My Sex Life... or How I Got Into an Argument (Comment je me suis disputé... (ma vie sexuelle))

Paul Dedalus is 29.

He's an Assistant Professor of Philosophy at a Paris university.

Having become a teacher only reluctantly,

he yearns to quit this "temporary" job,

but can't bring himself to do so.

Consequently, he hasn't finished his doctorate

which would make him a full professor.

In this way,

with his modest earnings, he lives a half-life,

waiting to begin what he might call his "life as a man".

Paul lives with his cousin Bob.

For ten years, he's been seeing the same girl, Esther.

They don't get along. For almost ten years

they've been trying to break up.

For two years, Paul's been seeing another girl.

But she happens to be his best friend's girlfriend.

Paul considers it impossible to steal someone else's girl.

This is where his problems begin.

- Who's the great office for? - A new teacher.

No way! Who?

I don't know. It's on here.

Chairman, Epistemology Department Mr. Rabier

Ma vie sexuelle

Yesterday I remembered the first time I started a novel.

It was a Sunday afternoon at my grandparents' house.

I was 10... maybe 11.

Because we'd just visited Bruges with my parents,

my brother, my sister and I were playing "Venice".

I can remember a window looking out on a brick wall,

Granny's kitchen table... It's all very precise.

I wanted to write a Stevenson-like adventure story. I felt like

doing it as a fake autobiography.

I don't know why, but I felt it would be better,

more believable, if it was based on my real life.

I don't know what I intended: Pirates and treasures, no doubt.

But to imagine these adventures,

I had to wring the neck

of real life. That is, to write my imaginary life,

I had to start by a critique of my real one.

That's why I started with my own story.

It was a form of... revenge.

My literary tenacity

couldn't have lasted more than ten lines, probably not even five.

I abandoned my "book"

to go play with my brother and sister.

It must have been something like:

"I'm 10 years old and was born in the provinces.

"Judging by my parents, who'd have guessed my incredible destiny?

"I spent my youth living in infinite terror.

"My father, an honest bourgeois..."

No: "a craven bourgeois, cringed at his own shadow

and was relieved to see how every bleak day repeated itself.

"That gloomy house suffocated me.

"On those windy nights, everyone was in his room

"trembling, shaking like leaves.

"But I was trembling with joy.

"I prayed that disaster would strike and wake us all.

"I desired what my parents feared: Adventure!"

It was just a beginning. I didn't know how to continue.

Then I went off and played.

My mother found what I'd written

while I was playing elsewhere.

She read it, of course. Our privacy meant nothing to her.

Soon after, she called for me.

It was in the dining room.

My father was sitting. My mother was standing, shouting.

My grandparents may also have been there, embarrassed.

Then she started reading my story out loud.

It was so embarrassing.

She asked for an explanation.

Why did I write bad things about my father?

Why did I think he was a coward?

Why did I find him craven? Did I find him submissive too?

I denied it all.

It was only the beginning of a book.

She hadn't read the rest of it.

I didn't know what to say, but she kept insisting.

My father tried to make her stop.

He smiled at me, as if to say:

"Now you see why my life isn't a novel.

"Because of this woman."

Except that I hadn't chosen her - she was my mother.

She kept on at it for half an hour.

"So your father's fabric-dying business

isn't heroic enough for you?"

But now I like to think

that my father liked this in some bitter way.

I like to think we were somehow drawn together

by that stupid piece of paper.

It was lousy. I realized,

as my mother read it aloud, just how lousy it was.

But maybe it helped him. Unintentionally,

maybe I did for him what he never dared do himself:

I denounced that unending crusade of castration

which my mother was waging against him.

My mother, always hand in hand with the ways of the world.

My father, so alone in his adolescent desires,

so out of touch with reality.

So out of touch that it makes me angry!

If my father did smile,

it was his way of asking a silent question.

Not to me, but to my mother -

"How can I enjoy my life with you

"when a child can see how horrible it is?

"How can you be so sure about what makes me happy

"when my son can see what my life really is:

"Constant submission to the female order of things."

I'd like to tell him

I couldn't write the story of a man his age

who has all sorts of adventures and escapades.

Stupidly, I wanted to bail myself out first.

I'd forgotten that the price to pay

was his dishonor. And I can't live

with that weight on my shoulders.

Not bad...

But it's horrible.

That's why I told it.

Now I feel ashamed.

Maybe it was too long.

Are they coming to Jean-Jacques' place?

- What do you say? - You want to come?

We can eat there and go to the party after.

But I don't know them.

He's her brother.

And it's New Year's Eve. Isn't it okay?

I'll call Valerie.

Sylvia had a job interview today.

Your stories embarrass everyone.

No, it was very instructive.

I think your mother was terrible.

His mother was a bitch. Like mine.

The Bad-Ass Sisters.

Now you tell me something shameful about your parents.

You all seem so classy.

I feel I'm the only one with a shameful memory.

I shared it right away

so you wouldn't find it out behind my back.

I prefer to be master of my fall.

I can calculate where I'll land.

Paul's scared of a bad fall.

Are you sorry you invited me now?

Real sorry.

So they're your friends.

Bob's here.

Are you ashamed of me?

You're incredibly late. It's annoying.

I had to make myself up... like a whore.

Gorgeous.

- Didn't you and Esther break up? - We're not really together.

I know you don't believe me anymore...

Esther's not bad.

Are you seeing someone else?

What is it?

I don't know. I need to work. We broke up.

Now we're back together. It sucks.

Shit, it's New Year's Eve and I'm with Esther.

Paul admires Nathan.

He does so in a way that excludes envy.

He likes having a friend to admire.

Nathan's a rock Paul can rest on when he's tired.

This admiration without rivalry

makes them seem aloof from each other, if not reserved.

Nathan is the only person with whom Paul is reserved.

Each has his own territory,

his own skills which the other acknowledges.

They keep things professional, revealing their intimacy

only once assured that there is no danger.

They share an "a-intimacy" which allows them

to play-act at mutual confessions.

Whatever they tell each other,

the glue of proximity can never spoil

this harmonious "a-intimacy".

What does Paul expect from Nathan?

This impression of an unhysterical friendship

that he's always wanted but never thought he deserved.

What Paul wants, and what he's so thrilled to receive,

is to feel worthy of his esteem.

Nathan remarks with kindly indifference

how Paul thinks of him with respect.

Paul feels it is his duty to "think" his friends.

For him, thinking them is a way of caring for them.

He believes that his positive thoughts protect his friends from danger.

If he stopped thinking, he'd see that his friends get on fine.

But to "stop thinking" is exactly what he'll never be able to do.

Eventually, all of Paul's friends

surrender to the loving discourse in which he envelops them.

Only Nathan resists the charm of the image that Paul reflects.

Paul is trying to tell Nathan what he learned that afternoon.

Frederic Rabier is going to teach at their university.

A former graduate school classmate,

Rabier fell in love with the portrait Paul had drawn of him.

In their third year, their friendship ended abruptly.

- It's me. - Hi, you.

Hey, buddies.

Did I say something weird?

So, J-J...

you know Paul. Esther.

Bob, Paul's cousin.

And... I'm sorry.

Patricia.