There were times in my life when I thought I was asexual. Sex was never that important to me: my studies and then my career came first. I knew I was never going to be a devoted wife and mother. I never had time for boys, for men. Being a virgin in my late twenties never really bothered me as much as it bothered others. I hated those conversations with friends and colleagues when they would share their stories of their, often disappointing, first times.
Now though, when friends talk about how they lost it on the back seat of a car or their parents' bed, I casually say, "
Ouai
, I lost my virginity in orbit... in space... on board the International Space Station". Then, watching the opened-mouthed disbelief, I add, "It's not easy having sex in microgravity — it took two astronauts to deflower me — but you should see how beautiful it is when a guy ejaculates over you in a weightless environment".
My first time, when it came, did not disappoint. I'm glad I waited for it. Let me tell you my story.
****
I was born and raised near Caen, in Normandy. I am an only child, ever the tomboy, with tightly cropped brown hair. I love swimming and running, especially competing against and beating the boys. My parents are both teachers, and they gave me a disciplined education. That's how I ended up at the 'X' — the famous École polytechnique in Paris — on their rigorous engineering course.
Most of my fellow
polytechniciens
hated their initial, mandatory military service, required by tradition at the 'X'. I, however, loved the discipline of the time I spent with the
Armée de l'air
, the French Air Force. When back at the 'X', I was unusual in that I took every opportunity to attend parades and don my
grand uniform
with its brass buttons, little sword and
bicorne
hat. My parents had so many pictures of me posing proudly like some extra from a Napoleonic reconstruction.
I never thought of myself as pretty or attractive, and I didn't want to be seen that way. I loved my body, thought of it as a marvellous machine, which I honed and tuned to athletic perfection, but I knew I always looked handsome in a uniform.
I completed my studies in Toulouse at SUPAERO specialising in aeronautical and space engineering, writing my doctoral thesis on airframe microfractures. After graduation, I leapt at the chance to continue my military commission as an aeronautical engineer in the air force.
My spare time was completely taken up with running marathons, swimming, and logging flight hours on a little Epsilon training plane. That's besides my work as an air-force captain and engineering instructor for the Air Force Training Command. I suppose that I was the obvious candidate when the generals wanted an officer to send to the European Astronaut Centre in Cologne, and so I became only the third woman ever to join the European Astronaut Corps.
I knew my parents were proud of me; they asked me to visit their respective schools to inspire girls to study engineering and technology. Whether in my air-force officer's service uniform, with its three gold captain's stripes, or in my blue astronaut's flight suit, with the
Tricolore
proudly displayed on my shoulder, I knew I made a positive impact on those girls' lives.
****
My first space mission was a Soyuz ride to the International Space Station as dual-role science officer and flight engineer. I was sent to run batch experiments on stress fractures in microgravity. There were only three of us on the expedition: our commander Cosmonaut Nikolai Kryukov, NASA Astronaut Zachary Myers, and I. Things had got terribly messed up, one cosmonaut had returned to Earth from the ISS with sickness before I arrived. Then the launch of the next Soyuz, with its additional crew, kept being cancelled, for a mix of political and financial reasons. A normal complement of six crew members was reduced to three, and things did not seem likely to change soon.
I got on well with Kolya and Zach. Kolya — short for Nikolai — was in command, but laughed everything up into a joke or a game. He was ten years older than I, a former fighter pilot, a lieutenant colonel, and an experienced cosmonaut. His hair was the colour of straw, his eyes pale blue. Zach was just a year older than I, the image of Superman with black wavy hair and shimmering blue eyes. He was intense and serious. He had a doctorate in mathematics, and was a civilian NASA astronaut and flight engineer. They were, like me, both extremely fit — we had to be — but not hulking giants, as the Soyuz TMA-M has serious size restrictions.
We spoke English together, laughing at our misunderstandings of each other. As with most Americans, Zach's pronunciation of French was atrocious, and it took me almost half an hour to teach him how to pronounce my name without it sounding weird. Kolya watched and laughed. When Zach got it right, Kolya embraced both us in a great hug, kissing my right cheek and Zach's left, knocking our weightless cluster of friendly bodies off all the walls of the Zvezda Module, at the aft end of the ISS.
Zach didn't have to work too hard to remember the pronunciation of my name: instead, he quickly assigned me the English call sign 'Mouse'. I admit that it made sense: I am small, with the slim physique of a long-distance runner and closely cropped brown hair. So, I became 'Mouse', and the name stuck. Kolya's call sign was 'Bad Santa', because his proper name was Nikolai, and he was known for his vulgar talk. Zach was 'Sugar', from how 'Zachary' sounds in Russian, like
sakhar
. We didn't use their call signs quite so much, but I was always 'Mouse' to them and to everyone at the Mission Control Centres. Even the Russians switched from calling me 'Station 3' to 'Mouse'. I had always enjoyed the esprit de corps at the 'X' and in the air force, being one of the boys. Yet here, marooned with these two loveable idiots, it was like family. Certainly not like living with my parents (who set an alarm to watch for my star flying over Caen for a few minutes every day), but something truly liberating.
They gave me some personal space to myself way back aft in the living compartment of the Zvezda Module. My home's name means 'star' in Russian. It had the third best view of Earth from the Station (after the Cupola and the Destiny Module), and it was close to the toilet. I can't tell you how important that second factor is on board the ISS. Kolya moved up forward to the Harmony Module to bunk with Zach. TsUP-M (Moscow Mission Control Centre) was not happy at his turning over of the living compartment of Zvezda to me, but he had told them to "Fuck off!" and let him be a gentleman. Zvezda was the most beautiful place I have ever lived, despite the limitations of it being in a minimalist microgravity environment. Various cosmonauts had left little mementoes around the living compartment. I'm not religious, but I loved the postcard of an old Russian icon of the Virgin and Child — Kolya called it
Vladimirskaya
— that had been left stuck over the bunk. The benevolent smiles had a calming effect on me. I too was a virgin, and I felt myself still to be a child in many ways.
Even with all the training I had received, weightlessness, orbiting the Earth once every hour and a half, and sixteen sunrises and sunsets a day took a lot of getting used to. Eating out of plastic packets, and washing with water jets and hygiene wipes was not at all glamorous. Then there was the disorientation when you float into a module and slowly realise that the floor is really the ceiling. I never had too much time to ponder as our schedule was packed. We carried out the tasks normally assigned to a crew of six: ESA checked in for results from my experiments, while Kolya would casually ask me to take on increasingly difficult duties as his second flight engineer.
Perhaps it's because they accepted me as one of the boys that they didn't filter their conversations. Kolya and I were in the working compartment of Zvezda talking about aligning the solar panels so as to reduce orbital drag. We contacted TsUP-M to discuss our plans, and awaited their response. Our conversation meandered.
"Mouse, if you ever need recommendations for best prostitutes in Moscow, you ask me, OK?" Kolya steered our talk into new, unpromising territory.
"You remember that I'm a woman, don't you?", I shot back.
"Ah, well, the good ladies are all bisexual now", he replied wistfully.
"Is Bad Santa giving you all the lurid details of his sex life again?" Zach commented as he floated in through the transfer compartment.
"And you, Zach, you know the prostitutes of Kansas?" I goaded him cheekily, showing him I was one of the boys, and not letting myself be outdone by Kolya's bawdiness.
"You know full well that I'm from Chicago, Mouse. And, no, I'm not that kind of guy."
"Go on, my Sugar, tell her your very sad tale about how your penis is turning into raisin", laughed Kolya.
Zach's face reddened and he looked away.
"If you don't tell her, I will!" Kolya toyed with him.
"OK, you bastard. So, my fiancée left me right before I came over to Baikonur for the launch. That's all there is to tell. Are you satisfied?" Zach replied hurriedly.
"There", I snapped back, "The ridiculous way you say
fiancée
: it sounds so funny when you try to speak French. Why not say the English word?" I teased him. I had learnt never to relent when it came to teasing comrades.
"That is the English word!" he shot back. Then he tried to shift the burden onto me. "So, Mouse, is there anyone back home for you to share a candle-lit
camembert
