KINKY CLUB
“It's as if all your life you surprise yourself by finding yourself
in this or that place, not knowing why you are there, or
even how you got there.
I am here. It is I who am there, and not anyone else.”
Joyce Carol Oates
The weight, the richness, the Value of a place have less to do with the place
than with those who animate it.
But first, how did we get there? By extracting oneself from the tarmac of common life.
Once through the little door that doesn't look like much, you leave a world behind
you, you marry another, you fall in love with them.
We know this as we go down the few steps that lead us to the cellar, from where
moans, screams, laughter or nothing come – but
a little full of things to say, to order, to obey.
Then we see, in a barely subdued light, the bodies.
Clothed or naked, half-naked, who have lost their external clothing.
It's in the street that we get dressed.
Not at KINKY. Yes, we left the “old man” outside.
Here where everything revolves around punishment, we left punishment behind the door.
Here, if we have to suffer, it is for something.
And if you are interested in punishing, punish, we will thank you!
The Value of a place depends on the Value of those who run it – everyone
knows that.
Here on this island it's Stéphanie and Alex getting stuck into it. I'm starting with Alex, because for Stéphanie it will take longer.
ALEX
Good-natured giant straight out of a Grimm tale.
The Weight of Grace is him and his graceful movements.
Not effeminate: graceful. His long beard to resemble the cinema, from the time when cinema
was silent, in black and white, and could take place in the Cabinet
of Doctor Caligari.
Very marked chiaroscuros, torture racks, rings, Saint Andrew's cross... I'm going on, I wouldn't want to
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not get tired.
Everyone, once again, knows this. Except it all depends.
And depends on who hangs you. Alex is a goldsmith, and a goldsmith in the field: rope, knot, kinbaku – Japanese art served here
by the most attractive of men.
And very strong, my faith! Everything wrapped in muscular softness.
You just want to be held in his arms, his chest as a haven, or something like
that.
Alex, from behind his glasses, assesses you, and draws to rest from the effort on his electronic cigarette.
Because he needs to rest!
Alex is a worker. To the job ! Tying, untying, over-tying... Seized, hindered by him, your limbs -
arms, legs... will rise at his discretion - strange
hindered freedom.
Painful too! You do your weight and gravity pulls, always downward.
What low?... Since this in-between where you levitate you no longer know very well.
You swing between floor and ceiling.
A cosmonaut side, a deep-water diver , but without a spacesuit and naked.
You see these eyes scanning you around, wondering where this form
of weightlessness is taking you – inside you of course!
But how, by what means?... Alex's voice, while he
twists you and takes you from standing to the most
uncomfortable positions, is always soft and calm, like
the kisses he places on the shoulders Beautiful girls, their necks,
their divine rumps, to ask them if they're okay, if he can
continue... Of course he can continue!
They are crazy about him! I'm crazy about...
STEPHANIE
Stéphanie compact beauty.
Without assignment. Without girdles or high heels.
You would meet her in the metro, it would be her, the same, a woman difficult to look at as her beauty bewitches you.
Without doing anything – just looking beautiful.
How is that possible?… We are not at KINKY to ask ourselves this kind of question.
We rely on what we see and it’s Stéphanie we see.
So silence.
I even wonder how I can pretend to write about her!
Writing must really be a sacred thing in itself, to dare to use it to serve Stéphanie. Of the audacity he
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to speak to her – even though she is the kindest
hostess!
Nothing to scare you, discourage you, a good mood on the contrary... but wait until you see her
take care of such and such - she hits hard, drills, digs... But like
that, as if not thinking about it, with the the ardor of a foal: “Hey,
let's try that, to see!”… She runs in her garden, her
meadow, we are nothing in her contact.
Space seems larger around her, infinite – because she takes space, her body sucks it in,
she becomes space.
We are very happy to have our place in this space.
We could be anything, her rug, her chair, her toilet, the glass in her hand.
We would like to make her laugh, tell her stories, to amuse her.
But my humor, in front of Stéphanie?!… Do you want to laugh?!
I am losing even the art of speaking, as the art of remaining silent seems to be the norm – yet another
matter of the sacred.
KINKY is therefore this infinite space around Stéphanie.
And I repeat: to have access to this Milky Way, we only had to go through a small door, in a nice neighborhood
, with lots of nice people drinking beers on the
cafe terraces, even when it's cold.
But I'm waiting until it's warm... to feel Stéphanie's feet as best as possible.
Since she really wants that.
Which seems incredible to me. The first time I asked her, I even wondered if
it was really me speaking, what language I was speaking – she must have
understood though since she told me yes.
It even seemed natural for her to grant me that, even though coming from her… In short,
the best thing when talking about Stéphanie is to step aside, to do
as Flaubert said: not to talk about yourself.
Stephanie seems to see everything.
Naturally creased eyelids – funny, humorously creased.
Sparkling look. Stéphanie is full of humor.
His whole person is humor. Intelligence. This is where its beauty is unstoppable and takes you down.
Intelligence down to the tips of her feet, shaped as if to perfection – as if she
herself had decided the shape that her toes, the sole, the instep
, her heels should have.
Possible ? I don't know. It’s all a mystery – not just at Stéphanie’s!
But at Stéphanie in particular.
One day we would have to lean over Stéphanie's feet , not to smell them, lick them, massage them, but
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opening all the Littré, the Robert – they who never lie –
with the sole aim of studying them, of learning them.
And to paint them, I believe it would take Delacroix, his fury to paint,
his madness of gesture, his ardor to expose beauty by mixing form
with soul, without us knowing in the end where the form is. , where is the soul...
Stéphanie's feet
occupy in space Needless to say, I'm out of the game, all I can do is try to get closer.
the divine Stephanie is not ethereal, she is from Earth.
Feet on the ground.
Benevolent. But also Monitoring what surrounds her, she fists, whips and mummifies, as if it were a natural thing when
you want that, for yourself.
And it's true, seen from this space where she moves, it's completely natural: the farmyard
in which she plays, with the pleasure of a little girl running,
stick in hand, behind her pigs.
But be careful, it is understood that in any situation involving you and
Stephanie, only one of the two has reason to be worried – you.
For there is real pleasure in cunning and wickedness and, yes, in
the very act of making Others suffer.
And Stéphanie does not seem to be devoid of this way of seeing the world.
Cunning, too. One of the many strings to his bow.
Because the Intelligence with which it is steeped also feeds on cunning – Homer made cunning
the major quality of Intelligence, its tool.
Finally, this is what appears under Stéphanie's delicately beveled eyelid.
That's all I know... And that his mouth is delicate and
drawn with humor.
Like his eyes. Even repeating the same words, hackneyed for many – we do not have an
inexhaustible lexicon – well every word that comes out of his mouth is
like new.
He is new. It comes from her, from her great beauty in the present time.
Fine and drawn in the antique style, her lips, without us knowing, like the Mona Lisa, if it is to laugh or to say: here,
in front of me, you are exclusively in front of me.
Nothing behind, nothing in front.
And even if it only lasts an instant, this injunction, thanks to Stéphanie, becomes an eternity.
We therefore pay ourselves a slice of eternity by passing through the door of KINKY.
It's not bad, it's huge... But I'm stopping because I'm going to get tired of talking about
myself, and as Flaubert says...
