THE MEN'S PLANET III:

Frenchie

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It never occurred to me that Frenchie might be a homicidal sociopath until I asked him if he had ever killed anyone. This occurred on New Year's Eve. We had been seeing each other since September, always just hanging out at my apartment because, as I learned, free-lance fashion photographers are paid even less frequently than free-lance investigative reporters. He couldn't even afford a bottle of wine, so he brought carbonated apple cider, 2% alcohol. I was naturally eager to spend time chez lui, but he emphatically refused to invite me over. Towards the end of our relationship, I began to wonder what artifacts his apartment contained-a wife, stacks of "Blueboy" and "Huge," ninja throwing stars, decomposing corpses?

I was drawn to Frenchie's classy, refined features, avant garde sensibilities and European manners. He was an intriguing jumble of contradictions. He always wore black leather jeans and motorcycle jacket, travelled by Harley and was into biker culture. Yet his diet consisted of miso soup, brewer's yeast, tahini and antihistamines for chronic allergies. He claimed the drugs fatigued him, so I always initiated sex. I liked to moan "baisez-moi" and "lechez-moi," conjuring up memories of erotic escapades sur le Rive Gauche in 1984. But I quickly realized that the idea of fucking a French fashion photographer was more of a turn-on than the act itself. In fact, I was so perplexed by Frenchie's lack of libido that I brought one of his letters to a graphologist. The expert promptly pronounced him a closet case. This resonated. Frenchie performed when challenged, ate pussy passably, but I often wondered whether his mind was on a pair of hairy buttocks while his tongue was on my clit.

I could understand him secretly hating women. His mother died when he was a baby, leaving him unprotected in the care of a brutal, dictatorial French patriarch. Dad was also an avowed Marxist. Frenchie rebelled by becoming a rightwing paratrooper and fought in Algeria, but by the time I met him, alas, he was listening to left-wing radio incessantly. His all-purpose explanation for every geo-political crisis around the globe was "American imperialism"; he perceived more CIA conspiracies than Oliver Stone. Irritated, I reminded him of French anti-semitism and general obnoxiousness. I added that I had heard enough "dialectical materialism" from my wacko leftist family to last a lifetime, and pleaded, "Can we, like, talk about Truffaut?"

New Year's Eve began oddly. That afternoon, Frenchie had bought me a beer and falafel and then uncharacteristically emoted, "You're too nice for me. I can't handle it. I like bitches who treat me like shit, like my last girlfriend."

My friend Jane had invited us to a party. I revelled in the buzz I copped off the 12% alcoholic content of my glass of red wine. Frenchie slunk around in black leather.

Just before midnight, he discovered the host's collection of hunting knives. Removing them from their case, he ran his fingers over the blades, his eyes glowing. Someone asked me, "Who the fuck is this psycho?"

Curious myself, I asked him the fateful question.

"I'm not sure how many people the actual total is," he replied thoughtfully. "Aside from all the kills in combat in Algeria, I ran someone over on a dark country road in California. Then there was this fight with a biker. And I was in a motorcycle accident. Another time I was in a bar and this guy kept bothering a chick. I punched him out and his head made a strange thud when it hit the floor. I didn't stick around, but I'm pretty sure he was dead..."

"Do I pick them or what?" I asked Jane.

She walked me to the door as I bad Frenchie, "Bon Annee et au revoir!"

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