Anaïs & The Naked Man


Chapter 2-

Anaïs had been sitting in her favourite cafè in the Latin Quarter sipping on long blacks all day, smoking her Gigantes and writing the fifth chapter of her novel when she heard a commotion outside the cafè. She peered up from her notebook while taking a long drag on her Gitante, she couldn’t see much but a crowd gathered outside and a few women screaming- ‘some celebrity’ she thought to herself and continued to write. After five minutes she could hear the sound of sirens getting closer and closer, she peered up again and the crowd had grown. How was anybody meant to concentrate if there was all this noise going on outside she thought to herself. 

Anaïs had moved from the countryside of France to Paris only a few months before to make a living as an artist, a writer to be precise. So far the only work she had managed to get were a few book reviews in the local newspaper, but that had fallen through after she had reffered to one of the books as “less than the paper I wipe my shit with.’ The newspaper had been paid to promote the book. Her breakthrough, she knew would be her novel. She was twenty and determined to make it in the world of famous novelists, artists and poets and the Latin Quarter seemed to be the place to be. Being an orphan, a result of the German invasion into France meant that she had not much to loose, not much to miss and a will to prove everyone wrong. 

The sirens grew louder and louder, she couldn’t take it anymore, picked up her notebook and slammed down 5F for her afternoon of coffees. She walked outside and pushed through the crowd of screaming women and disgusted men when she reached the centre of the crowd she saw a man, a skinny, tall man, naked and sopping wet. The first thing she noticed was his giant erect penis, unlike to the disgust of the crowd, she quite liked the sight of it. The man, clearly drunk, whisky bottle in one had was singing in French, she couldn’t quite make out what he was saying but never the less it sounded poetic. Anaïs’ irritation slowly turned to amusement, and a smirk appeared across her face. One of the women yelled out in French “les policiers sont sur ​​leur chemin!” (the police are on their way!). Having a deep hatred for any type authority, probably because of her experiences with the Nazi’s Anaïs smiled and pushed the women out of the way, she knelt down in front of the man and offered him her cigarette, he looked up at her “Comment tu t’appelle?” “Anaïs”. Anaïs lifted him over her shoulder, erect dick and all, to the disgust of all the women, she heard all kinds of things; ‘Do you know him?” “Is this your husband?” “Don’t touch him darling, he could be diseased.” She smiled and looked at them all “this is my father, I am so sorry, we must go”. This explanation could have passed quite easily as the man looked and was about twice her age, but of course he was not her father, she had never seen him before in her life. He was not conventionally handsome, he had stubble, not a beard but a good amount of stubble, he was quite dishevelled looking, he stunk of cigarettes and alcohol but Anaïs was drawn to him, perhaps because she could tell he was an artist of some kind as normal people did not act like this. She dragged him away as the sirens drew nearer, he was still singing out in French, however, now that they were away from the crowd she could make out more of the lyrics he was signing, he kept singing about a woman named Laurà and an unborn daughter. Anaïs could hear the pain in his words so decided to bring him back to her apartment to sober up. After the difficult, but quite humorous walk up the six flights of stairs, Anaïs threw him on the couch and laid a blanket over his naked body, his erection had since subsided. She went to make some coffee and filled a bucket full of cold water. After ten minutes she returned to find the stranger asleep on the couch, she would have left him there until he woke but her curiosity got the better of her and she threw the cold water over him. The man shot up and yelled out all kinds of profanities in English, French and what she thought sounded like Spanish but she couldn’t be sure. After the shock had warn off, she handed him a towel and a cup of black coffee, they took silent sips while starring at each other. “And how did I get here?” he finally asked. Anaïs laughed and explained the last two hours to him, it took her a good while as she couldn’t stop laughing in between parts of the story. The man did not laugh, he seemed quite serious about the entire thing until she threw another towel at him and told him to “loosen up, I just saved you from a night in jail!” The stranger finally smiled and said “My name is Lucien.” “And who is Lucien?” Anaïs asked while perched on the sofa sipping her coffee and smoking her Gigante. “I am….” he paused “I am a musician, but I consider myself more of a poet I suppose, and you? Some kind of fruit shop girl or house wife?” Most women would have been either truly satisfied with this question or deeply offended, however, Anaïs knew that he was being a smart-ass drunk and wouldn’t give him the pleasure of a reaction but inside felt slightly offended. “No, I am a writer” Lucien smiled, “a writer, how impressive” there was slight pause, and Anaïs burst out laughing, she almost fell off the sofa and burnt a hole in the upholstery with her cigarette. “What?” asked Lucien who immediately checked his penis to make sure it wasn’t erect again, he found Anaïs extremely sexy so it was more than possible, but no. “What?!” he demanded, a little annoyed. “I…hahaha..I work….hahaha….when I don’t write, I work in a fruit shop..hahaha!” Lucien broke out into laughter too, the two laughed so hard that Lucien had to run to the bathroom, he was full of whiskey. When he came out of the bathroom, Anaïs had put on her favourite Gainsbourg record, had poured herself a whiskey, and lit another Gigante, she swayed from right to left, her long straight brown hair swayed and brushed across her bum with every movement. Lucien stood hypnotised for a while, before walking over to her, he still only had a towel around his waist. He walked up behind her, she didn’t react, she just took another drag, he leaned over and reached for her Gigantes on the table she was leaning against, his bare chest brushed up against her arm, his erect nipple gliding over her soft skin. He lowered himself so that his mouth was right next to her ear, placed the cigarette in his mouth and lit the match so close to her ear that the heat from the flame softly burnt her neck, she liked it. She swayed to the music, Lucien ran his fingers through her long hair over and over again, he leaned into her and swayed with her to the music, his erection was back but Anaïs wasn’t amused anymore, she was insanely turned on. She could hear every puff he took of his cigarette, until the ash got too long and he tapped it into her cleavage, it burned her but she liked that too. He began to run his hands down her waist and over her shoulders, he bit her right shoulder, as he slipped down the thin strap of her dress and then the left until her breasts were completely on show. She had been facing a window the entire time and had noticed her neighbour watching her, it turned her on even more to know how much he envied Lucien at this point and how much he wanted to taste her too, but couldn’t, she smiled at him as Lucien touched her all over. He reeked of whiskey and cigarettes, just the way she liked her men. He ran his hands down her outer thighs and lifted her dress just above her bum, her long hair brushing over her skin, he pulled down her knickers until they hit the floor and removed his towel, instant ecstasy. 

After hours of love making all the while the neighbour watching, they lay naked wrapped up in sheets smoking cigarettes. “Can you play me a song?” Anaïs asked Lucien pointing to her piano. “Only if you’ll sing for me” he replied. They spent around three days in the apartment drinking, smoking, singing, dancing and making love all over the apartment, including on the piano. It was the best few days, that goes for the neighbour too. Anaïs never did find out why Lucien was naked in the street that day, she never asked, it made him more mysterious that way.

And that is how Lucien and Anaïs fell madly in love and came up with their first hit song- ‘El Loco Desnudo’ (Spanish for ‘The Naked Mad Man’).
They were inseparable.



Tortured Souls

Tortured souls are those who crave stability and eternal love yet long for wanderlust and romance.


Chapter 1- Lucien and Laurá

The dim red lights from the tables below the stage cast reddish shadows on the pianists face, it made him look even madder than he was. He swayed to the tune he played and sung in French, the words slightly slurred, it didn’t matter though, he still sounded brilliant. The music people loved, the lyrics they admired and the singing, although wasn’t brilliant still had conviction, depth and feeling. His music wasn’t about how well his voice sounded, but the brilliance of his words. they cut deep as he sung about infidelity, sex and alcoholism, the fact that he was drunk made the show and him all the more intoxicating. 

The club was the best unknown club in all of Paris, it was underground and there was nothing mainstream about it, musicians from all over Europe flocked there to perform but none quite captured the audiences attention like he did. The other musicians sang about love and lost love, they were all too scared to break out of the expectations and push the boundaries of the still very censored 1950’s. 

He had finished the song just as he had finished his cigarette, he lit another and the audience cheered for more, he got up and walked off stage, he wouldn’t give them such satisfaction. Lucien loved the admiration, he loved how the begged for more and he love the smell of fame.

Lucien put on his coat and scarf, picked up his flask of scotch and lit another cigarette as he walked outside into the cold winters night. He took a swig from the flask and began his journey through Paris to his apartment a few kilometres away, he hated going home, going home to his wife who would be asleep, no more life in here. Laurá and Lucien met in passionate circumstances, in a town outside of Florence, they fell instantly in love and lust and fucked everywhere they could in Italy, rumour has it they even made love in the Sistine Chapel or so he claims. After three years of mad Bohemian adventures through Italy, where Lucien busked and made a name for himself as a musician, Laurá painted and sold her artwork to local shops and bars. They lived a life that was full of sex, intellect and passion, they would have twelve hour conversations, get into made fights and then make love for two days straight, not once leaving the house, not even to eat. The fun and passion ended soon after Laurá fell pregnant with their first child who tragically died during child birth, Laurá was never the same, her light had been extinguished and she no longer painted or had any passion inside of her. Rather than being understanding and supporting his young wife through her grief, Lucien drank and had affairs that would last for days or even weeks with his adoring female fans.

Lucien stumbled up the stair cases of his apartment, until he reached the front door of the apartment he loathed so much, he felt as if it were a prison, it had stolen his freedom, his nomadic ways and his ability to go and travel the world. He opened the door and apartment was silent, all he could hear was the ticking of his grandfather clock, the silence killed him. Where was she? His Laurá who a year ago would have been dancing naked to one of his records, while sipping wine and smoking all of his cigarettes. ‘Laurá…où ês-tu!?’ he yells out as he trips on his music stand. ‘Laurá!’ 

Silence. He walks down the hall way, past the walls once covered in her paintings, that now lay bare. He reaches their bedroom and slams the door open, I said ‘where are y-?’, Laurá is not there, all that lies in her place is a note that reads ‘je t’aime mon chéri. Laurá x’. 

The next week Laurá files for divorce, Lucien signs. 

To be continued…..