The Wilhelm Reich Kids
A week in Paris
Summer 2005, Rue des Chantiers studio, Paris
I met the Wilhelm Reich kids at Shakespeare & Co. books. All young expats who land in Paris pass through the place. It’s a hive of book coves, corners and sitting rooms sprawling over several floors, usually teeming with customers from around the world hearing of Lawrence Ferlignetti and Allen Ginsberg for the first time.
It’s staffed by traveling volunteers who get a place to sleep and a place to cook, equipped with little cots and beds tucked between things, hosting everyone from anywhere. Its current location since the 1950s is an old house along the left quay facing toward Notre Dame…just a few steps from the former prime meridian.
Jim and Alyssa were trying to negotiate a work trade for staying a few nights, but the place was full. They were from South Africa and had made their way to Paris.
Overhearing this, I mentioned that I had a guest bed, really a foldout futon, and I said they could stay for a while. They were happy to take me up, and collected their things.
We stepped outside into the summer heat and walked past the bouquinistes along the Seine back toward Rue des Chantiers. On the way, I explained that I had a living room with a guest bed. My bedroom was in an alcove behind the kitchen with no door between it and the rest of the studio. And P.S., you didn’t really want to sleep in the bookstore; there’s a bedbug problem there.
Arriving at my building, I entered the front gate code, speaking it out loud; the mechanism clicked and the iron door swung open. Every building had one of these. The inner door had the same code. The codes never changed.
We stepped inside and they put their stuff down. They were both adorable, about 20. Jim had brown shoulder-length hair and a friendly face decorated by a whispy beard. Alyssa was an sweet little thing in a well-worn denim miniskirt and a sheer teeshirt that put her pretty nipples on display. Springy, luxurious dirty blonde hair streamed down to her breasts, framing her face and cascading over her shoulders, lush and feminine.
I proposed to take them out to dinner at an outrageous Chinese place a few blocks away. Kids roaming Europe don’t usually eat that well, and I knew it was going to be great fun. A loud, cramped hole-in-the wall, it was the best Chinese restaurant I’d ever eaten in. They had no objections, as I expected. Plenty of times when traveling I had caught a lucky break and I was happy to offer one to them.
We went back down to the street, turned, turned again, and cut through an alleyway that led to the restaurant, which was tucked in the back of the 6th. When I remember what Paris really feels like, it’s those shortcuts and passageways,with ancient stores and legends hidden amidst their shadows.
Jim was a reader. I mean a really good one, who actually learned from books. For the next hour over roast duck and fried rice, I received my introduction to Wilhelm Reich, a German psychiatrist and sexual theorist who had worked with Sigmund Freud and then split off due to Freud and his cronies being death-obsessed. I’d heard of Reich somewhat, especially from Betty Dodson, but nobody had ever mapped out his ideas. Jim is thrilled to do this in the way that young scholars often are. Articulate and charming, he was the wise young hippy seeker/teacher of my dreams.
I’m listening to Jim and can’t help looking at Alyssa. And she was looking at me. The energy ball was floating between us. I know she’s got a fantastic pussy. Jim noticed our aura play with a touch of amusement. He goes on to explain that Reich’s essential philosophy was about people having deep, thorough orgasms from penetration as a means to spiritual health, emotional balance and freedom.
We paused for a while and eat.
“One of the most important Reichian concepts is the ‘emotional plague’. This translates to wanting to kill anyone who you think is having more fun than you are, especially sexual.”
We walked back along the quay, past the booksellers, and dinner boats flyng along the Seine. It was a soft July night and everyone was out. I led them across a footbridge to Ile de la Cité, the island where Notre Dame Cathedral was located. This connected by another bridge to Ile St Louis, where people would hang out in a little park at the tip of the island, drumming, practicing break dancing moves and smoking. It was the only place where smoking pot outisde was tolerated, at least then.
“Le journaliste!” someone said. It was Naco. I introduced him to Jim and Alyssa. “You must try this,” he said, and lit a little blunt. I took one drag. It was strong and pleasant herb. I turned to my new friends. The nodded, and I passed the joint to Missy, who also took one drag. Jim did the same.
“Tu aimes bien?” Naco asked.
“C’est genial,” I responded, as the world took on a slight neon glow and he started to look like a mime.
We each took one more drag.
“Je peux en avoir demain?” Will you have some tomorrow?
“I’ll beeeeee hereeeee!” he said in exaggerated English. “Steuplait, avez le petit joint.” He put it out on his fingertip; there was still plenty left. He handed it to me.
“Monsieur Meilleur,” I said.
Then I think we all had the same “let’s go home” vibe, because a moment later Jim, Missy and I had shaken Naco’s hand with a sly snap of the fingers and were walking across the now very narrow-seeming footbridge off of the island, then the other, back to the quay. A moment later we were entering the door code to my courtyard, and walking across the strange interior space. The building used to be the recreation space for a Masonic lodge.
I remember the echo of our feet and voices going up the curved stairs to the second floor. I turned both of my locks and the door tipped open. We were inside, and my studio was feeling like the coziest place in the world. In that moment I received intuitively that he was comfortable with Missy and I being attracted to one another.
“Shower is there, towels are there,” I said gesturing. I am sure this seemed like an extremely appealing idea — a hot shower on a summer night after some days of travel (all the way from Aveiro, Portugal). I went back to my room while they took over the bathroom and showered together.
While they showered, I changed to my jammies, put up a pot of water, and made their bed. I was renting the place furnished and it was well-equipped for guests. I poured a large pot of tea and turned down the lighting. When they emerged clean and fresh, the room was transformed into an oasis.
I sat with them for a while as we sipped tea. And I asked if they wanted another hit on the joint. They both nodded yes with a little gleam, and I sparked the thing, took a drag, and passed it to the lady, who pursed her lips around it, and passed it to Jim. I looked at them with that distinct “Im really high” expression. Mm hmm.
Then I knew to leave them to one another. I kissed them good night in the French double cheek-to-cheek fashion and went to my alcove. This was behind the kitchen nook, which then opened to the larger room with their bed. It was a fairly small space, and there was no sound insulation whatsoever. We all understood this. I turned off my light, slipped into bed, slipped out of my pajamas, and waited.
I did not have to wait long. I recognized the sound of her mouth being fucked, the little gasps and cries for joy and moments of fast catching up on oxygen before taking it again. She was delicious. I could not believe what I was being treated to. I pulled back the covers, sat up on the edge of the bed facing a vast black-framed mirror, and masturbated myself. My penis seemed impossibly long, and I was amazed.
Slowly I looked up my body and then my mouth and then unexpectedly into my eyes and did not recognize the person I was seeing. Then as some aspect of my mind recognized myself, I let out a slow, delicate, elongated moan. My body, not me, was moaning and I was experiencing myself as I experienced recognition. At the same time I understood my moaning to be a crying out for approval. I was in such joy that the thought or tropism of my own orgasm was nonexistent.
I slipped into the sexual rhythm of their relating, as he continued to fuck her throat and she continued to grunt in gratitude. I imagined her pretty little face and her hair flying everywhere. As he went on, she soaked deeper into her naked delight. And then it stopped. I could hear my own panting and so could they.
“I’m masturbating into the mirror,” I said.
“We know you are,” they both replied, and then giggled uncontrollably and resumed their adventure, leaving me to my pleasure. I tried to study my face but could barely look. Then I said softly, It’s not about them, it’s abuot you.
Now his moans and breathing we muffled and hers were openly expressed. Neither of them held back, and she called out expressing her pleasure to anyone who might be listening. Her voice went from resonant long painted streaks to the rhythmic grunting of being tongue fucked.
I looked at my mouth and saw the expression I was avoiding. My eyes held my gaze and I began to moan. This is my moment of freedom, where I may drop in deep and feel existence. My voice utters and shakes.
His grunts were reduced to near silence and she announced her deep release and I can hear her pussy smush and slosh against his muted breath. She is masturbating on his face. I am masturbating to my face and we synchronize delight. I cannot help myself. I say pleadingly into my eyes, “I want to drink your semen. May I drink your semen?”
And I’m pumping and moaning rhythmically to my pulses into my hand as her wave crashes to sand and foam. He is gulping and she is besides herself.
“Do it do it drink me now…” And I as I witness myself I heard my own voice muffle as my mouth flooded and I smelled my sweaty cummy palm. I swallowed, stunned at the sight of my wet lips and cheeks. I settled into my cool pillow and passed out immediately, sleeping in the scent of my cum, occasionally waking to the reassuring music of them fucking. I drifted back off wondering how it would feel to go out to breakfast and see at one another’s faces. Imagining that, I made love to myself in the predawn silence.
After breakfast, we moved the mirror into their room, and put a little stool in front of it, and this remained the first thing you would see when you walked into the studio.
They stayed for another week, before heading to Amsterdam. When I came home after dropping them at Gare du Nord, I found a copy of a book on my kitchen counter: The Function of the Orgasm by Wilhelm Reich. The card said, “Thank you for sharing your space, and yourself. Read this book a few pages a day. Take it slow. We love what you’re doing. Feel good. Alyssa and Jim.”
I slept in thier bedding for a week, wrapping myself in their scent, breathing them in, waking up at different hours each night to take care of myself.
“people having deep, thorough orgasms from penetration as a means to spiritual health, emotional balance and freedom. “