XX: Is this a new game? That feels like a feather down my back … and what’s that cool sensation … wait—XY, are you writing a letter on me? How thrilling, darling. You know how much I love your words, and the more you bring to bed, the better.
XY: But you have to guess who I am before I go further. I’ll give you hint: he was an absolute rake who behaved deplorably with his amorous partner in crime, and even though they both got their comeuppance, we’ve spoken before of how we secretly think they’re more than a little arousing. I’ll give you another hint, ma petite XX: piles of lovely letters.
XX: Hmm. Oh, I have it! You naughty thing, you’re the deliciously wicked Valmont from Les Liaisons dangereuses. Now XY, does that mean I’m Émilie, his actress friend? You know I don’t mind being a mere plaything for you, but I’d muchrather be the Marquise de Merteuil. You know, despite their terrible game—wrecking the budding love of young Danceny and Cécile, and Valmont’s seduction of the pious Madame de Tourvel besides, simply because they’re bored with society—I love how Merteuil is every bit Valmont’s match in scheming and appetite. The way they use the others’ letters against them makes it so delightfully complex.
XY: You have the key, darling—I am indeed the Vicomte de Valmont. I’d be honoured if you’d play the Marquise, whom he calls ‘a hundred times more depraved than I’—or would you rather play chaste and pious for a change? Hold still, XX, while I continue my letter on your beautiful skin …
XX: It does amuse me to consider playing Mme Tourvel for you, resisting your charms even as I secretly ache to be taken, then succumbing completely to carnal pleasure. Or Cécile, the innocent who doesn’t even recognise sexual desire, turned into a wanton by your touch. ‘I get all hot and excited and restless’, she says—without having a clue as to why!
XY: Do you know which bit I love, XX? It’s when the Marquise describes to Valmont how she lures that hapless knight to her petite maison—a house designated specifically for clandestine affairs, how French! She puts such imagination into the seduction, changing masks and costumes to become a new lover each time they start again (for as she says, ‘there’s never any harm in a heated imagination’), until at daybreak she has absolutely worn him out.
It is wonderful to have someone to tell dirty secrets to, isn’t it darling? For that reason the Marquise declares Valmont the man she likes best—although she adds mischievously: ‘though, to be frank, I get more pleasure out of my knight.’
XX: She knows her words will drive Valmont to distraction. In their letters there is a game within a game—and they both want very badly to win. That Merteuil offers herself as prize if Valmont beds Mme de Tourvel … well, she knows he wants everything, and she, Merteuil, is the one woman who cannot be conventionally seduced—sex isn’t simply play, but power—therein lies the real seduction. Valmont’s airy response made me laugh: ‘as long as you distribute your favours, I’m not jealous in the least’, but at the same time, he can’t bear to be replaced as the man she holds in highest—wicked—regard. Hardly fair, darling, but oh, so common in men …
XY: The pleasure of plotting, describing, confessing conquests—the frisson of sexual jealousy—but only with the knowledge that they are safe in each other’s company and confidence. That is what we share, is it not, XX?
XX: It is, darling, and I cherish that epistolary confidence greatly. But nothing really binds them, deep down in their letters, other than disdain and heartlessness—I like to think we are the opposite, which makes our exchanges so much richer. More importantly, I know that we will never come to their dreadful end, with me declaring war on you as Merteuil does to Valmont, their secrets aired to all and everyone’s lives utterly destroyed! Thankfully we are not so constrained by the strict rules of society that we would need to devise such a cruel game to begin with. But you’ve distracted me terribly, XY—please tell me what you’re writing? It feels so dangerously good …
XY: Patience, my little XX—you’ll have to wait until it is delivered. Just think of the pleasure of opening the envelope and unfolding the paper, much like the way I’m about to discover you …
Image: Tomoé Hill