovered a whole new way of making love and being taken by a man. We would make love every night until Diana came back.

The threesome took a new turn as well. It was not two guys taking care of one girl, but everyone taking care of each other constantly. The pleasure was infinite. All the three of us enjoyed it.

When I came back from another business trip, I was puzzled. I found the same people but we weren't a couple anymore with Diana and I didn't feel in love with Daniele. Furthermore, I cheated on them in Turkey with a guy.

I became more and more distant. They became more and more close. I often left when they started making out.

Then I left completely...

Teenage synopsis

Los Angeles, October 2000,

By eighteen, Paul was an utterly intelligent boy living a simple life in Krakow, Poland. He got caught in the eye of British secret services. To make him join their forces they pulled a drug deal plot that would send him to prison for the rest of his days. He decided to join the forces. The agency arranged a fake accident and he would be death to his family, his fiancée and friends from that day on.

He got trained by the agency and he used his brains and body to get top secret informations and kill the enemies of the crown.  Unfortunately, he got too well informed and very important in the agency. The day he got bored, he arranged his fake death once again in the eyes of the agencies and flied away to Brezil for a sex change and complete facial reconstruction, he spent several months hiding away, before joining California with his completely new look. He was now a thirty year old woman named Bethany.

His moral was down, he managed to escape the agency, but for twelve years he only knew plots and killing following orders. He couldn't rejoin his family although he would be keeping an eye on them, but so was the agency. He, well, actually she would have no particular reason to live, if it wasn't for her natural survivor character.

In order to occupy the time and accept the reality of the new body, Bethany became Solange Sugar, a porn actress. She gave her body, which didn't have a lot of value for her anymore to the art of making men happy or at least partially satisfied.

With time she would fall in love with her neighbour. Completely aware of her sex and the cover she made for herself, she would find comfort in a man. She decided to retire from the porn business and have a decent life with her new husband who ignored everything of her past.

Always aware of scientific evolution and a good hacker, she contacted a researcher that was able to transplant her a uterus. After a heavy hormonal treatment she managed to get pregnant and give birth to a baby girl trough a C-section.

She lived a happy life with her family until the day where she would receive a message from even a more skilled hacker: " They found you"

As she received the text, she  looked out the window and saw a strange car, that was the last thing she would ever see.

Coming out

Bratislava, 8.th June 2006


My sister just got married. We' re sitting at a long table in our favorite family restaurant. My two sisters, the new husband, his family, our parents and their best friends and all the friends. My parent's best friend's son, Bruno, is under the table trying to open my pants and blow me out...I'm doing my best trying to stop him without my mom noticing.

Suddenly, Bruno's father, rather drunk, stands up and hits the table with his fist.
"Do you realize what you've done? All this is because of you. It's your fault if my son became this disgusting thing. Your son spoiled him!"
He was addressing my mom. I didn't really get what he was meaning. Bruno seemed to understand as his head hit the table after he suddenly straightened up. While he crawled from under the table, my mom would light a cigarette and kindly ask:
"Whatever is that drunk man talking about?"
He would point his finger at Bruno pulling himself together:
"This, they're together!"
My mom would still not get it. My father would go from white to green and successively to purple. My sister would lead all the guests to the next room, as somehow she saw the storm was coming.
"They're gay, they didn't tell you? The other day, Bruno came to me all happy, talking about how they met again in London, the flame lit up, now they're coming back to Bratislava with Rolland to have a life together...Oh, I'm sick of it. I'm pretty sure you're happy, Helen."
Helen, my mom, would drop the cigarette out of shock. She simply whispered:
"That can't be..."
Her girlfriend watched her with surprise:
"How can you say that? We're a lesbian couple, why couldn't your son be gay?"
There comes my father with a few words:
"My only son is gay?"
By that time his wife would be filling him up with some pills to calm him down. She used to be his nurse at the hospital after he had a nervous break down when my mother came out two years ago.
My mom went back to normal, smoking on her cigarette:
"You see Peter, the problem is, your son can't be gay..."
There, I break in tears with misunderstanding :
"Mom, how can you be so harsh? I thought you would understand, I didn't even feel like needing to tell you. I'm confused!"
"Of course you're confused. See, the problem Rolland, my son, is not that you're gay. But that you're dating your brother."
"How could he be my brother. Mom, what are you talking about?"
"Well, to clear things up. I'm sorry you all have to learn this now. Well Peter, remember the one night you would go all around the town looking after me and I was nowhere to be found? Actually,  I spent that one March 85' night just upstairs from our flat with Stefan, Bruno's father and nine months later Rolland was born. Get it?"
I was too afraid to understand. Bruno held my hand so tight he almost cracked it  into pieces. My father would fall to the floor instantly secured by his wife. This would mean he had no sons... No sons of our knowledge at least.
My mom was smoking, her girlfriend would be caressing her back in a kind but puzzled way. Bruno's father would finally shut up and sit down. I felt his look for a while, but I would not give in to the need to watch my genetic father. I knew him too well.
Finally, I managed to look at Bruno. My eyes were dry and empty now, his eyes were wet. Huge teardrops would be falling down his face and his cherry lips were shaking like if you took a candy from a five year old. Nevertheless, he would still be fixing me. I didn't know if I should kiss him or push him away, so I just held his hand tighter and tried to give it a go with a fake smile.
Bruno's mom would stand up, talking to her husband:
"So you slept with that slut twenty years ago, just as I was pregnant with Bruno and you would keep it for yourself? You're all sick!"
My mom felt offended, well she was offended, wasn't she?
"That slut? I thought we were best friends for nearly 30 years!"
"Best friends my ass, you lost me the day you smoked pot on Rolland's first birthday. Me, I'm a good person, I will not tolerate sick sinners in my surrounding. I'm fed up with you all. I will not tolerate neither of these Satan's boys. Neither yours neither Peter's. Sick couple!!!"
After swallowing a respectful amount of painkillers, cheer-ups and brown rum, my father would finally react:
" I'm sorry Irena, but one of those boys is yours and none is mine. "
"Oh, you mean you forgot? The one night together..."
Now Irena, Bruno's mom would have the attention of the rest of us.
"Yes, you all, I'm a slut, I sinned, and God punished me with a gay bastard son. Yes Peter, Bruno is your son!"
"So my only son is gay!" my father, I mean Peter, would break in tears now, even the painkillers couldn't hold-in that one.
"Yes, it's a God's punishment!"
 My mum would roll her eyes:
"Irena, since when would you be such a good christian, you were a communist since forever."
"I was hiding my faith in the interest of my family, nobody would show his belief in God in communism."
"Of course they would, and they would get punished by the communist system.  So actually you were a closeted christian raising a closeted gay bastard."
"Mom, you're insulting my boyfriend."
"Oh please, you're a bastard too!"
There, both of us laughed out loud with relief : 
"At least we're not blood brothers, and that's okay with our God."
I grabbed Bruno's arms and fix his eyes full of tears and confusion with my eyes full of smiling hope.
"Now is the time to move. We've heard enough. We can go free!"
Bruno wiped his tears, took my hand and started running. As we passed by my newly wed sister we wished her and her husband luck, she wished us the same.
We ran outside, we ran for a few miles toward the banks of Danube river where we fell into the grass, kissed passionately and started a wildly happy life.

The end

Letter to a lover

Milano, 10.th May 2012



My brightest diamond,

I still remember the first time we talked. I wished for more time, as you were young and I already knew the price to pay if we met. You were beautiful and touching, the depth I would fall into was obvious.

A year later, you had your first heartbreak and there I would come in. Meet you for the first time in the Palais Royal. Have a little chat about everything. Cross Paris by foot. Buy you the LP you seemed to like so much and kiss your soft lips for the very first time.

Our story started there. Knowing each other, wanting each other. Hiding in front of each other...You were somehow puzzled, I asked for more and I wouldn't take it... I put an end to it. I wanted a change. I wanted to leave the country. But our bodies found their way back to each other as our minds couldn't separate. Than the first real break-up. Months of missing you. Months of thinking I could get over you.

Than the summer. You grew so much when we met again. Ended high school.  Were mature about your relationships. I would even push you to be more true to some of your friends. That was asking too much again. The bore came along. We grew cold in a short while. But when we were about to separate, the storm came by and our love was born.

That one day between the Tuileres and the Louvre love fell on us the same way the heavy rain would bath our clothes. What followed was amazing. You became everything. A song. A grape of vine. A picture on the wall. A writing on my body. A ride on a bike in Paris. A movie. A noisy evening with friends. An apricot.

Trouble came along. Some for me, some for you. Somehow the insecurity would make us hold stronger together. When the sun started shining again, the grip would choke us. You  left. I had my first heartbreak.  I forgot all my plans. I forgot the reasons to smile and to breathe. I couldn't move on without you. I couldn't open or close my eyes without seeing you. I couldn't walk without missing you. 

We met again. We said the words I love you. We meant them. We felt them. Unfortunately all the changes made us fragile. You needed more space, I needed more reasons to stay. Fights were on a daily schedule, between kisses, smiles and hugs. All trough this we still felt the same and hold on together. Only, with time, we stopped sharing. We stopped even talking. Than we stopped seeing each other.

Paris became all you. Bastille in the rain. Palais Royal and it's garden. A walk in the Louvre. A lunch in Café Marly. Movies and bookstores of Saint-Germain-des-Près. Parties at la Concorde. Evenings at the Abesses. Walks around Sacré Coeur. Nights at Porte de Clignancourt. My bed had the shape of your body. I drew us on my wall...But without you by my side it was all empty.

I asked you to come over just before I left. You came. It felt like if we never stopped seeing each other. You're my best friend.

Every time we're together I wish we wouldn't have to fall apart. Every time you leave me alone in my bed I wish you would come again, just one last time. I would inhale your perfume. My skin would caress your soft skin. Our bodies would match again. I would watch you. Get closer to you. Look into your eyes. Taste your lips, one last time. Let your hands hold me. I would listen to your heart beat and fall asleep.

I swear, one last time with you is what I desire every time you leave.

Zabou et Tristan

Cap d'Antibes, 19 juillet 2010,

Dans l'immense hall palpitant d'un grand hôtel, un arrêt sur image. Deux êtres aux silhouettes dépareillées. Deux opposés associés dans un même état d'être. Lui, grand et mince, presque maladif. Perché sur une paire de bottines à talon. Serré dans un jean moulant. Ses longs cheveux décrivant son visage pâle se mêlent dans les poils de son blouson en fourrure. Ce blouson disproportionnant  sa silhouette s'arrêtant juste au-dessus de ses fesses, laissant à peine comprendre le manque de hanches. Elle, petite et pleine de formes féminines. Un blouson fluide serré à la taille par une large ceinture en cuir marron donnant naissance à des hanches généreuses. Un large pantalon noir touchant le sol, découvrant les bouts d'une paire de mocassins à gland. L'ouverture de son col laisse apercevoir un collier de perles serré autour de son cou blanc. Son visage quadrillé par un carré de cheveux noirs corbeau à la longueur des oreilles. Des grenades rouges parent ses lobes.  Sa frange tombant dans ses yeux, son menton pointu arrive à peine à hauteur du coude de son compagnon.

Leurs deux regards sont perdus dans l'infini bleu de l'horizon sur le quel s'ouvre le hall en face. Le lointain les appelle et les empêche de  bouger en même temps.

Quelques instants plus loin, ils se dirigent vers la réception, puis montent dans leur chambre. Une caisse de champagne le suit de peu. Un sachet de blanche les attend impatiemment dans le sac en croco serré par les doigts osseux de Tristan.

Quel drôle de prénom, comme s'il était destiné à sombrer dans une tristesse sans fin.

Les premières ombres du soir fondent la mer et le ciel à l'horizon. Les premières notes de Satie redonnent vie aux pensées d'Isabelle. Son regard perdu dans l'observation du mariage des deux éléments. Une coupe de champagne entre ses petits doigts. Quelques cristaux au coin de sa narine.

"Tout le monde m'appelle Zabou. Comme si je n'étais qu'une petite chose. Elle, elle m'appelait par mon vrai nom. Elle, elle m'appelait Isabelle:
-Viens, Isabelle!
-Découvre-toi, Isabelle!
-Laisse-moi un morceau de ton cœur, Isabelle!
-Rends-moi un semblant d'innocence, Isabelle!"

Sa petite voix stridente, mais agréable, le ramènent à lui. Comme si les résonances de ses paroles pouvaient l'arracher des abîmes de son âme qui plongeait dans une profonde mélancolie.

"Je me suis abandonnée à Elle. Je lui ai tout donné. Elle m'a tout pris. Elle m'a tout montré. J'ai tout pris. Elle m'a tout appris, je n'ai rien appris. Sa chair a donné à ma chair un lieu d'être.  Son cœur a donné a donné à mon cœur un rythme. Ses paroles ont données à mes paroles une raison d'être. Nous nous sommes retrouvées chacune à notre tour. Nous avons enfin compris. Nous étions enfin libres de nous mêmes.

Mais la séance découverte est finie. Le reste est payant.  Il faut payer au prix des pleurs, du sang, des coups, des cris solitaires au plus profond de la nuit, des éclats de rire nerveux. Au prix des oui et des non. A coup de toujours, jamais, à jamais...plus jamais. "

Isabelle éclate en pleurs silencieux. Ses yeux remplis laisses déborder quelques grosses larmes qui coulent sur ses joues rondes. Ses lèvres tremblent mais ne laissent échapper aucun son.

Tristan aimerait dire un mot, mais sa langue reste paralysée à trop lécher les restes de cristaux coincées sous ses gencives.  Il pose sa main sur celle d'Isabelle et revient à sa propre tristesse.

Il se sent si vieux, si inutile, si remplaçable.

Il a commencé à vivre sa vie tellement jeune. Rejeté par sa famille pour ce qu'il était. Cela faisait plus d'une dizaine d'années qu'il errait entre les bras profiteurs d'amants fortunés.  Il donnait sa peau pour recevoir au retour un semblant de vie et de stabilité. Il s'offrait beau pour satisfaire le manque de goût de ses mécènes. Il n'a rien appris à faire si ce n'est se faire beau, chauffer une carte à blanc ou remplir toutes les pages d'un chéquier.

Dépourvu de toute formation, il se retrouve aujourd'hui volé du seul amour. Le seul homme qu'il ait jamais aimé, l'abandonne aujourd'hui pour un plus jeune, plus frais, moins friand, moins rusé. L'homme qui lui donnait tout ce dont il avait besoin et plus encore. Il lui donnait tout sauf le respect. Comme on peut parfois manquer de reconnaissance à une personne qui nous rend service et que l'on considère satisfaite en la payant. L'argent n'est pas tout-puissant.

Trop tard pour s'en rendre compte une fois habillé de la tête au pied en marques de luxe et de sur mesure. Trop tard pour s'en rendre compte avec le nez refait par le meilleur chirurgien parisien. Un nez détruit à force de s'enfiler un rêve blanc de force et de caractère par les narines. Trop tard pour s'en rendre compte quand l'amour dont on est remplit éveille la haine envers celui qui nous a volé la présence de l'objet de nos sentiments.

Ce jeune futile réveille en Tristan un mépris de toute la jeunesse. Isabelle étant très jeune, à peine majeure. Noyée dans sa tristesse pourtant remplie de ce fol' espoir de retrouver un jour tout ce qu'elle mérite.

Pas lui, lui, il n'a plus droit à rien. Le temps est écoulé pour lui. Il n'a qu'une envie irrépressible. Celle de lui voler à elle ce petit brin d'espoir.

Renforcé par quelques nouveaux rails et les bulles montant à la tête, il l'attaque. Il l'attaque par sa douceur. Il s'accroche à la vie en essayant d'entrer en elle.  De participer à sa jeunesse.

Isabelle y prend goût sans refus. Les caresses de Tristan éveillent en son corps les souvenirs charnels qu'elle a pu connaître avant Elle. Leurs hanches jouent ce jeu éternel d'indécision qui donne naissance à la vie.  Protégés par un préservatif pour empêcher cette création il adonnent librement à cette folie. Ils éclatent en extase complétement épuisés et désaxés. Ils redescendent. Isabelle rit de bonheur exposé et d'espoir d'un lendemain possible.

Tristan replonge dans sa tristesse, il n'a rien pris, il a encore tout donné. Tout ce qui restait en lui. Au lieu de voler ce petit morceau d'âme par un acte sans but il a donné une perception d'aboutissement aux croyances d'Isabelle.

Ils continuèrent à s'enivrer jusqu'à l'évanouissement.

A l'aube, Isabelle se réveille seule. Une musique bien trop entraînante pour un sommeil lui rappelle l'incohérence de ses actes. Les vêtements de Tristan sont au pied du lit.  Elle s'approche encore toute nue de la porte fenêtre. Par cette vitre, elle aperçoit une peau morte sur la plage. Un bout de fourrure abandonné au milieu d'une marrée montante.

Elle enfile rapidement une robe de chambre et court dehors. elle ne comprend rien. Elle s'avance. Elle ramasse la veste à peine mouillée. Elle la serre contre sa poitrine. Elle sent l'odeur un peu acre de Tristan. Elle sent l'odeur de l'ambre qu'il déposait sur son col. Elle perçoit les marques de pas dans le sable. Elle en suit la trace. Elle se retrouve caressé par les vagues jusqu'aux genoux.

L'eau est glaciale. Ses yeux s'emplissent à nouveau de larmes.  Sa bouche tremblante laisse s'échapper quelques cris de désespoir étouffés. Elle se met à hurler son prénom frénétiquement. Elle se plie en deux pour amplifier sa voix. Comme si elle était consciente que sa petite voix ne pouvait pas arracher Tristan des abîmes de la mer.

Aucune réponse.

Isabelle est rentrée à Paris.

L'Amant

Istanbul, 4 mai 2008,

Le mouvement de ses hanches au rythme de la musique. Le jean glisse sur sa chair en caressant ses cuisses. La ceinture découvre le bas de son ventre. Ses mains aux longs doigts vaguant dans l'air découvrent ses beaux bras musclés. Ses dents blanches brillent dans le sourire de ses lèvres pleines. Le bleu de ses yeux me donne la promesse de sa peau brûlante.

Je dérive de son regard étincelant vers les étoiles en penchant ma tête en arrière. Quelques faisceaux laser s'intercalent entre moi et le ciel immense au-dessus du toit qui accueille cette soirée.

Je m'approche de lui. Ses cuisses entre mes cuisses. Nos hanches se balancent dans le même rythme. Je glisse les paumes de mes mains sous son T-shirt. Sous mes doigts je sens ses muscles se tendre et se détendre en harmonie avec toute la piste de danse. La lumière caresse les gouttes de sueur qui couvrent nos corps.

Son sourire se fige tout à coup. Se lèvres se ferment. Ses yeux plissent. Il m'embrasse. Ce corps à corps fait monter les battements de mon cœur dans ma gorge. Les émotions me montent à la tête et toute résistance m'abandonne face à la force de la douceur de son toucher.

Une dernière coupe de champagne. Les bulles pétillent. Je suis les fesses moulées dans le jean de mon copain. Nous descendons dans notre suite.

La porte s'ouvre. Une bouteille de champagne se débouche. Une lumière tamisée. Le bulles du jacuzzi. Le cuir du canapé. Le bois de la terrasse. La fermeté du matelas.

Nos corps enlacés. Les muscles en extension. Ses cheveux brillants. Sa peau suave. Son dos large. Son nez droit. Son regard brûlant. Ses mains sur mon corps. Son corps décrit par mes lèvres.

Le doux réveil du lendemain ensoleillé. Nos corps nus sous un drap de coton blanc. Nos membres enlacés. La pièce remplie d'odeur de l'amour. Des baisers furtifs. Des caresses légères. Des regards saturés de satisfaction. La lumière qui redéfinit toutes les courbes de son être. Quelques mots d'amour.

Je retrouve ses jambes nues sur le bord d'un ferry au large du Bosphore. Un mini-short blanc et des baskets en toile encadrent le bronze de ses jambes sculptées. Les rayures rouges de sa marinière laissent sortir les muscles de son cou. Il rigole en avançant vers les vagues en tirant sur mon pantalon.

Soudain. Une apparition. Chapeau feutre. Deux couettes. Robe débardeur découvrant son corps mince. Une paire de Manolos brodés vintage. La jeune fille de l'Amant, dix ans plus tard. Celle devant mes yeux fumait une cigarette. Seule. Appuyée sur la balustrade vers laquelle me tirait mon homme.

Quand il me prend dans se bras on manque de passer de l'autre côté. La jeune fille se met à hurler. Elle perd sa cigarette à la mer. Bien accrochés à la barre nous éclatons tous les deux de rire.

" Merci. C'est gentil d'essayer de sauver l'amour."
"Oh, c'est pour votre Margiela que je m'inquiétais!"
"Mademoiselle a l'oeil!" je lui souris: "alors la jeune maitresse s'est perdue en chemin pour Saïgon?"
" En effet, je viens de revoir le film, ça a inspiré mon look. Qui sait, peut-être je retrouverai mon amant."
"Ne vous a-t-il pas encore appelé pour vous expliquer qu'il ne pouvait vivre sans vous?"

Ses yeux s'emplissent de larmes amères. Je  reçois sur ma joue une claque bienveillante de mon amoureux. On regarde avec l'espoir le port de l'autre côté.