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The Rebel had called for a revolution without violence, and boy was Satre feeling violent now. For years he had been lucky enough to consider Camus to be his closest and dearest friend, their hearts and minds syncing together in the unlikely harmony that occurs only once in a lifetime. But this absolute bullshit could not stand. No proletarian revolution could occur without at least some violence, some blood being spilt. Surely his friend could see that. And so it was in that vein, of utter disbelief and disgust that his open letter to Camus was born, and although historians to this day believe they remained out of contact until death, the truth is quite the opposite.
The open wound of rejection had stung for Camus more strongly than he thought he had ever felt in his entire life. The idea of going on without Sartre, especially after such an open and violent rebuttal against his ideas (which at the time he had even been rather proud of) pained him deeply. So it was in that vein of thought that Camus made the bold and ill-advised decision to turn up at Sartre’s apartment. The gentle city murmurs come in from one end and go out the other, with the noises whirling amongst the sun-baked, ice-split stone buildings. The chestnut tree opposite Sartre’s apartment undulated with the soft flow of outdoor breeze, and bathed in its mellow warmth. This weather was certainly more enjoyable than the maddening Algerian sun. Camus looked upon Sartre’s apartment and approached the door.
To his luck, Simone was out today. Or, maybe, also yesterday; he couldn’t be sure. But regardless, his attempted ambush on Sartre would go both unnoticed and unstopped. He hesitated as his slender finger brushed the doorbell, wondering if this was a mistake after all. Camus’ stomach churned with the terror of a man about to embrace the essential nothingness of his being and realise the absurdity of his existential predicament. He felt his heart beat quickly in his chest. Before he could allow his nerves to get the better of him, he took a Kiekegaardian leap of faith and rang the bell. He could hear the soft ringing coming from inside the door, and the sound of heavy, self important footsteps approach.
The look of surprise on the older man’s face was something to behold, clearly shocked at the arrival of his estranged friend, whom he had frankly intended never to meet again. As his jaw lay slack, Camus tentatively tried to greet him, but Satre’s face remained unresponsive. Camus allowed doubt to flood his mind, having received no response from Satre, and stepped away from the door, mumbling to himself about a wrong address, despite it not having changed for quite some time. Shocked into action, the door swung shut as the connection between the two men was once again severed. Disappointed, although not surprised, Camus began a long and regretful walk back towards his own apartment.
‘Wait! Please!’
It cut through the busy sound of the Parisian street, strained irritation and quiet desperation floating above the noise. It was all that Camus had hoped for, yearned for even. To hear the metaphysical anguish in the other man’s tone; to know that he was wanted. He stopped in his tracks, having only walked a few meters from the door, and turned to face the other man.
‘Please, I’m sorry. Come inside, we should catch up.’
To be honest, it was quite out of character that Sartre would back down like this, but Camus had little doubt that this was no less an admission of defeat than it was a declaration of war.
He felt his feet cross the threshold of the apartment, but his mind was still outside, spinning with excitement in the summer heat.
Camus dabbed the glistening beads of sweat off his forehead with a handkerchief as he entered Sartre’s living room. Tall glass windows illuminated the room with dusty rays of light. Bookshelves lined the walls, and half-finished manuscripts adorned the furniture as small, precisely arranged piles. A photograph of Sartre, De Beauvoir, and Castro aboard a boat had been framed and positioned above the mantelpiece. Behind him Sartre closed the door, deafening the city murmurs and leaving the men in a private silence.
‘Sit down,’ it was more a command than a request, which Camus felt to be rather frustrating but grudgingly obliged for the honour of being able to talk to his friend again. He sat down on a comfortable looking chair opposite a coffee table, with a view of the room, realising with a small twinge of dismay that it was that of Simone De Beavoir. The older man remained standing, moving towards a model globe, twisting the lid to reveal a smartly disguised drinks cabinet, and offered over a glass of whiskey.
‘Thank you,’ Camus said.
The other man sat down opposite him, sliding easily into the comfortable chair that had been his for many years. Sartre took out a small, shining silver case, intricately carved, and flicked it open, smiling to himself as he took out a cigarette in one hand.
‘Do you have a lighter?’
‘Ah! Yes’, Camus stammered to himself, caught off guard by the first genuine request, free of malice or ulterior motive, being made of him that day. In his slight surprise he didn’t even stop to think as he pulled it out of his pocket, and leaned in towards Sartre. Their close proximity, especially after having gone months apart, gave rise to an intimate encounter as Camus stayed motionless while Sartre lit his cigarette. Both experienced a red flush of hotness gush over them. Their shared apprehension about what was surely to follow was palpable. An apprehension stemming from the realisation that their longstanding sexual tension and provocative inferences would finally actualise in a moment of passion.
‘As you say Sartre,’ he said in a breathy whisper, just inches now away from Camus’ face, ‘it isn’t freedom from, it is freedom to…’
Finally, Camus leaned in for the kiss that he had longed for this whole time. He delicately clasped the side of Sartre’s face with one hand and their lips met. It was as if everything was once again right with the world, the left united once again. Upon making contact with Sartre’s lips, Camus finally learned of the invincible summer that lay within him. This initial acquiescence to their sexual tension served to produce a moment of pure, ineffable beauty. Any verbal expression of this sensation would alienate it from the fact of love which was presently being experienced, and instead assume a hollow life of its own.
Camus wrapped his arm around Sartre’s waist, standing up and pulling him close until their bodies were pressed tightly together. Sartre dropped his barely used cigarette to the floor, putting it out swiftly with a hard-toed shoe. He ran his hand through Camus’ dark hair, instinctively clenching tufts of hair as pure, visceral passion pulsalated through him. Their initial hesitation soon devolved into a harsh and angry passion, their frustrations at one another and their differing conceptualisations of the revolution and a perfect society not forgotten.
Camus reciprocated Sartre’s attention, hands running through his (albeit partially lacking) hair, grasping at the strands and tugging in a way that made Sartre take a sharp breath, drawing back from their kiss. The younger man felt a small pang of pride within his gut at the sound that had escaped the other. Sartre’s hands moved down towards his waist, worming one hand underneath his shirt, feeling the warm emanating from his body. As they continued to kiss, the men began to transcend both the aesthetic and the ethical stages of intimacy. Camus’ grasp in Sartre’s hair moving towards his neck, wrapping his strong fingers around it and moving his other from Sartre’s waist to his face, gently cupping the gently sagging skin of his jaw. Breaking away from their kiss, Camus gently squeezed on his arteries, causing him to emit a low groan into the now still air.
‘Do you like that?’ A small smile twinged at the corners of Camus’ mouth, squeezing harder and reaching his other hand around to the small of Sartre’s back to steady him. He let out a small, weak groan, light headed and leaning in to the touch.
‘Use your words.’ His French accent was heavy and his tone aggressive, but seeking permission.
‘ Oui .’
‘Good.’
He let go and Sartre gasped a needy breath of air, leaning in and resting his head on Camus’ right shoulder. Camus’ hands moved down his back, doing just as the other had done and reaching a hand underneath his now ruffled shirt, stroking the other man’s skin gently, before scratching it, sudden and sharp. Sartre let out another moan and began to kiss his neck eagerly, brushing the skin with his lips and dragging his teeth across the skin of his neck. Camus dug his nails further into his back in shock as Sartre began to suck with a surprising amount of force.
The pair kissed again, and Camus started to unbutton the other’s linen shirt, hands gracefully touching his collarbone as he did so. But Sartre was too impatient, slipping his hands back around Camus’ waist and sliding to the front to fiddle desperately with the buttons of his trousers.
‘Hm, a little eager aren’t we, dear friend?’
Sartre stammered out a half reply, as he began to kneel.
‘One second my dear,’ Camus said as he picked up Sartre’s barely smoked cigarette from earlier, bringing it up to his lips and using his lighter which had lain on the coffee table next to them. He took a drag, one hand reaching gently into Sartre’s hair and grasping at the strands. With a harsh and sudden tug, Camus pulled Sartre’s head pack, so that his face was upturned to meet his abyssal gaze.
‘Good boy.’
Sartre’s lazy eye was late to the game, slowly looking up the younger man’s body. Camus let go, dropping Sartre’s head down, and continued to smoke as the other’s desperate hands grasped at his trousers, gently tugging them down with a whine of desperation.
Camus chuckled at the older man, stepping away to kick off his trousers, now pooled around his ankles. He put out the butt of the cigarette in the ashtray on the table, and sat down in the chair he had occupied only minutes ago. Sartre sat on the floor in front of the chair between his legs, looking up at him with a horny desperation, waiting for instruction.
‘Maintenant, give me more Sartre,’ Camus commanded, pulling him up by his white shirt collar towards himself and motioning for Sartre to clamber onto his lap. Camus let go of Sartre, releasing him as the man settled into his lap, straddling him face on, the two of them barely fitting into the chair. Sartre’s hard cock bulged in his trousers, clearly uncomfortable, but he paid it no mind as he reached a hand down to paw at Camus’ girthy nomological dangler instead. Clearly having the go-ahead from Camus and with the post-Nietzschean death of God meaning there was no other witness, his hand slid down and lifted Camus' erect penis from his white boxers.
Sartre’s gentle fingers were tentative, Camus letting out a ‘small, breathy exhale as contact was made, clearly desperate for more. Sartre’s confidence grew, gripping his dick with one hand and began to move up and down. Camus sank lower into the chair, allowing Sartre better purchase as he slowly continued to move his hand.
‘Look at me’, Camus commanded, noticing Sartre was captivated by Camus’ penis, wavering infront of his face. Much like the enormity and ever presence of Camus’ Sisyphean will to happiness, Camus’ cock was similarly enormous.
Sartre quietly obliged, attempting to make eye contact with him but once again being thwarted by his stray eye, still captivated by Camus’ leaking head. Sartre stroked a thumb across the slit, before pulling his hand away and delicately running his finger along Camus’ shaft, a soft tingle progressing from base to tip. As his hand reached the throbbing pink head of Camus’ sceptre once again, he carefully enclosed his hand around it before swiftly tightening his grip and slowly but firmly stroked back the foreskin, exposing the tender flesh to the hot, dry air. Sartre pulled down until the skin was taut; Camus exhaled sharply as the pain and pleasure became one. Camus was allowed his relief as Sartre released his grip slightly, sliding his hand back up the cock before beginning to stroke Camus with a perpetual motion akin to Sisyphus’ continual boulder rolling. Camus' breath turned heavy as Sartre began to incrementally increase his speed. Sartre was certainly stroking with good faith.
The midday sun had been beaming in through the windows, making the room, and consequently both men, increasingly hot (and sweaty), despite the fact that they already were. Sartre bare chest could be seen glistening with sweat, as his continued to stroke Camus.
‘Good boy,’ a moan cut him short before he praised Sartre once again, ‘Well done, good boy’.
And as if it had been in a moment of weakness, Camus felt his cock twitch, cumming preemptively. White spurts his Sartre on his desperate, pathetic face and dribbled gently down his hand, still wrapped tight around Camus’ now slowly softening cock. Cupping Sartre’s face gently with one strong hand, Camus felt a strong twinge within himself—to fuck Sartre until he couldn’t think straight. To make him the bitch boy he truly was, much a similar to the master-slave Hegelian mode of consciousness. Without giving it much thought, Camus drew his hand back and slapped the other man in the face, hard, leaving a soft red mark on his left cheek. Sartre let out a muffled groan, half in surprise and pain, and the other half in arousal at the idea of being hurt as a way to fully repent for his argument with him.
‘Get on the floor, like a good pet,’ Camus commanded. Sartre crawled off of him, embarrassed and clearly uncomfortable from the blistering hard on he had, practically threatening to rip through his trousers. He sat with perfect posture, hands on his legs and chin tilted up to look at Camus with wide, begging eyes that showed how desperate he was to have the other man touch him. For Camus, the view of the other man between his knees was just divine. He couldn’t resist, and slapped him again, this time more gently so that he would know to expect it.
‘Please,’ Sartre let out a muffled groan.
‘If you want me to do anything to you, you’re going to have to beg for it. With God as your witness.’
He grinned, ‘God is dead,’ his cheekiness landed him a hard slap, forgetting his former gentleness.
‘Please sir, anything, i’ll do anything. I just want to cum for you.’
Camus chuckled to himself, clesrly pleased by how quickly he’d had his brain reduced to mush.
‘No. Beg more.’ Looking as though he were about to genuinely start crying, Sartre started to paw himself gently through his trousers while mumbling ‘please, please, please’.
‘If you’re so useless that you can’t even wait for me to do it for you, you’re going to have to finish yourself off too.’ Caressing the crooks of his neck, he slowly tightened his grip, pressing his thumb and forefingers to the pressure points underneath Sartre’s jaw, slowly cutting off his circulation. Humiliated as he was, he couldn’t help but let out another groan as his cheeks flushed red and he rubbed his throbbing cock faster and faster through his trousers.
If he hadn’t been in such a state, he would have blushed at how quickly he’d cum—only a little over a minute was pretty embarrassing. But he was distracted by the gentle slap of his cheek and the soft kiss on his forehead, and Camus muttering ‘good boy,’ to him once again. The two of them slowly tidied themselves up, Sartre changing into another pair of trousers as the ones he was currently in could hardly be seen outside—a huge dark spot of cum right front and centre.
When it finally came time to say goodbye, the two of them scarcely muttered a word to one another. Standing by the door to Sartre’s apartment, Camus faltered. Perhaps they had mended things, fixed something in their relationship, but it still didn’t feel enough. Their relationship epitomised the three characteristics of the absurd, being revolt, freedom and especially passion. His heart twisted and pulsed in his chest as he felt tears well up in his blue eyes. Shaking, he pushed his hair back nervously with his left hand, and stuck out the right for Sartre to shake.
‘Goodbye mon ami ,’ he whispered, the words barely escaping his tight mouth.
And, feeling something that lived up to the name of his 1938 novel, Nausea, Sartre quietly responded,
‘Goodbye.’