+18 years

Facing the Wolf

The Wolf, Photo by Marek Szturc on Unsplash

The wolf was the first man I ever loved. Yes, he was the first to make my heart flutter, to make my eyes water and to freeze a silly smile on my lips.

Our story

Our story lasted from the time I was 24 until I was about 26. I was young, insecure and knew nothing about love or any other kind of sensual relationship. On the other hand, I wasn’t a virgin… far from it…

But no man mattered, I consumed them like candy: in one bite… before the Wolf.

Back then, I was naive and fresh; he was this more mature man, self-confident, tortured and torrid. He spilled my guts, sometimes taking them to seventh heaven, sometimes eviscerating them.

I loved him with all my heart, I did a thousand things that I wouldn’t have done and wouldn’t do again for anyone else. Especially sexually.

When sex leads to the end

In fact, if it was sex that brought us together in the beginning, it’s because of sex that I stopped. Too dominant, he wanted too much, whereas all I really wanted was a soft, sensual cuddle.

I was unable to tell him, unable to express my feelings. At the end of our relationship, I hoped he’d get tired, so I wouldn’t have to endure his domination. For him, it was a sexual game; for me, every other time, it was torture.

Yes, at first I was curious, but in the end, I wanted to keep him, but without his perversions. I preferred to lose both.

Despite its heartbreaking end, at least for me, I kept in touch with him from afar. Little messages, funny little photos sent from time to time.

Well, a little over a year after we broke up, we still had a threesome with his new “prey”. A pretty 19-year-old girl. It was an insanely sensual moment, which I don’t regret at all today.

But that’s not what this post is about…

I loved his madness, his humor, his voice and his generosity. So that love stayed with me, and gradually turned into affection and friendship.


We followed each other from afar, without seeing each other anymore. I’d send him messages when I was sad, when life’s setbacks were getting the better of me, and he’d always reply, kind and funny.

He left Paris, moved to the Swiss border, got married and had a daughter. We lost touch for a while, but then he started sending me photos of his daughter. And I replied with those of my niece, and the dialogue resumed, like that of two old friends.

When I found out he was divorced, I couldn’t help but make the connection with Sabine’s prediction. Uh, divorced, with a child, and a Mediterranean background to boot… Sounds familiar.

Deep down, I didn’t want it to be him. Too many past pains, too many obstacles, and at the same time, I was thinking about the complicity that bound us together. So I got a bit attached to the idea.


When, a few months ago, he asked me to come and visit him in his house perched in the middle of the mountains, I didn’t say no. I thought about it. I thought about it, and weighed up the pros and cons.

On the one hand, I was afraid he’d expect something other than friendship, and that I’d have to acquit myself of a sexual experience I no longer wanted. On the other, I had this feeling that something wasn’t completely over between us, that I needed to see him again to see if the complicity of yesteryear was still as strong today.

So I booked my tickets for Friday May 12. A few days before, I had a doubt: was I really ready to go?

And as I was thinking about him, a message came. He couldn’t wait for me to come. My instinct was not to back out.

Friday morning, I’m not even stressed. I feel like I’m on a train to see an old friend. The planets align, I arrive at the station on time and settle in quietly.

It’s fun to start writing about the lumberjack while I’m on my way to a former lover.

The reunion

The journey passes almost too quickly, and I arrive at Bellegarde station. As I get off, stress erupts in the pit of my stomach. Then, very quickly, I catch sight of him, and I can’t help but smile. He hasn’t changed too much, but his eyes have wrinkled and he’s grown a little stronger.

He hugs me, smelling good. His medium-length curly hair is slicked back, like a Sicilian mafioso. We’re almost walking hand in hand, and he grabs my arm. He’s really happy to see me, which makes me very happy.

I get into his 4X4 and we drive for 10 minutes, chatting away. It’s silly, but I was expecting the complicity to return immediately. I was expecting to laugh right away. But I didn’t.

His hand grabs the top of my thigh, and I can feel all the joy and eagerness he had in welcoming me. Somehow, I think he didn’t believe it.

We arrive, and he maneuvers the car brilliantly. The garden is littered in places with clutter, a child’s toy all smashed up, a dismantled barbecue. The lawn looks like it’s been mowed, though….

We climb the few steps to the front door. And he shows me his house, it’s still in its juice, but it’s clean, it smells pretty good. In this house, it’s as if time has stood still. The kitchen is straight out of the ’70s, and the old-fashioned chandeliers are still wrapped in plastic.

If it’s clean and tidy, it’s not cosy. It’s really a guy’s house. But for the weekend, I’d feel right at home.

A beautiful afternoon

Rain is forecast all weekend, so we take advantage of the day’s only ray of sunshine to go for a walk in the forest. We head down to the Rhone, crossing the Grésin bridge. It’s beautiful and soothing. We chat, sometimes keep quiet. And in the end, the walk is more than pleasant.

Sometimes ideas cross my mind. What if he’d brought me here to kill me, but I immediately put that idea out of my mind, because I know he never meant me any harm.

The proof is that after trying to clumsily walk along a stream, he got a huge fright when he saw me descend into a ravine. The wolf is and will remain protective.

Roused but also a little tired from our walk, we came home like little rags to sprawl out on his sofa. I wouldn’t have said no to a little glass of wine, to relax me, to make me feel more at ease… It’ll be a few chips, sunflower seeds and pipas, with a Coke… Bon…

Strange evening

And here we are, like two old friends, chatting and watching nonsense on TV. The poor wolf’s neck and back are stuck, and he looks like he’s in a lot of pain. I try to help him, to be there for him, but I don’t want to give him too many illusions.

Because if maybe I’d believed in an instant return of love and desire, it turns out not at all. I have affection, but no more. Not an ounce of desire.

The evening passes, we chat a bit, he falls asleep on the sofa, so we go to bed.

What does he plan to do in bed? Does he have any desires or expectations? Does he think he can corrupt me?

He’s already in bed when I arrive, so I wedge myself in at the end of the bed. Just as well, he’s got a 180 x 200 bed, so there’s plenty of room!

Quiet night, quiet morning

We chat for a while, then he pulls me towards him so I can rest my head on his chest. I let him, because it’s a soft, gentle hug. His hand is a little wandering, but not threatening. To think I would have killed for a hug from him like that when we were dating.

Then we fall asleep, and he insists I come and spoon behind him. I give him this last cuddle and go off to sleep on my own.

At first, I’m a little freaked out, listening to his breathing, waiting for a sign that he’s asleep so I can relax. Because I don’t want anything more to happen.

In the morning, he’s already up when I get out of bed. We squat on the sofa for a while. He’s got a dubious deal with an 18th-century chest of drawers that we want to sell him and that he wants to resell behind it. Personally, I think it smells of trouble, but…

He put a lot of energy into it, contacting antique dealers in Paris and Navarre. But in the end, we ended up in Annecy.

Once again, it’s a simple, relaxed affair with no fuss.

A day in Annecy

The drive takes just over an hour, and we arrive in cloudy Annecy, taking a quick tour of the town before taking shelter in a brasserie when it starts to rain.

Clearly, the brasserie isn’t the choice of the century. But the wolf decides to order a pitcher of white wine for the two of us, and what a way to relax even more. The food’s not great and the owner’s not very pleasant, but it does the job.

The rain has stopped, so we set off again on our tour of the pretty little town. We walk side by side, sometimes with me tucking myself under her armpit. The little drinks have relaxed him and I can tell he’s more talkative than usual. We laugh a little.

But once again, I feel that the complicity I was expecting isn’t there. Yes, I’m having a good time, yes, he’s making me laugh a little. But it’s nothing like I remembered.

The years that have gone by, the writings and the love I felt back then have undoubtedly changed my life.

We stop again to enjoy a huge ice cream. The wolf has always had a sweet tooth. It’s the only time during the weekend that I see him as I saw him 8 years ago.

The afternoon passes, and we set off again in the pouring rain. He takes the wheel again, tired, and I worry that he’ll end up closing his eyelids. So I, too, struggle to keep them open.

As the miles go by, I discover a little more about his past life. And I tell myself that, in the end, he hasn’t changed that much.

To each his own

When we get home, we curl up on the sofa again. I can feel his need, his desire to touch me. Every time I stand in front of the window, he comes up behind me, grabs me by the neck and cuddles me.

It’s harmless, so I let him, you can never have too many cuddles, after all. On the other hand, sometimes his fingers get a little more adventurous and come to pinch my nipples, so I pull away, laughing. Because I can’t take it anymore.

So I sit down on the opposite side of the sofa from him, and start typing on my computer. The articles are translated, and soon I’m back to writing about the lumberjack.

As for him, he scrolls through his phone looking for videos of any interest. As for me, I’m fine, I’m making good progress. But somewhere, I’m feeling a bit guilty.

The hours pass, and it’s already late. He finally brings some raw vegetables to the table and tells me to eat. The intention is sweet. He devours it at breakneck speed, while I peck away slowly.

A movie and off to bed

He’s got some kind of pirated decoder with thousands of films, including some very recent ones. We’re struggling to find one we’d both like.

Let’s face it, our tastes in cinema aren’t exactly the same. When I finally find one we both agree on, bim, no sound! Argh…

And off we go again for a complete tour of the repertoire. In the end, we agreed on “Tirailleurs” with Omar Sy. During the film, we don’t talk much, we’re both concentrating.

Then the film ends, and I know it’s time for bed. If he’s going to try anything, it’s tonight or never. I hope it’s never.

Before he goes to bed, I rub warming cream on his neck and back. If I’d wanted him, I’d have done everything, followed up with a massage, my hands lingering in certain places. I would have straddled him and undulated my pelvis.

Instead, I’m methodical. My hands massage the sore spots with zeal. Like a physiotherapist, I do this with no ulterior motive.

He tries a little joke about a mouth finish, but it’s just a joke, sweetheart.

I head for the bathroom, and like yesterday, I take my time. When I join him in bed, I can feel that he’s not far from falling asleep. Perfect.

Last attempt

Once again, he invites me to put my head on his chest and I comply, rather fond of cuddling. His hands are more adventurous than the day before. I can feel them reaching under my shirt and lingering on my buttocks and breasts.

But I don’t react, and he finally removes them on his own. I think he’s got the hang of it. He starts to fall asleep, I go back to my quiet corner, and this time I fall asleep quickly.

In the morning, once again, he’s already up when I wake up. I take my time, tapping away on my phone, before joining him in the living room.

He cuddles me in front of the window, teasing me that he almost woke me up last night to annoy me. I tell him he was right not to. Because, my wolf, those days are over, the sheep has turned into a panther, and won’t fall into your trap again.

I think I’m clear enough for him to understand that it won’t be this weekend.

Flea markets and confidences

We spot a few flea markets an hour away, and after a quick coffee, we’re off.

The wolf is in good spirits, and confides in us about his love life. Well, sentimental… Let’s say sexual. If he’s got a little doe in his sights, she’s a bit of a head-turner. For the rest, he manipulates and consumes the flesh of many young women in the area.

I knew he wasn’t “wise” and could be a hunter. But to tell the truth, I didn’t expect him to be such a womanizer. 1,000 conquests at least, he boasts.

Well, I have my doubts about 1,000, but why not? He’s 47, let’s say he started at 17, 1000 in 30 years, that’s 34 a year, or one every 10 days… Yeah…

He goes on with his confidences, showing me the profiles of his chicks, and telling me in broad strokes what they did to them sexually. I can tell you, it makes my blood run cold. It brings back painful memories that I’ve buried deep in my body.

We browse the only flea market we can find and drive away. I continue my little interrogation, and he continues to confide in me. It’s the first time I’ve heard him talk so much to his underpants… er, to his heart.

Food and pussy orgy

Back at the house, we’re as hungry as a wolf. He devours a baguette, while the pasta is almost ready.

We move on to pancakes. He has all kinds of industrial spreads, and not even Nutella. Not everything tastes as good as it should, like the complicity that’s never been found again.

As the pancakes roll down his gullet, it’s as if he can’t stop. He stuffs himself a little too much for my taste, and I tell myself that we really don’t have anything in common anymore.

The only thing that binds us is this friendship and affection that can only be explained by all the hours we’ve spent together.

We spend the rest of the day chatting on the sofa, mostly about his little chicks. Twenty-something nenettes who go goat when they meet the wolf. Innocent little sheep who end up in his clutches.

In the end, they all fit the same profile. All in need of something, all needing to exist. They all have the same psychological profile as I had at their age when I met the wolf.

But take heart, biquettes, you’ll get out of the wolf’s clutches, and I promise you that you’ll get over all this one day, and that this love of yourself that you’re so desperately seeking, you’ll find in the eyes of the person who means the most to you… You!

Au revoir, Adieu

It’s time to take me back to the station, the journey is short. I can feel the wolf’s sadness. Once again, he thanks me for coming.

But I thank you for taking me in. Because deep down I had a good weekend. And above all, in one weekend, I advanced several months in my development.

We wait a few minutes in the car, and I finally leave. I’m a bit heartbroken to leave him, but it’s more that I suddenly feel alone again. My hectic life is waiting for me, my friends, my colleagues and everything I hold dear.

Would I go back to his place to see him? I doubt it. In any case, not any time soon. Will we continue to send each other messages? Yes, probably, from time to time. So this is only half a goodbye.

Stronger still

I’m so happy it happened this way. It’s proved to me that I’ve really grown and evolved.

Gone is the Mymy who sought domination over others, who blended in with their tastes and aspirations.

The (watered-down) memory of this past love held me back a little in my love life at times. It didn’t bear comparison. But that’s over now.

Because I’ve realized that comparing a story from when I was 23 (when I had the confidence of a two-day-old chick) and a story that would happen now (when I feel like a dragon splitting the sky) is like comparing chocolate mousse and raclette.

So today, I’m just as single as I was 8 years ago, but I have tenfold strength and energy.

In a relationship, not in a relationship, I love my life, my apartment, my friends, my projects, my family, and I wouldn’t trade them for the world.