February 6, 1992.

I am in bed with a man I have never been attracted to in real
life. It is wonderful. Spontaneous, exciting for both of us.
Gilles is in his bed and we are in another bed and at one point,
I wonder should I not move back in bed with Gilles, but decide
against it. We are just too contented together. We make love
again and he tells me he's never known it could be so wonderful
and from now on, things will be different in his life. He will
buy a book which has something to do with women, something
positive, which he would not have bought before.

It is another time. We, (the same man and I), are together
again, making love and suddenly a big burly man comes into the
room. It is too late to hide but I tell L. to hide as well as he
can underneath the covers. He does but the big man lifts up the
covers and discovers us together. He is quite proud of himself
and gives us a talking down. Suddenly, L. and I become separated
and I have never really been in the bed when the big burly man
found us. It was my son Matthieu who was in the bed. He's been
sodomized but L. just can't explin it. He didn't want to do it,
didn't think he was doing it and both he and my son look so
pityful. I lodge myself between them. I am wearing a nightgown
and cry that it's my fault. Had I been there, had I been there
with L. to make love to him, to satisfy his ruge, none of this
would have happened.


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