There are many who considered Tours L'Empereur a find, an unpublished secret where the beautiful could go and stare at one another and men could roam free. And Lux in London. And in Paris there are a handful of clubs that keep their whereabouts in the closet, while everything else is put on display. We expect this. But who would ever have said that the tiny ville of Richelieu, smaller than Chinon, would be the keeper of such a secret?
     Of such a club?
     Unmarked and within throwing distance of the unfinished chateau, such a gathering place is noted only by the press of traffic on a Friday night. Cars such as Richelieu never sees, always under the cloak of darkness. By sunup the traffic, the cars, and even the club will have seemed to vanish...
     Yours wasn't the only limousine, but it was among the more grand. Occupancy is around ten isn't it? That might be important to remember later...
     Men gather at the nondescript door, there is a pressing crowd inside. Music is only heard when the door to the unnamed club opens.
     You moved between footsteps, between bodies, from the expansive confines of a luxury car to the packed entrance.
     But the bodies give way for you both...
     Every gay man in France must be in this club. Certainly any of any looks or skill at all...
     He is hard for others to see until they feel him... and then feel him moving by. But when club lights hit him and turn the black-wearing duke a rich blue, when it illuminates That Face smiling That Smile, the path that humanity began to cut for him falls back in upon itself. They want him to move through them. Through them all.
     William looks back to you, and in the illumination you catch a certain waggling of brows...

     It's the familiarity of a loved bit of moor. Of forest and wind. It's the release of a bird, the lift from an arm as it takes off in flight. The excitement, the adrenaline is no different. The sound of guns and dogs. Of horses' hooves, drowning out all other sounds. It's in the throat, it's overwhelming, it brings tension and anxiety.
     It brings a smile.
     Dressed in black and indigo, Ian takes on your colors. He moves at your shoulder, glancing around at all of the bodies and faces. It's hard to see them all, but Ian tries, the grin never leaving his face.
     "We should go out more often," Ian says in Gaelic, knowing you might not hear. The phrase repeats as a hum of Why do we stay at home, trilled through his curiosity and twists left and right to see everyone.

     It was deliberate. We stayed inside because we feared going out. No, that wasn't it. We stayed in because we were tired of going out. No...
     We were tired of my going out...
     It was an easy sacrifice to make. It was the sacrifice that needed to be made. But then we made a yearly, then monthly, then nightly practice of it. But the gods to whom we made the sacrifice, so to speak, no longer exist. Maybe it is time to ... throw the temple doors open and squint in the daylight...
     William squints at the club light, he peers to hear you, he smiles. He must have heard you. Or maybe he is smiling to see you smile. He remembers you telling him this after the gift of the four fencers; that a world of men is your world. They are, you have said, your air and sustenance. So, coming to Richelieu must be like a big breath of fresh country air, ne c'est pas?
     There are men... just men... everywhere. Crowding the tables, the floor, the dancefloor. They are all very fine to look at, but they are all spectators. The ones they have come to see dance just in and just out of reach. Just in, just out of clothing.
     They are ... incroyable...

     In your hand, Ian's fingers curl. He stops, indicating that you should stop as well. "Where are we going?" he asks, laughing slightly. A twist left and right again, then Ian's gaze moves upwards.
     "Drink," Ian suggests finally, motioning towards the bar.

     He was going to get a better view of the dancing area. When you stop him, you can see where his attention lies. Two blondes who are less dancing and more simulating. With a curl of your fingers, you stop him and wake him. William turns, a double-take to you. What?
     Oh, drink! Yes, bar. That will be fine.
     Mouth twists and William leans in, a press that presses you both against him and some other lovely creature. "Go to the bar? Or make the bar come to Us," he says against your ear.
     And the men around you are in motion. And then his mouth is in motion. Against yours. He mouths, "Over here... the view is better..." Over here. William turns, giving his shoulder to the mass of bodies. Blue light, gold light, violet light. A table or two have been abandoned. Empty glasses are gathered. The waiter's hand stops as William moves to him.
     Drinks ordered...
     The young man looks past William, just a moment, just for a moment, looking to you as William says something else to him. He smiles, he smiles for him, he smiles at you.
     The club is a collection of bars, tables, space for dancing and stages. The tables are crowded by dancers who recently left the stage, those who are still cutting their chaps...teeth...whatever... and by those who have come to participate as well as spectate. And William is taking you into the center of it all.

     "Ah, front row seating," Ian smiles, letting you handle things. The smile is easily returned - it was already there - and then Ian looks immediately at the next passing person of interest. It's like seeing holiday lights.
     Those on the dance floor eventually catch his attention. As you speak, Ian's eyes glance over those there, examining their outfits, their dancing, their bodies and faces.

     They have faces? One couldn't tell if they were using Plantagenet's eyes as any indication.
     Drinks are quick to arrive, money quick to change hands as the two of you are at the table and settling there. Your table will be popular. The air that the dancers stir creates a vortex around your table. You and William become Charybdis, pulling everyone's attention around you, consciously and unconsciously.
     Even the dancers will draw near...
     And nearer...
     Holiday lights? Holiday feast. And his mouth is watering, you can tell by his blank expression and the quirking upward of one corner of his lips, the fastening of dark blue-violet eyes.
     William looks to you, right hand lifting the glass spear in his martini and the three olives it holds. "I do not know why we stay inside," he finally replies in Gaelic. He did hear you. "But I think we should find new habits..." He grins, his eyes trailing over all of the stimuli. Each body. Each part of a body...

     A dancer comes up to the table. Brown-headed. Somewhere from the mid-country, but his nose speaks of Gascony. William is looking away. The dancer is looking at you, smiling, Ian, and then you have your own close-up show...

Posted by rowan at May 03, 2003 09:46 PM