A few days went by before I heard from Veronique. It’s important to remember that smartphones and data plans didn’t exist yet. Text messages used to cost 20 cents each, and you couldn’t send someone a picture on their phone. There was no wifi calling either, and long-distance fees on a cell phone were an arm and a leg. I remember months where my phone bill was $400, and that was in back-then money.

So the fact that I hadn’t heard from her in a bit wasn’t unexpected.

From what I knew, she was in Paris and would be staying there until the first of the next month, which was 3 days away. I also knew what she’d be doing while there.

I got an email from her one morning. Social media didn’t exist yet. Back then, e-mail wasn’t just something you needed to sign up for things. It was how people actually kept in touch.

She started off by telling me how happy she was because the usual hotel she stayed at was fully booked, and the airline upgraded her to the Bel Ami, which was a much nicer place. Then she went on a little bit about what she’d been up to over the last few days, mostly a lot of shopping and eating. The longer the email got, the more it started to feel like she was avoiding what the email was really about.

I’m going out tonight. One of the new girls, Catherine, has never been to Paris before. I’m taking her to Le Montana. I’m seeing Philippe again tonight, he can actually get us in! He’s bringing a friend for Cath, it should be a fun night.

She casually dropped that, then went back to telling me a story about a dress she fell in love with, but the store didn’t have one that fit right, and how on her way out, she spotted someone returning the same dress in her exact size.

Veronique managed to couch “btw, I fucked a guy already, and it’s happening again tonight” between “I had the best Belgian waffle for brunch” and “fate handed me the dress I wanted.” It was so nonchalant, I had to read it twice before I was sure of what she was telling me.

At the end of it, there was a link. She didn’t explain what it was. Just a link and a password. Of course, I clicked on it. It led to an online photo album. Only one picture had been added to it so far. It said everything she didn’t put in writing.

The photo was of Veronique, standing on a bridge, I guess over the Seine, with the Eiffel Tower in the background. She wasn’t alone. A guy had his arm wrapped around her. I assumed that was Philippe. She was staring at the camera, at me. He was more focused on her.

I knew this was coming. We’d talked about it enough, so it wasn’t a surprise. Still, the reality of it hit pretty hard. It started without me. It already happened. That wasn’t an accident. She jumped right into it, maybe worried that if I had time to think about it, I’d talk myself out of it. Or worse, talk her out of it.

She took that option off the table. We were in this now.

The strange thing is that I didn’t feel some seismic shift or have some grand epiphany. I just looked at my watch and realized I had a lecture to get to. It was a Thursday, just like any other.

After class, I stopped off at the Black Dog. I’d been avoiding it for a while, but figured it was time. It was late afternoon, and most of the regulars were still at work. That helped. I knew I wouldn’t run into Karl. I still wasn’t sure how I was going to handle that.

It wasn’t even about what he thought of me seeing Veronique, or if he even knew yet. It was more what she’d told me about him saying racist things. I couldn’t look at him the same way after that and didn’t want to be around him. At some point, he’d realize I was giving him the cold shoulder, and when he did, I didn’t want it to turn into something.

Angela was working that day. Her face lit up when I walked in.

“Look who the devil dragged in.”

“Yeah, sorry, things have been busy for me lately.”

“By things, you mean Veronique?”

I knew they were close and assumed they’d been talking. I just didn’t know how much. I hoped Veronique hadn’t told her everything.

“We’ve been hanging out a bit. I went out with her the other day.”

“This is how it starts,” she said with a smirk. “I warned you.”

“I’ve seen her twice. Nothing to worry about.”

I think maybe I said that to convince myself more than Angela.

“Not many guys get a beach-blowjob on a first date.”

That gave me some idea of how much Veronique might have told her, and a little bit of fear started to creep in. I tried to play it off like it was nothing, as if casual blowjobs were something that existed in my world.

“She’s a little spontaneous,” I said. “And I wasn’t going to say no, was I?”

“She’s a blonde bombshell, have your fun with her. Just remember, bombshells eventually explode.” She did the bomb thing with her hands again. I think that’s when I noticed how often she did that. It wasn’t the only thing I noticed, though.

As close as they were, it occurred to me that Angela seemed a little jealous of Veronique. Like a hot mother who shows off her daughter, then resents it when she sees how much more attention the younger, prettier one gets. Their relationship had that kind of vibe to me.

I spent the rest of the afternoon shooting the shit with Angela. At one point, she suggested that Veronique and I should go out for dinner with her and her husband. When I reminded her that we’d only gone on one date and weren’t a couple, she gave me a look, and I realized she knew more than I hoped.

Back at my apartment, I had my computer on and was staring at the picture of Veronique and Phillippe. It was still the only one she’d uploaded, and I wasn’t sure if that was comforting or disappointing. It was 5 o’clock in Kingston, which made it 10 in Paris.

Veronique and Catherine were probably getting ready to go out right about then. I could picture them picking their outfits and doing their hair, looking at each other with sly smiles, knowing exactly what that night was going to turn into.

I read Veronique’s email one more time. I still hadn’t replied to it. That wouldn’t have bothered her. She knew I had class and the time difference, but I had to get to it tonight. If I didn’t, she might think I was spiralling over Phillippe.

The trouble was, I had no idea how to reply. That waffle sounds great! Glad that you got some black dick! That dress sounds fabulous, tell me more about it! I had to get something down, though, and I couldn’t ignore the obvious.

In the end, my reply mirrored hers. I told her how my days had been and let her know that I was thinking about her. When it came to the pic, I thanked her for it. I said she looked good with Phillippe and hoped they had fun together. I wasn’t sure how much of that I believed, but it’s what she needed to hear.

It was after 11 o’clock in Paris by the time I was done. Veronique and Catherine had probably already met up with Philippe and his friend. They must have been in the club by then.

I pictured the girls on the dance floor, being the centre of attention. Veronique doesn’t do anything halfway. She would have been giving it her all. The guys were off to the side, watching it play out. Knowing that every guy in the club wanted to fuck them, but for them it was a sure thing.

And I was in Kingston, Ontario, trying to ignore that my dick was getting hard thinking about it.

My phone rang at 9 o’clock, 3 am Paris. It was Veronique, she was drunk, and almost whispering. There was a bit of reverb coming through the phone. I wasn’t sure if she was in a small space or if it was the connection.

“Grey?”

“Hey, how was your night?”

“I’m not staying at the hotel tonight. Catherine and I are with Phillippe and Jérôme. He’s already fucking her.”

“Where are you?”

“Jérôme’s place,” she said, followed by a short pause. “I’m in the bathroom getting undressed. I want you to come with me.”

“What—”

“Just listen.”

I heard her open a door. The reverb went away. She was in a larger room now. I heard a man’s deep voice. “Vous êtes magnifique,” followed by a slap and a playful yelp from Veronique.

“He just spanked me,” she giggled.

“Veronique, what are you—”

“I want you here with me. Listen to us and stroke your cock.”

For a few minutes, it was hard to figure out what I was hearing. It just sounded like muffled noises, and I wasn’t sure what was happening.

I tried to tell her how much the call was going to cost, as if she was in any state to give a shit. I said “hello?” a few times, but still nothing from her, just background noise that I couldn’t make sense of.

The phone got closer for a few seconds. That’s when I heard Phillippe’s deep voice. “Ah oui, c'est bon. C'est ça,” followed by an unmistakable slurping sound. Veronique was sucking his cock. And I reached into my pants and pulled out mine.

I heard the phone drop, just a soft thud as it hit the bed. It must have landed face down because I was back to not being able to make much out again. I didn’t need to, though. I knew exactly what was happening, and that was enough.

I didn’t want to come too fast. Every time I got close, I slowed down or stopped completely. I wanted to hear the start of one of her orgasms and time myself with her, but it didn’t work out that way.

The phone suddenly got crystal clear again, like she’d brought it up right to her mouth. Before she even said anything, I heard the steady smack of Phillippe’s hips against her ass. He was fucking her doggy-style.

“Grey…” she moaned breathlessly into the phone. “His cock is so fucking big.”

I heard Phillippe grunt with each thrust. Veronique gasped every time he drove into her hard enough to force the air out of her lungs.

“He’s not fucking me, Grey.” Her voice was almost a cry. “He’s making me take it.”

That was it. I came all over myself.

I didn’t move for a long time afterward. I just sat there listening while new images burned themselves into my mind. Then the line went dead. Veronique later told me that Phillippe tossed the phone across the room.

I didn’t hear from her the next day, but an email came through on the Sunday. It was short.

I’ll be home on Tuesday. Maybe come to Montreal next weekend? Poor Cath is in love with Jérôme. She hasn’t figured out these boys are just for fucking.

That’s all there was, that and a new link to the photobook. She’d added a few pictures. Some of her, some of Cath, some of Cath and Jérôme. None of Phillippe. I think she was making a point, reassuring me. He was just for fucking.

Veronique called me the day after she got back to Montreal. It was casual for a bit, but we both knew at some point we had to talk about what had happened while she was in Paris.

“So,” she said. “Last Friday.”

“If you’re worried that I might—”

“I’m not worried. If anything, I get it now.”

“I think that’s good, but what do you mean?”

“In some ways, the things you’ve told me were just stories. Things people say. It feels real now. It’s not something I heard. It’s something I’m doing.”

“It got real for me, too.”

“I bet. And you’re still ok with that?”

“Yeah. I mean, yeah.”

“I didn’t do anything that I hadn’t done before, but it felt different knowing you were there. Something just clicked.”

I knew what she meant. I’d first felt it years ago. There’s a moment when you realize that things don’t have to be a certain way. The way you expect them to be, or the way you’re taught they should be. It feels like you’ve uncovered a secret and suddenly know something other people don’t.

“You know how you told me about your intrusive thoughts, about me with those two guys?”

“Yeah.”

“I have one too now.”

I was almost afraid to ask. “What is it?”

“I’ve always liked knowing that guys think about me when they jerk off.”

That didn’t come as a surprise to me, I’d already figured it out. The first night we met, she told me I could go down on her, and said ‘at least you’ll get to see me naked, right? Something to jerk off to later.’ Then later in the water, when she gave me a blow job, she made me tell her that I thought about her when I masturbated, even asking if I ever imagined anyone else. She seemed too happy when I told her she was the only one I stroked to.

“After Friday, all I can think about is what if you listened, or even better, were there watching, but didn’t jerk off. What if you couldn’t do anything about it? And just had to sit there and take it in?”

I’d told Veronique bits and pieces about my history, but one thing I never mentioned was chastity. It felt too embarrassing to admit to. The strange thing was, I didn’t think she was hinting at that. I think the idea came to her naturally, and she didn’t know anything about cock cages or orgasm denial. She’d told me she’d been to sex shops in Germany, so I couldn’t rule it out. But she was talking about it like she thought she was the first person to ever consider it.

I kept quiet. I said something like “Yeah… maybe, that might be fun.” I wasn’t sure if I wanted to go down that road again, but part of me was excited that Veronique came up with it on her own. It meant she’d been thinking about us.

She changed the topic before I had to.

“This weekend, you think you could come to Montreal?”

“Yeah. I’ll have to rent a car. But it’s been a while since I’ve been back, so that sounds good. And, of course, any excuse to see you.”

The prospect of going to Montreal raised an issue that had been on my mind for a while. When I moved to Kingston, I had a tight budget. I sold everything, covered tuition, paid a year’s worth of rent upfront, and left myself with enough money where I didn’t have to think about work for a year.

What I didn’t take into account were all the beers I bought in a pub, making new friends, or spending on a girlfriend, or whatever the Veronique arrangement was becoming. If I started making regular trips to Montreal, my money was going to run out long before the end of the year.

I needed to get a job… but didn’t want one. It’s not because I was lazy and didn’t want to work. It’s that those first few months in Kingston were the first time since I was a kid that I wasn’t living on someone else’s schedule. Even with university, most of the lectures were recorded and could be checked out of the library. The only time I actually had to be there was for tutorials.

My first attempt to make some money was basically what would now be called gig economy work. I didn’t have a job. I had a bunch of them I could mostly do on my own time. A guy in my building did demolition work. I told him to give me a call any time he needed extra hands. That led to some other handyman stuff, dog walking, and even tutoring high school kids. It was ok for a while, but I was still dependent on other people.

Then by accident, I stumbled into a small goldmine of easy money. I was waiting in line at the post office when this older woman stumbled through the door carrying seven or eight packages, and I went to help her. We got to talking, and she told me how she bought things at yard sales and then resold them on eBay for much more.

“I probably have $20 spent on everything here,” she said. “And it all sold for over $300.” I loved the sound of that.

Kingston was an old city, and people on eBay loved buying old shit, no matter what it was. I’d hit up garage sales and pick up anything that looked old and odd.

Buyers especially loved devices. Medical equipment, tools, can openers, corkscrews… if it reminded someone of a bygone era, I knew I could buy it for next to nothing and turn it into real money.

That’s how I got myself to Montreal that first time, by selling cases of old, empty Coke bottles on eBay. It sure as hell beat flipping burgers.

Veronique lived in a nice building in an area of Montreal called NDG. She had a roommate named Geneviève who was also a flight attendant. They worked opposite schedules and never saw each other, so it was like living on her own in a bigger place but only paying half the rent.

I had a late class that Friday, and didn’t get to her place until around eight o’clock. She buzzed me in as soon as I got there, then greeted me at her apartment door.

“I’m glad you’re here,” she said, leaning up on her toes to give me a kiss. When she was back on her feet, I noticed that she looked a little nervous.

“What’s wrong?”

“I swear I didn’t plan this,” she said. “He just dropped by.”

We made our way inside. Veronique was walking backward, gently pulling me by the hand further into her apartment until we got to her living room.

“Grey, this is Antoine. Antoine, Grey.”

On the couch, there was a hulking black guy. He didn’t get up, just raised his hand in a half-wave and smiled. “Allo,” he said. His accent was much thicker than Veronique’s and different.

“He just got released from the Tigercats,” she said, then followed with a whisper, “his career is probably over.”

Antoine was from Haiti. He’d played college football in America and signed with the Detroit Lions, then later with the Cleveland Browns. Since then, he’d bounced around in the Canadian Football League for seven or eight years. He was in his early thirties now, was never a star, and just got cut from his last-chance team.

“We don’t have to do anything,” Veronique said, almost reassuring me, “but I know why he came here.”

“If I’m interfering on your night—”

“Don’t be silly,” she replied to him. “You’ve had a bad day. We can make something of it.” Then she looked at me, hopeful, almost pleading. “Isn’t that right, Grey?”