This erotic horror story had been bounding about in my head long before it actually made it to the page. It and the characters in it were inspired by people I met when I was living in France during college. I had a tiny little apartment, similar to the one in which the main character, Eduard, lives, and I met plenty of wine-woozy, bleary-eyed, lecherous Frenchmen along the way.
Eduard Jarole has an artist’s heart and the insane obsession with creating that drives so many masters. He’s broke and lonely, but more than a little agoraphobic, so he follows in the footsteps of Pygmalion and creates his own true love out of marble. Unfortunately, his creation doesn’t love him as much as he loves her.
Someone pounded on the door. The explosion of sound tore into Eduard’s serenity. The young man fired a glare over his shoulder. He waited; and silent, she waited with him—to see if the caller would go away. When the knock came again, he cursed and lifted a kiss to her belly. Carefully, he gathered her shroud from the floor, and billowed it up and over her.
“Jarole, I know you’re in there,” a gravelly voice shouted from the hallway. “Open up!”
Eduard stalked to the door and threw the bolt. He turned the knob and placed himself in the widening crack. His hair prickled with irritation, and his eyes assaulted the man in the hall.
The landlord stretched his neck and rolled his eyes around to look past Eduard, into the studio. “What in God’s name are you doing in there? Drugs? You know I don’t permit drugs in my place.” He pushed his dirty, black hair back.
“No drugs, Monsieur Brondier.”
“Women. I hear you. With women.” Brondier’s fleshy eyelids lowered halfway with lewd suggestion, and his gaze slid down Eduard’s body. He licked greasy lips. It wasn’t the first time the landlord had interrogated Eduard.