Madness and Civilization

Finally, Doctor Poulenc raised the crop and delivered a swift, sharp blow to the inside of Michel's left thigh. Michel drew in his breath as he felt the burst of pain swell and subside. He looked down at his leg, where the crop had left a clean red mark indexed on his skin. The doctor was looking at the mark too. Doctor Poulenc reached down and ran his finger across its edges almost reverently. He brought the crop down on Michel's other thigh, making a symmetrical mark, then again on the same leg, several inches down. Then he gazed at Michel's leg again, considering his next move. Finally, he seemed to decide that two sharp blows in quick succession to Michel's right thigh was correct. Another swift blow to the left thigh, two more to the right thigh, and finally, unexpectedly, an incisive slap on the center of Michel's chest.

It was as if Doctor Poulenc was painting, Michel thought. No, perhaps painting was not the best metaphor: the doctor struck Michel's thighs with the cleverness and precision of someone crafting an argument. The timing of Doctor Poulenc's wielding of the crop was reminiscent of a great orator. Michel felt the doctor listen to the gasps and moans he was drawing out of his victim, seeming to remain always one step ahead of him, always with something in his repertoire Michel did not expect. Michel was captivated. He had never before been so aware of the substance of his body, its malleability.

The doctor wore that same smile on his face, that knowing, impenetrable expression that had infuriated Michel only a week earlier. He ran his hand over the fresh marks on Michel's legs, taking in with calm deference the warmth of the skin he had reddened. "Beautiful," he breathed, almost to himself. Michel smiled up at him shyly.

"Now, the crop was an easy implement to begin with. I think this next weapon will sting a bit more. Are you ready?"

"Yes, sir," murmured Michel. He watched eagerly as the doctor produced a slim whip from the suitcase. He observed as the doctor ran his hands over the weapon, stroking the smooth, braided leather. Michel was enchanted by the aesthetics of the image-the ornate, almost aristocratic curve of the leather, the steadiness of the doctor's hands as he handled it.

"Now stand up and bend over. I want to hit you from behind," the doctor said. Michel obeyed. "Arch your back a little."

Doctor Poulenc cracked the whip in the air. Michel flinched. The doctor laughed. "Stay still for me, now, Michel," he chided. Michel did so, keeping his back arched just as the doctor had ordered. He breathed in and out heavily, keenly aware of the fearsome potential of the whip as it lingered in the air behind him. With his back turned to the doctor, Michel could not anticipate the doctor's movements, and the fear sent a thrill down his spine as he waited.

The inevitable crack of the whip on Michel's backside came, sending a pain that wrenched deep into Michel, then subsided as soon as it had arrived. Michel gasped. The doctor flicked the whip again, and again the sliver of pain imprinted itself into Michel, searing his flesh. Michel took note of how effortlessly this weapon allowed the doctor to inflict pain. How much harm could the doctor do, he wondered, if he were to put his full strength behind the whip? The doctor seemed to have no intention of exerting himself, however. He slashed again at Michel's rear end with an easygoing tranquility made possible by his mastery of form. With one flick, he could make Michel moan. With another, he made him gasp. Michel groaned and twitched, sighed and whimpered, as the doctor played with his pain. Doctor Poulenc was adept at keeping Michel on the edge of what he thought he could tolerate. Just as Michel began to think he had crossed the border of what pain he could manage, the doctor showed him with another clean blow that he was not yet at his limit. It was agony, deep and gratifying. Again and again the whip came down on Michel. It cleaved into him, stripping away his composure as he gasped and cried out involuntarily.

At last, Doctor Poulenc set the instrument down. "Breathe, Michel," he reminded Michel, who felt as if he did indeed need to be reminded. His legs trembled, and his body was hot where the doctor had hit him. He felt the doctor's hands travel across the hot patches on his backside, soothing them with gentle strokes. "Thank you," Doctor Poulenc said. "You took that beautifully." He helped Michel take a seat on the couch, then he ran a hand through Michel's hair affectionately.

Michel was not sure how to respond. "You're welcome," he ventured. He felt the doctor's lips as they pressed into his neck, the doctor's hand as it rested on his bare chest. Michel felt warm, everywhere. Warmth emanated from his rear end and his thighs, but mostly it emanated from Doctor Poulenc himself-a hearty, wholehearted warmth that seemed boundless in its generosity.

"You can fuck me if you want, you know," Michel offered.

"Oh I will, don't you worry," laughed the doctor. "You like to be penetrated?"

"I'd like to be penetrated by you."

"And you shall have your wish. But first, one slight alteration..." Doctor Poulenc's eyes flashed. He reached down once again to his suitcase and drew out of it a pair of metal handcuffs. "I thought you might like to try these on."

"Yes," Michel breathed. The metal of the handcuffs glinted in the lamplight, beckoning. "Yes, sir," he corrected himself.

"Hands behind your back," the doctor ordered. Michel did as he was told, and the doctor snapped the cuffs around his wrists. Michel felt their edges hug his wrists, containing him. He settled into the confinement of the new accessory. It thrilled him, the way it constricted his movements, how it subordinated him to the doctor. Michel was acutely aware of how dependent the state of his body was on the will of Doctor Poulenc, and he watched his captor with rapt attention.

Doctor Poulenc, meanwhile, was loosening his belt. With a steady hand, he took hold of Michel's hair and guided his head toward his groin. "You know what to do," he said, producing his member from his pants and drawing Michel's head down onto it. Michel took to the task readily. He felt the doctor's penis grow in his mouth as he worked on it, taking note of its fine contours, the smooth flesh, the slight asymmetry. "Make sure you get me wet," the doctor reminded, "you know where this is going."

Doctor Poulenc raised Michel's head and spread his legs wide. With a firm, steady stroke of his pelvis, he entered Michel. Yes, thought Michel, yes! His whole body trembled as the doctor's member stretched his entrance. What joyous torment this handcuffed intercourse was! Michel was elated in his helplessness. He felt as if he wanted nothing but to be the receptacle of the doctor's pleasure, not in this moment, perhaps not ever. Each moan of pleasure the doctor gave, Michel felt as if it were his own.

Doctor Poulenc's strokes were accelerating now; Michel could feel the current of an orgasm build within him. As Michel gasped and moaned at the force of the doctor's thrusts, the doctor brought himself to shuddering orgasm. He clutched Michel as he ejaculated into him. Both men trembled with exertion. Michel felt Doctor Poulenc linger deep inside him. He felt the doctor's hands grasp his hair, and then he felt the doctor's lips make contact with his own. There was substance behind this kiss, meaning transferred from one set of lips to the other, thick with possession and compassion, mastery and empathy.

Without warning and seemingly without reason, Michel felt his eyes well up with tears. Aghast, he fought back the sudden impulse to cry, but to no avail. It was too much, Doctor Poulenc's tenderness. Michel had taken pain before from other lovers, indeed he had taken abuse, without wetting an eye, but it was the doctor's kindness that undid him. The tears began running down his cheeks, and there was nothing he could do to stop them. "I'm sorry..." he flustered, but the doctor silenced him.

"Please. There's nothing to be sorry for," he assured him. The doctor extricated himself from Michel and sat down beside him.

"I...I just...this isn't the right moment to be going off like this, I know..."

"Not at all." Doctor Poulenc looked concerned. "Was it something I did? Was it too much for you? Did you not like it?" He reached behind Michel and undid the handcuffs. Michel rubbed his wrists, feeling shaky and outside himself.

"No, I did, I did...I, um..." Michel wracked his brain, trying to articulate what he wanted to say to the doctor. "No one's ever been this nice to me before, at least not during..." Michel trailed off. He drew in a deep breath and dried his eyes. "Thank you," he murmured. "Thank you so much. You have no idea how...how beautiful you made me feel."

The doctor's smile broadened. "I have some idea, I think. It's one thing to know conceptually that what you are is right. That it's good, that it's beautiful. It's another to really feel it."

"Yes," Michel agreed. He supposed he should not be astonished anymore at Doctor Poulenc's perceptiveness, for the doctor had once again put words to precisely what Michel had been feeling. "I've tried to convince myself for so long, you know?"

"I've found that men like us are exceptionally good at rationalizing our existence. We've had a lot of practice." Doctor Poulenc fetched a towel from the bathroom and ran it over Michel's body, cleaning it. Michel felt his body come back into itself under the doctor's touch. The tears subsided, and the tremors that had overtaken him during sex were quelled.

"I'm sorry," he said again. In answer, the doctor kissed him.

"It's a gift, you know," the doctor told him. "And a curse. There's something about not quite fitting into the order of things that makes you more perceptive of how the world works. How power works."

Yes, Michel thought. There was truth in that statement, and comfort as well. Michel looked at the doctor, searching for the intent behind his words. "Why did you ask me over, really?" He asked.

"You want the truth?"

"Yes"

Doctor Poulenc grinned. "There's something about you, Michel. The way you see the world. You're going to make something of yourself some day, I can feel it. Someday, I'm going to look back on tonight and congratulate myself that I got to be inside Michel Foucault."

"Oh come on..."

"What, you don't believe me?"

Michel searched for a trace of insincerity on the doctor's face, but he found none. Michel laughed out loud. He supposed every young student had visions of greatness. It was both absurd and thrilling to hear a voice other than the one inside his head affirm how he wanted to see himself. For here it was, his most potent of desires-not for flesh, nor for pain, but for greatness. "You know all the right buttons to push, Doctor Poulenc!"

"I dare you to prove me right."

"Maybe someday I will."

***This story is based on real events in the early life of the 20th century political philosopher, Michel Foucault. Although the character of Doctor Poulenc is fictional, the struggles with depression and queer identity that Foucault went through during his college years were real, and they had a profound impact on his writing. The title of this story is taken from the title of one of Foucault's earliest works, Madness and Civilization, which was a critical history of insane asylums.***