THE STORY OF F

PREFACE

I HAVE just read this curious volume which in a green-jacketed edition has caused such a furor among our gendarmerie. As a novel it is both erotic and ascetic. I might well imagine a smile crossing the features of the mysterious Miss Trepan (and I have no doubts that that is what she is) as I say this. So much the better. In the curious text which follows (see below) she has indeed created a work.

The slaves of the lower Antilles once revolted against the overlords of that tribe. Bodies were mangled and terror reigned over the otherwise peaceful isles. But within a few weeks after the initial uprising a representative of the ignorant slaves (who by that time were armed and immensely powerful) pleaded with the young son of a defunct overlord that the slaves might return to their former bondage. The young boy who had been educated in England did not want the slaves back. The angry savages killed the lad on the spot and mangled his body.

I find a similar flavor in the work of Miss Trepan.

In The Story of F this gaily flecked moth who enchants the night with her musk (and by this I refer to the curious Miss Trepan) has indeed spread a queer and elusive scent. I am reminded of the Dutchman who when asked why he ploughed his canal boat up and down the same straight canal all his life, replied, "Because it is there." The Story of F is also there and a such must be dealt with.

When the heroine cries out, "No, it is not me you seek, but another of my name," she captures the essence of that shy beguiling, no, demanding creature that is woman. We men are silly. When we whip our mistresses or have our hounds taunt them, we think it is we who enjoy this. Not so. It is the wily women (and I have no doubts that Miss Trepan is such a one) who with every shriek twist we men around their little fingers. What vain creatures! How silly we men! How silly women! How silly!

But I cannot help but think.

That brings us round again to the mangled boy in the Antilles. In his surrender to the butcher's knife he grasped that truth our mistresses know. I should imagine him happy.

PUBLISHERS NOTE

This is the first edition to appear in English of that strange, yet curious work, The Story of F by the mysterious Paulette Trepan who has us all guessing who she is. We at Grove Press are proud to be behind this work 100 per cent in case the passages on pages 35, 74 and 99 result in any litigation. Much as we dislike litigation we are unalterably courageous in these matters.

We at the Press feel that any work of literature that could win the approval of an immortal like M. Jean, who has chosen to remain anonymous by omitting his last name (there is a story, concerning M. Jean and this book, perhaps apocryphal, perhaps untrue--that when M. Jean was nominated for the Academic Francaise, 13,000 volumes of Miss Trepan's books were found in the meeting room of those immortels who were to decide on his admission. No one knows how they got there. It is a very simple story) is worthy of publication on our list. And we will stand by that decision come hell or high water.

ON THE STORY OF F

By Andre Malentendu

I am an unknown writer of pornography and I'd like to say I'm pleased as punch that Grove Press has offered me space in their introductions to this book to say that I'm 100 per cent behind everybody.

TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE

It takes a woman to no one. The frightened namby-pamby man who attempted the first sub rosa translation of Miss Trepan's classic was far too squeamish. He glossed over obscenities and quailed before realities.

But I, I am a woman. I can grovel before the original of this superb, unabashed sexual woman without a qualm. I ask only to bring the beauty of her limpid prose before the English-speaking world. Though if the reader will permit, I have stopped somewhat this side of abject enslavement. I ask only to bare this woman's essence to the world. We must know who she is. Why has she kept herself in secret? She must be a lovely creature to know so much of the whip.

If it were not for the threat of the police I am certain this divinity would reveal herself. Oh fie, men disgust me so! I wish all men were women were men were women. Anyone with a cat 'o' nine tails can reach me at my apartment.

NIGHT WATCHMAN'S PREFACE

A phantom of the night she was. All dressed in black. She done come in through the back window slick as you please with this big pile of papers. I says "Can I help you, Miss?" and she takes out this long knife and threatens molest me if I don't let her run the presses. She had me strip naked and watch her as she printed up this book of hers. I read it myself later. It's only my opinion but it didn't seem like much to me. Our next door neighbors are far more interesting, nights. Even the Missus and me know a few tricks.

But my boss says this phantom was literary which I guess excuses it all. I'm not sure she wasn't a man. She looked like a seal in all that black leather.

AUTHOR'S FORWARD

I raise my barbaric yawp sur les toits de Paris

Here it comes

Ya

Yawp!

Oh world I love your dark places

Let me crawl in with my fine body

I love my body

I hate your body

May I trade bodies with you

Whips and stones will break my bones but they can never really hurt me

I dreamed I was branded in my Maidenform

I am not of the pornos for they titillate and I observe

I am not of the pornos for they disgust and traffic in excrement

I do not believe in excrement, I believe in pain alone

I am very clean

But shy

Yawp!.

THE STORY OF F

F and her lover were seated naked at the bar. They were drinking alcoholic drinks.

F's lover turned and said, "Do you love me baby, do you?"

"I do, I do, I really do."

"Would you do anything for me, huh, would you?"

"You know i would," and saying so, F caressed her lover's arm.

"Don't touch me! And if you do, let me watch."

"I'm sorry. What may I do for you?"

A tight smile of disdain sneered across the wily features of F's lover, "If I shared you with my friends and had them whip, and beat and mutilate you with hot irons and anonymously cross your private portals, if you know what I mean, would you still love me, huh?"

F's body said no, but her body said yes, because her body was irresistably attracted to her lover's mind and by proving that she could ignore the feelings of her body she could prove that her love was binding because her body which would not bind her would be not binding. A paradox.

She shook her head in response.

"Yippee, F, let's go. My friends are out in the car." The two unclad figures slipped from the barstools into the night.

Later F found herself in a secret bat cavern deep in the mountains nearby Paris. She wore a circlet of peacock feathers about her neck and the words "Property of the batboys" were written in silver tape in a heart shape around her navel."

F's lover spoke.

"F, baby, this is my friend Lothar. To prove your love to me you must do whatever he says. OK?"

F nodded her assent. Lother was a tall fat man with a misshapen nose. He had the look of a man who once might have wielded authority in his native land.

Lother spoke, "Krump studge goo goo poo poo," and began to hop excitedly. F had no choice but to comply. She slowly lifted her peacock feather and began to submit to indignations heaped on her body by the unwieldy fat man. As Lother donned his batmask for his final ecstasies, F could not prevent a moan from escaping her lips.

"Ickey poo," said Lother, befuddled, and walked away.

F's lover began to kick her for her failure to please his friend. "What is thine is mine," he screamed in a rage, "and what is mine is his and thine is his."

F caressed her lover's feet with her bleeding gums, "I wub oo," she repeated endlessly.

There exists a second ending to the Story of F in which a wandering forest ranger saves the reluctant F from her lover only to watch her be abused by bears. Another version of the beginning has a janitor burn the manuscript and use the ashes for an eggtimer.