level 8
When Dominique Strauss-Kahn entered the salon where he was to attend a diplomatic tea, he saw that all the women were naked. He asked an aide, “Why are these women naked?”
“Sir,” the aide said, “It is the custom at diplomatic teas on casual Fridays.”
One of the women came forward to greet him. She was beautiful and he could tell instantly from the tilt of her breasts, which were high and perky, that she was a member of the nobility.“Hi. I am a baroness,” she said.
“I knew it,” he said.
“But I am not one of your idle nobles. I happen to be a periodontist, and I am also on the board of Human Rights Watch. This is my cousin, the Vicomtesse.”
The Vicomtesse’s breasts were even perkier. “How do you do,” she said, holding forth an aristocratic hand to be kissed. “I am a professor of linguistics.”
“Ah, Madame, I can see that,” Monsieur Strauss-Kahn answered gallantly, for in the Vicomtesse’s other hand, which rested upon her creamy thigh, was a French edition of Noam Chomsky.
Another young woman stood nearby. He could not see her face, but her buttocks were exquisite, with the sweet budding tautness that he imagined one would find on a Degas dancer, if one could peek under the tutu. When she turned, he saw that she wore a baseball cap with the insignia “Hic et ubique terrarum,” which M. Strauss-Kahn recognized, of course, as the motto of the Sorbonne.
“I see that you are a student,” he said. The girl nodded. He went on, “Ah, La Sorbonne! What noble company you are in, young lady. St. Thomas Aquinas … Honoré de Ba
lz
ac … Victor Hugo … Roland Barthes … Jean-Luc Godard … And what are you studying?”
“Liberation theology,” she said demurely. She had an appealing shyness, and he felt that he would like to engage her on this subject of liberation theology, in which he had a passionate interest.
Just then a waitress came by with a tray of canapes. M. Strauss-Kahn could tell that she was a waitress because she was wearing clothes, and also because of the tray. He was very hungry but he saw only pigs-in-blankets, which were not his favorite food.
“Have you anything else?” he asked.
“Suck my toe,” the waitress said. Which he did, and it was good.
Then he turned back to the student, with whom he was anxious to begin talking about liberation theology, but she was gone. Standing in her place were two other young women. Both wore grand-mère glasses. Both were blond, though he could see that only one was a natural blond.
“And you two are…?”
“We are Marie and Celeste, and we are going into the other room to read poetry to each other,” the natural blond said. “Would you like to make it a threesome?”
“Poetry á trois. What a charming idea. Will it be poetry that you have written yourselves?”
“Certainly! Can’t you see that we are poets?”
“But of course I can!” He felt a trifle embarrassed not to have seen it immediately.
The three of them retired to an adjoining library. The women arranged themselves in lounge chairs and sat quietly.
“Well,” said M. Strauss-Kahn, “when do we begin?”
“First you must take off your clothes,” said the unnatural blond.
“Not that I mind, but why?”
“It’s the best way to listen to poetry,” she said. “Only when the flesh is bare can you can take in the beauty of every word through every pore.”
M. Strauss-Kahn disrobed. “I’m ready,” he said.
“I’ll say,” said the natural blond.
So they began, and he soon found that this was indeed the best way to listen to poetry. It sounded like the most wonderful poetry M. Strauss-Kahn had ever heard—which was a great surprise, he told his lawyer later, because those girls hadn’t looked like such wonderful poets. But then, with the clothes off, you can never tell.
