Miriam and Julie
Julie was my sister with whom, for several years, I maintained an incestuous relationship until she moved to Europe, and we lost contact. Fifteen years later, I received the painful news that she had died in a traffic accident. I had to travel to France, where she had been living all those years. The police did me the favor of driving me to what had been her apartment, a small place filled with books. Her mattress was on the floor; I don't think it was because she could no longer afford a bed, but rather a matter of personal style. On a small shelf, there was a notebook with thick blue covers--her diary. It was there that I read about the strange erotic relationship she had for two years with a woman.
My sister was my first love and also my first erotic obsession. Among the pages of that notebook, I found a photo of my sister Julie and her lover, named Miriam in the pages. In the photo, both are around 30 years old, of similar height. My sister's breasts are slightly more drooped but larger, while Miriam's breasts are a bit smaller and perkier. To me, it seems my sister's hips are slightly wider. Both are pale and standing face-to-face; it looks like they took the photo with some kind of camera timer. My sister has wavy hair, and Miriam has straight blonde hair. My sister's face is a bit longer and more pointed, while Miriam's face has slightly larger eyes and more rounded eyebrows. Both are beautiful. I took that notebook home with me; I keep it like a treasure. I've read and reread it many times; it's obvious it has been the cause of many masturbations. The stories in there were extremely erotic, and of course, I've delighted in looking at that photo, moving my hands up and down my phallus while observing the naked body of my sister and her partner. I remember with nostalgia when her body was mine, and now this photo, which is entirely mine, is all I have left of her flesh. How beautiful, how distinguished. Her girlfriend has the same classic, precious demeanor. How I would have loved to see them both making love. My dear sister...
The diary isn't linear; it only recounts certain separate passages. I think that for both Julie and Miriam, the bond between them was an initiation into lesbianism, a timid form of expression. The way she describes Miriam's behavior gives the impression that it was the first time both tasted the pleasures of lesbianism--a lesbianism deeply tied to that striking phenomenon of foot fetishism.
I'm holding an erotic foot fetish novel, Walking on Glass by Maurice Lepin. I'm in a secondhand bookstore. I feel the effect of the strong coffee I drank ten minutes ago at the café across the street coursing through my body. While drinking my coffee, I saw a beautiful woman pass by. A woman who looked like my sister. But it wasn't my sister... no... my sister is dead.
With this book in my hands, I realize I wasn't interested in checking the books in Julie's apartment. Like her, I'm a reader. Finding that diary was enough. Why would I care about her books? The diary... That diary... The passion between Julie and Miriam was more than that or any library. In fact, I don't think I'll buy this book I'm holding. My obsessed mind has no room for other texts. Julie and Miriam, forever. My dear sister, did you ever feel ashamed of the passion we shared?
I know I didn't.
Maybe they met in a bookstore like this. Julie pulled out a book like the one I picked up, and Miriam was beside her, also browsing the shelf. They smiled at each other with that sweet smile of cultured girls with open hearts, moved by an inexplicable attraction. Perhaps Julie told herself at that moment that it wasn't a homosexual feeling she was experiencing, that she was just appreciating the kind gesture, the aesthetic beauty... just "appreciating"...
The diary doesn't say how they met.
The diary begins with sex.
I don't think I can live without Miriam's skin. As I write this, I feel I need to stop to touch myself. Today, I had sex with a woman for the first time. I've crossed a boundary I thought I'd never cross. Miriam. Even if I were with a thousand handsome men, it could never compare to the delicacy of what I felt with her.
When she started massaging my foot, I told her I'd massage hers too, at the same time. As we massaged each other's soles simultaneously, we smiled and said sweet words to one another; we were happy to have found each other. In our words filtered a love that didn't dare call itself attraction, passion, or eroticism. Then, Miriam began kissing my toes. She told me I was so pretty, that my feet were so pretty. Never had a woman thrown those kinds of words at me with such a flirtatious tone, and never had anyone been interested in kissing my toes. I responded with what I truly felt: she seemed beautiful to me, and for the first time, a woman's feet seemed beautiful to me. When I felt those toes between my lips, for the first time, as if something awakened in me, I could appreciate the erotic aesthetic of feet. I went from appreciating feminine beauty to feeling sexually attracted to a woman. I didn't understand what was happening because it was an entirely new experience for me. I'd been with some men, and occasionally I'd touch myself seeking sexual satisfaction, but this was completely different.
Miriam had such a sweet and elegant face, her long blonde hair, the delicacy of her hands holding my left foot, her lips on my toes, my lips on hers in sync. We moved closer to each other and began kissing passionately. I was the first to slip my tongue in. Today, I feel like a little girl discovering love for the first time. I never imagined desire could be so deep. I was embodying lesbianism. A brief flash crossed my mind: I'm on the mattress where I sleep with a woman, we're kissing, I'm a lesbian. And I just let myself go. The kisses led to caresses, and the caresses led to us taking off our blouses and pants, and that led to her caressing my buttocks and me caressing hers. For the first time, I took off my bra to reveal my breasts with sexual intent in front of a woman, and Miriam began kissing my breasts in a way no man ever could. And then she slid the middle finger of her right hand inside my vagina. Today, she touched me in a way no man ever could. Right now, I'm slipping a finger into my own vagina, remembering that moment. I'm dying of passion. I've never been so happy. I can still recall the taste of Miriam's vulva in my mouth, my tongue running along the soles of her feet, her buttocks. I can still remember her lips kissing my entire body, the skill with which she performed cunnilingus on me. A man could never do it the same way.
Paris. I'm standing by the Seine River. I have a small notebook where I'm drawing an erotic sketch of two naked women looking at each other. I'm a mediocre artist.
