Blood Attracts Him

Pierre Guillaume Toussaint was born in a small village with few career options other than farming. He had an aptitude for art, which he practiced at home with simple tools—charcoal and ink. He was content with rural life and had many friends, but he longed for more in his life as he became increasingly involved in his art. He needed more subjects to draw, more vistas to admire, and more scenes of interest. He needed to achieve, improve, and be the best that he could be.

When he turned twenty, he commuted to the local town each day to work in a printing shop as an apprentice. It was there that he was shown woodblock printing, and he became an illustrator for the local paper, where he practiced lithography, fashioning contemporary graphics on limestone blocks using waxed crayons. After mastering that, he yearned to take his skills further and to learn the practice of etching. His hunger to improve led him to explore opportunities in the city. He found work at a local paper, where he finally studied the etching of copper plates to create complex illustrations.

There, he was approached by a tall, polite woman with glasses who said that his art and skill were of interest to her. She said that she wanted to introduce him to a community of artists where he could learn to hone his skills. When he was hesitant, she suggested that he come to take a look and see what he thought.

When he arrived at the coffee house where many of the artists whom she supervised gathered, he found their conversations riveting. They spoke of their idealistic desires to capture the spirit of their models, their landscapes, and the zeitgeist of their time. Some focused on allegory, others on the revolutionizing of techniques. Whatever their focus, being among these others who worked in the artistic medium, he was inspired.

After making up his mind to join them, he spoke to their patron, Annette, about moving into the community. He learned that she was the patron of many artists, and she took him under her wing. When she heard that he was interested in taking up sculpture as well, she introduced him to a young man named Leon, whom he moved in with when he arrived at the community a few weeks later.

Leon was only a year older than Pierre; he was kind, and he took a liking to the etcher. Annette asked him to be Pierre’s mentor, so the younger man was set up in a corner of Leon’s studio. Pierre brought with him his paints, and he was given sculpting tools as well. Many hours were spent together working in silence and many hours at cafes and absinthe houses in the area. They met with other artists to talk, drink cheap wine, or drink absinthe to liberate their minds.

Pierre enjoyed the lifestyle of an artist, but he was more focused on the art itself. He wanted to find his creative voice and to leave a mark on the world with his work. 

He spent many hours with Leon in their shared studio in the warehouse district where Annette’s other artists gathered, talking about ideals and techniques. Their building was divided into smaller nooks where they could work and exchange ideas with other artists before returning to their overcrowded boarding houses at night.

Months passed. Pierre settled in quite well and made many friends in the community. He was always with Leon, who was like an older brother to him. After a drunken session at a cafe near their studio drinking Chartreuse, Leon, Pierre, and a few friends visited an op**m den—for Pierre, it was the first time. They lay on the soft cushioned beds to smoke the resin that the attendants gave them. After he tried the dr*g, Pierre passed out very quickly and became lost in hazy, pleasant dreams. After lying in a daze for a bit, he came to his senses. 

When he opened his eyes, a handsome stranger with glasses was leaning over him on the bed. He had hair that fell across his forehead and fashionable sideburns, and his lips were parted as he seemed to be in awe of Pierre, a simple country boy.

“What’s your name?” the stranger asked.

Pierre blinked in confusion. “Uh...Pierre.”

Something about the man compelled him to answer. Pierre looked up and got lost in his bottomless amber eyes.

“You’re a pretty one, aren’t you?” the man said.

“Uh...so are you,” Pierre answered without thinking.

In his dream, the stranger stopped to kiss his cheeks and then eyelids.

“Thanks. But it’s you that’s pretty...”

He cupped Pierre’s face in his hands to kiss the corner of his mouth, then his lips, and then, before Pierre could ask him his name, he was gone. Pierre wanted to follow the stranger to ask who he was, but he quickly passed out again after the stranger left. He woke up from his dreamlike nap later, then turned to see Leon resting beside him in a stupor.

“Leon, did you see that man?” he asked him.

Leon, still reclining on the bed against the adjoining wall, turned to face him.

“I’ve seen many men here,” he said.

Pierre looked around and did indeed see many people lying propped up, even piled up against each other as they all lay together like drunken dolls. He thought about his question. 

A mysterious man kissing him?

He realized that what he said sounded ridiculous. As if a man would come up out of nowhere and just kiss him! It just wasn’t the done thing! He decided that op**m wasn’t for him, and he never wanted to go to one of those popular dens again. He thought that the hazy experience of the man was so realistic that he wasn’t sure whether he actually had run into a sensual stranger there...or whether he was a figment of Pierre’s imagination and the dr*gs.