L'origine du monde, version années 1980
En matière de con, il continue à vivre dans un état qui ne s’est jamais démenti et n’a subi aucun raffinement sensible depuis qu’il avait quinze ans et ne pouvait se lever de son banc en classe sans cacher sa trique derrière son cahier à spirales.
Chaque fille qu’il voit s’avère (tenez-vous bien) pourvue entre les jambes — d’un con véritable.
Stupéfiant ! Époustouflant !
Il n’arrive pas encore à se débarrasser de l’idée fantastique que, lorsqu’on regarde une fille, on regarde quelqu’un qui possède, c’est absolument garanti — un con ! Elles ont toutes des cons ! Juste là sous leur robe ! Des cons — pour baiser !
Et, Docteur, Votre Honneur, quel que soit votre titre, peu importe semble-t-il ce que se tape en fait ce pauvre minable puisqu’il rêve déjà de la chatte de demain alors qu’il est en train de tringler celle d’aujourd’hui.
Philip Roth, Portnoy et son complexe (Portnoy’s Complaint, 1967), tr. fr. Henri Robillot, Gallimard, 1970, rééd.coll. « folio », 1991, pp. 142-143
Rory respected women in each and every way even the feminazis could wish for. He just could’nt help what the sight of them did to his brain.
He could be introduced to a Nobel-prize-winning female scientist who had eradicated an endemic disease in between senior government ministerial posts and publishing works of acclaimed poetry. He would cower before her intellect, be humbled by her achievements, be shamed by his comparative insignificance. But none of that would prevent him trying to picture what she looked like under her clothes, or cause him to avert his gaze if she turned just the right way to afford a glimpse between those second and third buttons. This didn’t diminish her standing in his eyes, did not detract from his awe, and did not mean he was reducing her to a sexual object. It was just that he could’nt pretend she wasn’t — as well as all those other things — a sexual object as identified somewhere deep and primal inside every straight male.
He knew some guys were better at filtering it out, numbing it or censoring it, but suspected also than he was more sensitive to this primal instinct than most. It was as though he was a kind of sexual empath, born with some carnal higher awareness, a more acute and sensitive means of tuning into the signals. If it was a crime, it was its own punishment, because there was no rest from it throughout the waking day.
Christopher Brookmyre, Be my Ennemy or, Fuck this for a Game of Soldiers, Little, Brown, 2004, rééd. Abacus, 2005, pp. 144-145
