Podcasts about Tais

Pour recevoir les mails privés, clique ici : https://www.formactions.outilsdumanager.com/inscription-emails-prives-adf72f1d***Découvre ce que nous avons créé pour t'aider à aller plus loin :Des formactions pratiques et concrètes pour manager efficacement, quel que soit ton rôle ou ton secteur.Une communauté unique en ligne, le CIEL, où dirigeants et cadres dirigeants, s'entraident pour réussir ensemble.L'offre exclusive du moment pour t'aider à passer à l'action dès aujourd'hui.Clique ici pour explorer le catalogue ODM : https://www.formactions.outilsdumanager.com/cataloguecomplet***

Aujourd'hui, Charles Consigny, avocat, Joëlle Dago-Serry, coach de vie, et Jean-Loup Bonnamy, prof de philo, débattent de l'actualité autour d'Alain Marschall et Olivier Truchot.

Aujourd'hui, Joëlle Dago-Serry, coach de vie, Charles Consigny, avocat, et Chirinne Ardakani, avocate, débattent de l'actualité autour d'Alain Marschall et Olivier Truchot.

Oupsi je ne vous ai pas publié cet épisode qui date de septembre :) Donc plutôt que l'oublier je vous le publie et on fera un bon dans le temps la semaine prochaine. Après plusieurs mois d'absence, je reviens pour une FAQ spéciale rentrée

Karlo slimība un viņa pēdējās dienas pirms nāves.

Nadège a eu le syndrome du survivant après sa greffe des poumons. “Coupable de vivre”, elle nous raconte. Hébergé par Audion. Visitez https://www.audion.fm/fr/privacy-policy pour plus d'informations.

Dans son dernier roman, l'autrice Hala Moughanie revient sur l'explosion du port de Beyrouth du 4 août 2020. C'était en 2020, il y a un peu plus de 5 ans, une explosion ravageait le port de Beyrouth et une partie de la capitale libanaise. Bilan : 235 morts, 6 500 blessés, 77 000 bâtiments détruits ou endommagés.    À lire aussiLiban: cinq ans après l'explosion du port de Beyrouth, une enquête et une reconstruction inachevées Le roman se passe sur 5 jours : du 4 août, jour de l'explosion, jusqu'au 8 août, date de la première manifestation pendant laquelle les Libanais manifestent leur colère. Les autorités parlaient alors de «négligence». L'autrice se trouvait à quelques kilomètres de la capitale ce jour-là, elle a entendu la déflagration. Ce qui a fait la particularité de ce moment-là, c'est son côté très soudain. Chacun vaquait à ses affaires. Aujourd'hui, il n'y a ni vérité, ni responsable dans cette affaire. «Elle a souhaité écrire ce texte immédiatement après ces évènements, ce qui lui confère selon elle une valeur de témoignage historique».  On ne peut pas être Libanais sans perdre quelque chose en chemin.  Les évènements sont narrés du point de vue d'un épicier, un survivant ; il habitait dans le périmètre qui a été soufflé, mais avait fermé sa boutique plus tôt ce jour-là... Le narrateur est persuadé d'avoir entendu des avions rafales ou F16, les «bestioles» qui donnent le titre au livre, survoler le port. Hala Moughanie avait cœur à ancrer la fiction dans une réalité quasiment intangible. Je cherche l'exactitude dans les faits, mais aussi de l'exactitude du ressenti et de l'émotion. Malgré la gravité du sujet, l'autrice parsème son roman d'ironie, de cynisme et d'humour noir. Utiliser ces formes d'humour m'a permis de mettre de la distance et de dire des choses vraies de manière très brutale que le sérieux ne permettrait pas. Invitée : l'autrice Hala Moughanie est née en 1980 à Beyrouth. De 1990 à 2003, elle vient à Paris et suit des études de littérature à La Sorbonne. En 2003, elle décide de retourner vivre au Liban, où elle enseigne et travaille comme journaliste. Elle se passionne pour le travail de mémoire dans une société post-guerre. Autrice de roman, elle écrit également des pièces de théâtre dont Tais-toi et creuse qui obtient le Prix RFI Théâtre en 2015.  Son dernier roman, Les bestioles a été publié aux éditions Elyzad. Il a remporté le Prix France Liban.    Et comme chaque semaine, la chronique de Lucie Bouteloup décrypte les expressions de la langue française ! Alors, on se tient à carreaux et on écoute bien !  Une chronique enregistrée avec Géraldine Moinard des éditions Le Robert, et toujours avec la complicité des enfants de la classe de CM2 de l'École élémentaire Vulpian à Paris !   Programmation musicale : L'artiste libanaise Yasmine Hamdan avec le titre Hon extrait de l'album I remember, I forget.  

Dans son dernier roman, l'autrice Hala Moughanie revient sur l'explosion du port de Beyrouth du 4 août 2020. C'était en 2020, il y a un peu plus de 5 ans, une explosion ravageait le port de Beyrouth et une partie de la capitale libanaise. Bilan : 235 morts, 6 500 blessés, 77 000 bâtiments détruits ou endommagés.    À lire aussiLiban: cinq ans après l'explosion du port de Beyrouth, une enquête et une reconstruction inachevées Le roman se passe sur 5 jours : du 4 août, jour de l'explosion, jusqu'au 8 août, date de la première manifestation pendant laquelle les Libanais manifestent leur colère. Les autorités parlaient alors de «négligence». L'autrice se trouvait à quelques kilomètres de la capitale ce jour-là, elle a entendu la déflagration. Ce qui a fait la particularité de ce moment-là, c'est son côté très soudain. Chacun vaquait à ses affaires. Aujourd'hui, il n'y a ni vérité, ni responsable dans cette affaire. «Elle a souhaité écrire ce texte immédiatement après ces évènements, ce qui lui confère selon elle une valeur de témoignage historique».  On ne peut pas être Libanais sans perdre quelque chose en chemin.  Les évènements sont narrés du point de vue d'un épicier, un survivant ; il habitait dans le périmètre qui a été soufflé, mais avait fermé sa boutique plus tôt ce jour-là... Le narrateur est persuadé d'avoir entendu des avions rafales ou F16, les «bestioles» qui donnent le titre au livre, survoler le port. Hala Moughanie avait cœur à ancrer la fiction dans une réalité quasiment intangible. Je cherche l'exactitude dans les faits, mais aussi de l'exactitude du ressenti et de l'émotion. Malgré la gravité du sujet, l'autrice parsème son roman d'ironie, de cynisme et d'humour noir. Utiliser ces formes d'humour m'a permis de mettre de la distance et de dire des choses vraies de manière très brutale que le sérieux ne permettrait pas. Invitée : l'autrice Hala Moughanie est née en 1980 à Beyrouth. De 1990 à 2003, elle vient à Paris et suit des études de littérature à La Sorbonne. En 2003, elle décide de retourner vivre au Liban, où elle enseigne et travaille comme journaliste. Elle se passionne pour le travail de mémoire dans une société post-guerre. Autrice de roman, elle écrit également des pièces de théâtre dont Tais-toi et creuse qui obtient le Prix RFI Théâtre en 2015.  Son dernier roman, Les bestioles a été publié aux éditions Elyzad. Il a remporté le Prix France Liban.    Et comme chaque semaine, la chronique de Lucie Bouteloup décrypte les expressions de la langue française ! Alors, on se tient à carreaux et on écoute bien !  Une chronique enregistrée avec Géraldine Moinard des éditions Le Robert, et toujours avec la complicité des enfants de la classe de CM2 de l'École élémentaire Vulpian à Paris !   Programmation musicale : L'artiste libanaise Yasmine Hamdan avec le titre Hon extrait de l'album I remember, I forget.  

Dans cet épisode lumineux et sincère, Sophie accueille Julie Wasoly, astrologue, ancienne travailleuse sociale et élève de l'HEMC.Julie partage un parcours fort : celui d'une femme qui a tout quitté — son couple, son poste de cadre, ses anciens repères — pour enfin choisir sa vérité.Elle raconte comment l'HEMC a soutenu ce basculement intérieur, et l'a aidée à créer une vie alignée avec sa fréquence, sa paix intérieure et sa vision — plus grande, plus libre, plus spirituelle.Un échange à écouter pour toutes celles qui sentent qu'elles se retiennent encore…… alors qu'elles sont venues pour plus.Pour aller plus loin avec moi : ✨ Rejoins le Cercle Privé : des audios puissants et spontanés pour transformer ta fréquence et ta réalité. ✨ Fais le quizz offert "quel type de manifesteur es tu ?" pour découvrir ta façon unique de manifester (et pourquoi ça change tout). ✨ Inscris-toi sur la liste d'attente l'HEMC pour être informée de l'ouverture des portes de la prochaine cohorte et bénéficier de bonus spéciaux.À propos de l'invité(e) du jour :

Il y a 9 ans, j'étais une femme différente.Une version de moi qui aurait eu peur de dire certaines choses, peur de poser des limites, peur de choisir pour elle-même.Aujourd'hui, je regarde en arrière et je me demande : que penserait-elle si elle me voyait maintenant ?Elle ne me reconnaîtrait pas… et pourtant, je sais qu'elle est en moi.Cet épisode, c'est une lettre à cette femme, à toutes les versions passées de nous-mêmes… et une célébration de celle que nous sommes devenues. Hébergé par Acast. Visitez acast.com/privacy pour plus d'informations.

Karlo slimība un viņa pēdējās dienas pirms nāves.

Dans cet épisode de The Good Balance, on explore pourquoi beaucoup de femmes ressentent une grande fatigue, mais croient être perdues ou confuses.Le problème n'est pas la clarté.C'est souvent l'épuisement nerveux, celui que tu tolères, celui qui reste invisible jusqu'à ce qu'il devienne trop lourd à porter.Dans cet épisode, je t'explique :pourquoi ta fatigue chronique n'est pas simplement un manque de repos,ce qui se cache derrière la sensation de “perdre son énergie”,pourquoi ton corps réagit avec des symptômes persistants,et comment cette fatigue est souvent un signe que tu restes trop longtemps là où tu ne devrais plus être.Tu vas découvrir comment briser ce cercle vicieux et revenir à un équilibre durable, en écoutant ce que ton corps essaie de te dire avant que la fatigue ne te submerge totalement.

Chaque matin, l'équipe vous parle du con du jour.Hébergé par Audiomeans. Visitez audiomeans.fr/politique-de-confidentialite pour plus d'informations.

Você é do tipo que promete coisas?Há grande peso naquilo que prometemos. Prometer e não cumprir é lançar palavras ao vento. Tais promessas magoam, machucam, entristecem. Imagine uma criança que ouviu a vida inteira de seus pais que ganharia algo que nunca ganhou? Uma experiência assim certamente marcará negativamente pelo resto da vida.Esse é o tipo de problema que não temos com Deus. Ele sempre cumpre o que promete. Basta olhar para a Bíblia e perceber isso.Mas há algo que não podemos negar: o tempo de Deus não é o nosso. Por vezes, esperamos algo por anos. Abraão, por exemplo, ouviu uma promessa de que seria uma grande nação. Mas seu primeiro filho nasceu 25 anos depois de ouvir essa promessa. O que aconteceu nesse meio tempo? Ele fraquejou, errou, falhou, tomando atitudes equivocadas.Veja o que diz o Salmo 31 no verso 24: "Sejam fortes, e que se revigore o coração de todos vocês que esperam no Senhor."Entendo o que o salmista fala sobre esperar. Esperar pode ser difícil, pode cansar e até desmotivar. Se Deus nunca falha em suas promessas, a única coisa que precisamos aprender é a esperar, mantendo o vigor e a alegria, pois em algum momento as promessas de Deus se cumprirão. Espere o tempo que for preciso. Deus nunca falha.

Élisa est née à Paris le 1er février 1934. Comme tant d'autres Polonais tout juste arrivés en France pour fuir les pogroms et la misère, son père s'engage volontairement dans l'armée française dès le début de la guerre. il tient plus que tout à défendre ce pays d'adoption qu'il admire.Très vite, il est fait prisonnier de guerre. Ce statut de prisonnier lui permet de protéger sa famille quelques mois grâce à la Convention de Genève : ils ne peuvent être ni arrêtés ni déportés.La tante et la grand-mère d'Élisa, elles, ne bénéficient pas de cette protection offerte par la Convention. Elles sont raflées, emmenées à Drancy, puis déportées vers les camps de la mort.Élisa reste seule avec son grand frère et sa mère. Mais, avec la mise en place de la « solution finale », l'Allemagne nazie respecte de moins en moins la Convention de Genève. Les autorités allemandes et françaises décident que tout juif est déportable, même s'il est parent d'un soldat prisonnier de guerre.Quelques temps plus tard, Élisa est envoyée à la campagne, cachée chez des paysans pour la protéger. Des paysans qui savent « plus ou moins qu'elle est juive », mais la cachent avec bienveillance. Le frère et la mère d'Élisa, eux, restent à Paris.voici la dernière partie du témoignage d'Elisa, 8 ans, Enfant de la ShoahNE PERDONS PAS L'HISTOIRE, PARTAGEONS-LA…-------.

Ecoutez Le Cave' réveil avec Philippe Caverivière du 15 décembre 2025.Hébergé par Audiomeans. Visitez audiomeans.fr/politique-de-confidentialite pour plus d'informations.

Ecoutez Le Cave' réveil avec Philippe Caverivière du 15 décembre 2025.Hébergé par Audiomeans. Visitez audiomeans.fr/politique-de-confidentialite pour plus d'informations.

00:00:00 : Bande-annonce Live Prières pour les Nations 00:02:07 : Début de l'émission

Ecoutez Le Cave' réveil avec Philippe Caverivière du 09 décembre 2025.Hébergé par Audiomeans. Visitez audiomeans.fr/politique-de-confidentialite pour plus d'informations.

Ecoutez Le Cave' réveil avec Philippe Caverivière du 09 décembre 2025.Hébergé par Audiomeans. Visitez audiomeans.fr/politique-de-confidentialite pour plus d'informations.

durée : 00:29:31 - Les Pieds sur terre - par : Sonia Kronlund, Clawdia Prolongeau - Gwenaëlle, Benjamin et Cécile ont fait toute leur carrière dans des secteurs très différents. Ils ont le point commun de s'être retrouvés sans emploi autour de 50 ans, et de s'être rendu compte à cette occasion qu'ils étaient devenus vieux. Beaucoup trop en tout cas pour le marché de l'emploi. - réalisation : Eric Lancien

durée : 00:29:31 - Les Pieds sur terre - par : Sonia Kronlund, Clawdia Prolongeau - Gwenaëlle, Benjamin et Cécile ont fait toute leur carrière dans des secteurs très différents. Ils ont le point commun de s'être retrouvés sans emploi autour de 50 ans, et de s'être rendu compte à cette occasion qu'ils étaient devenus vieux. Beaucoup trop en tout cas pour le marché de l'emploi. - réalisation : Eric Lancien

durée : 00:36:13 - Bistroscopie - par : Charline Vanhoenacker - Benjamin Biolay s'est remis à jouer du trombone, dont il fut 1e prix de conservatoire à Lyon. Voilà qui nous plonge dans sa jeunesse militante, son enfance entre une mère ouvrière et un père employé de bureau, aussi le "coup de massue" de ses 20 ans, persuadé qu'il ne réaliserait jamais ses rêves. - invités : Benjamin Biolay - Benjamin Biolay : Auteur, compositeur, interprète - réalisé par : François AUDOIN Vous aimez ce podcast ? Pour écouter tous les autres épisodes sans limite, rendez-vous sur Radio France.

durée : 00:12:51 - Le monde d'Elodie - par : Elodie SUIGO - Tous les jours, une personnalité s'invite dans le monde d'Élodie Suigo. Vendredi 28 novembre 2025, l'acteur et réalisateur Jean-Paul Rouve. Il joue dans la pièce "Le Bourgeois gentilhomme", au Théatre Antoine, jusqu'au 10 janvier 2026. Vous aimez ce podcast ? Pour écouter tous les autres épisodes sans limite, rendez-vous sur Radio France.

Aujourd'hui, Barbara Lefebvre, professeur d'histoire-géographie, Flora Ghebali, entrepreneure dans la transition écologique, et Yves Camdeborde, restaurateur, débattent de l'actualité autour d'Alain Marschall et Olivier Truchot.

Pour plus d'informations :   https://www.francaisauthentique.com/si-jetais-premier-ministre

Aujourd'hui, Fatima Aït Bounoua, prof de français, Didier Giraud, éleveur de bovins, et Bruno Poncet, cheminot, débattent de l'actualité autour d'Alain Marschall et Olivier Truchot.

Nouveaux pilotes, un brin déjantés, à bord de la Libre Antenne sur RMC ! Jean-Christophe Drouet et Julien Cazarre prennent le relais. Après les grands matchs, quand la lumière reste allumée pour les vrais passionnés, place à la Libre Antenne : un espace à part, entre passion, humour et dérision, débats enflammés, franc-parler et second degré. Un rendez-vous nocturne à la Cazarre, où l'on parle foot bien sûr, mais aussi mauvaise foi, vannes, imitations et grands moments de radio imprévisibles !

Dans cette leçon, vous apprendrez les phrases suivantes : Où étais-tu hier ? / Je suis allé à une fête. / J'étais au cinéma avec un ami. / J'ai vu des amis. / J'ai vu des amis dans un café. / J'étais à la campagne.

Aujourd'hui, Abel Boyi, éducateur, Laura Warton Martinez, sophrologue, et Jean-Loup Bonnamy, professeur de philosophie, débattent de l'actualité autour d'Alain Marschall et Olivier Truchot.

Etape 1 de la campagne Shalom Baït 2025

Avec : Laurent Karila, psychiatre et addictologue, Benjamin Lucas-Lundy, député Génération.s des Yvelines, et Yael Mellul, ancienne avocate. - Accompagnée de Charles Magnien et sa bande, Estelle Denis s'invite à la table des français pour traiter des sujets qui font leur quotidien. Société, conso, actualité, débats, coup de gueule, coups de cœurs… En simultané sur RMC Story.

Nouveaux pilotes, un brin déjantés, à bord de la Libre Antenne sur RMC ! Jean-Christophe Drouet et Julien Cazarre prennent le relais. Après les grands matchs, quand la lumière reste allumée pour les vrais passionnés, place à la Libre Antenne : un espace à part, entre passion, humour et dérision, débats enflammés, franc-parler et second degré. Un rendez-vous nocturne à la Cazarre, où l'on parle foot bien sûr, mais aussi mauvaise foi, vannes, imitations et grands moments de radio imprévisibles !

Dans son dernier roman, l'autrice Hala Moughanie revient sur l'explosion du port de Beyrouth du 4 août 2020. C'était en 2020, il y a un peu plus de 5 ans, une explosion ravageait le port de Beyrouth et une partie de la capitale libanaise. Bilan : 235 morts, 6 500 blessés, 77 000 bâtiments détruits ou endommagés.   À lire aussiLiban: cinq ans après l'explosion du port de Beyrouth, une enquête et une reconstruction inachevées Le roman se passe sur 5 jours : du 4 août, jour de l'explosion, jusqu'au 8 août, date de la première manifestation pendant laquelle les Libanais manifestent leur colère. Les autorités parlaient alors de «négligence». L'autrice se trouvait à quelques kilomètres de la capitale ce jour-là, elle a entendu la déflagration. Ce qui a fait la particularité de ce moment-là, c'est son côté très soudain. Chacun vaquait à ses affaires. Aujourd'hui, il n'y a ni vérité, ni responsable dans cette affaire. «Elle a souhaité écrire ce texte immédiatement après ces évènements, ce qui lui confère selon elle une valeur de témoignage historique».  On ne peut pas être Libanais sans perdre quelque chose en chemin.  Les évènements sont narrés du point de vue d'un épicier, un survivant ; il habitait dans le périmètre qui a été soufflé, mais avait fermé sa boutique plus tôt ce jour-là... Le narrateur est persuadé d'avoir entendu des avions rafales ou F16, les «bestioles» qui donnent le titre au livre, survoler le port. Hala Moughanie avait cœur à ancrer la fiction dans une réalité quasiment intangible. Je cherche l'exactitude dans les faits, mais aussi de l'exactitude du ressenti et de l'émotion. Malgré la gravité du sujet, l'autrice parsème son roman d'ironie, de cynisme et d'humour noir. Utiliser ces formes d'humour m'a permis de mettre de la distance et de dire des choses vraies de manière très brutale que le sérieux ne permettrait pas. Invitée : l'autrice Hala Moughanie est née en 1980 à Beyrouth. De 1990 à 2003, elle vient à Paris et suit des études de littérature à La Sorbonne. En 2003, elle décide de retourner vivre au Liban, où elle enseigne et travaille comme journaliste. Elle se passionne pour le travail de mémoire dans une société post-guerre. Autrice de roman, elle écrit également des pièces de théâtre dont Tais-toi et creuse qui obtient le Prix RFI Théâtre en 2015.  Son dernier roman, Les bestioles a été publié aux éditions Elyzad.    Et comme chaque semaine, la chronique de Lucie Bouteloup décrypte les expressions de la langue française ! Alors, on se tient à carreaux et on écoute bien !  Une chronique enregistrée avec Géraldine Moinard des éditions Le Robert, et toujours avec la complicité des enfants de la classe de CM2 de l'École élémentaire Vulpian à Paris !   Programmation musicale : L'artiste libanaise Yasmine Hamdan avec le titre Hon extrait de l'album I remember, I forget.  

Dans son dernier roman, l'autrice Hala Moughanie revient sur l'explosion du port de Beyrouth du 4 août 2020. C'était en 2020, il y a un peu plus de 5 ans, une explosion ravageait le port de Beyrouth et une partie de la capitale libanaise. Bilan : 235 morts, 6 500 blessés, 77 000 bâtiments détruits ou endommagés.   À lire aussiLiban: cinq ans après l'explosion du port de Beyrouth, une enquête et une reconstruction inachevées Le roman se passe sur 5 jours : du 4 août, jour de l'explosion, jusqu'au 8 août, date de la première manifestation pendant laquelle les Libanais manifestent leur colère. Les autorités parlaient alors de «négligence». L'autrice se trouvait à quelques kilomètres de la capitale ce jour-là, elle a entendu la déflagration. Ce qui a fait la particularité de ce moment-là, c'est son côté très soudain. Chacun vaquait à ses affaires. Aujourd'hui, il n'y a ni vérité, ni responsable dans cette affaire. «Elle a souhaité écrire ce texte immédiatement après ces évènements, ce qui lui confère selon elle une valeur de témoignage historique».  On ne peut pas être Libanais sans perdre quelque chose en chemin.  Les évènements sont narrés du point de vue d'un épicier, un survivant ; il habitait dans le périmètre qui a été soufflé, mais avait fermé sa boutique plus tôt ce jour-là... Le narrateur est persuadé d'avoir entendu des avions rafales ou F16, les «bestioles» qui donnent le titre au livre, survoler le port. Hala Moughanie avait cœur à ancrer la fiction dans une réalité quasiment intangible. Je cherche l'exactitude dans les faits, mais aussi de l'exactitude du ressenti et de l'émotion. Malgré la gravité du sujet, l'autrice parsème son roman d'ironie, de cynisme et d'humour noir. Utiliser ces formes d'humour m'a permis de mettre de la distance et de dire des choses vraies de manière très brutale que le sérieux ne permettrait pas. Invitée : l'autrice Hala Moughanie est née en 1980 à Beyrouth. De 1990 à 2003, elle vient à Paris et suit des études de littérature à La Sorbonne. En 2003, elle décide de retourner vivre au Liban, où elle enseigne et travaille comme journaliste. Elle se passionne pour le travail de mémoire dans une société post-guerre. Autrice de roman, elle écrit également des pièces de théâtre dont Tais-toi et creuse qui obtient le Prix RFI Théâtre en 2015.  Son dernier roman, Les bestioles a été publié aux éditions Elyzad.    Et comme chaque semaine, la chronique de Lucie Bouteloup décrypte les expressions de la langue française ! Alors, on se tient à carreaux et on écoute bien !  Une chronique enregistrée avec Géraldine Moinard des éditions Le Robert, et toujours avec la complicité des enfants de la classe de CM2 de l'École élémentaire Vulpian à Paris !   Programmation musicale : L'artiste libanaise Yasmine Hamdan avec le titre Hon extrait de l'album I remember, I forget.  

Aujourd'hui, Flora Ghebali, Jean-Loup Bonnamy et Mourad Boudjellal débattent de l'actualité autour d'Alain Marschall et Olivier Truchot.

Il y a 3 ans, dans l'épisode #175 je recevais Geoffrey Métais. 3 ans plus tard, nous faisons une refacto de l'épisode !**Restez compliant !** Cet épisode est soutenu par Vanta, la plateforme de Trust Management qui aide les entreprises à automatiser leur sécurité et leur conformité. Avec Vanta, se mettre en conformité avec des standards comme SOC 2, ISO 27001 ou HIPAA devient plus rapide, plus simple, et surtout durable. Plus de 10 000 entreprises dans le monde utilisent déjà Vanta pour transformer leurs obligations de sécurité en véritable moteur de croissance.

Nouveaux pilotes, un brin déjantés, à bord de la Libre Antenne sur RMC ! Jean-Christophe Drouet et Julien Cazarre prennent le relais. Après les grands matchs, quand la lumière reste allumée pour les vrais passionnés, place à la Libre Antenne : un espace à part, entre passion, humour et dérision, débats enflammés, franc-parler et second degré. Un rendez-vous nocturne à la Cazarre, où l'on parle foot bien sûr, mais aussi mauvaise foi, vannes, imitations et grands moments de radio imprévisibles !

Aujourd'hui, Antoine Diers, consultant auprès des entreprises, Abel Boyi, éducateur et président de l'association "Tous Uniques Tous Unis", et Laura Warton Martinez, sophrologue, débattent de l'actualité autour d'Alain Marschall et Olivier Truchot.

The Time Riders: Part 3 What happens when you mix clock-block with priapism? Based on a post by BiscuitHammer, in 16 parts. Listen to the Podcast at Explicit Novels. Ain't Nobody Got Time For That Shit! Mark and Becky sat in the small cottage, looking around in wonder. They were still in Seventeenth Century France, but found themselves surrounded by technologies that they hadn't even heard of. The walls were lined with clocks, some of which were mechanical, some seemed to be digital or binary, while others told time in ways they couldn't fathom. Sitting across from them at the stout, round oaken table, Chester Edgerton smoked a pipe and observed them casually. "How; how can you have this all out on display?" Mark asked, still gaping. "I mean, isn't it against the rules to have this sort of tech from the future lying around where the locals might bump into it?" "That's the beauty of it, my' boy," he said cheerfully, exhaling a cloud of smoke. "They can't see it." "Well, I get it if you try to restrict entry to your house," Mark pressed, wanting to understand. "But what if you're gone and bandits break in? Becks and I can account for banditry in this day and age, for sure." "Mayhap," the man replied. "But I brought you through the door that leads to my actual house. The front door, the one the local peasantry sees, leads into a simple cottage, typical of the period, and owned by a pudgy man of indeterminate nationality." "Your; house is in two places at once?" Mark asked, trying to understand. "No, it's the same place," Chester answered simply. "Two different times, however. We're sitting in my actual abode, Twenty-First Century." Mark shook his head. "That's some weird Tardis shit right there." "Only at first." Chester allowed. "I notice you have all your windows shut," Becky remarked. "You said we're in the Twenty-First Century, but I take from further ahead than Mark and I are from, so you're not showing us?" "Clever girl," mused the man, smiling. "While I won't absolutely stop you from looking or even going outside, I would warn you that if you do and see something you don't like, you're committing yourself to that future, no matter how hard you try to undo it." "We'll stay put then," she said readily. "You were kind enough to bring us here and sort of explain how we might acquire goods in the time stream?" He nodded. "I know it might seem counter-intuitive, but the simple fact of the matter is that if people are going to insist on time travelling, the least they can do is be well-prepared for it so they don't hurt themselves or others." He leaned forward. "The first question you need to ask yourself is, why are you so intent on time-travelling to begin with? Is it simple curiosity? Are you planning to make a living somehow? Are you just trying to get laid?" He looked at Mark during this last question and the young man blushed, while Becky giggled and patted his hand. "Mark was a dud in Physics in his last year of high school," she explained. "Come to think of it, he was in little or no danger of getting into any post-secondary education facility." "Thanks." Mark muttered. "But, then he found his time machine, something called a Holmes Field Device, and he resolved to go back in time a few months and convince me to give him an A in Physics with the promise of earth-shaking sex." "This story sounds worse every time I hear it." Mark complained. "Fortunately, I acquiesced, rather than disemboweling him for breaking into my home, and not only did we become lovers, but now we're adventuring the time stream together." "Hmm, a teacher and a student, eh?" mused the man, smiling at them as he smoked. "Teachers and students are plentiful, of course, but they're usually from the far, far future and on very strictly-controlled excursions into the past. Hands-on history classes, if you will." "That makes history sound kinda fun." Mark said. "Oh, I daresay it is," agreed Chester. "Nothing quite as exciting as going back to the Cretaceous Period and taking a ride on the back of a trained Styracosaurus. Or watching Dromer races." "Isn't that screwing with the timeline?" Becky inquired. "I mean, humans weren't around for another sixty-three million years following the demise of the dinosaurs." "It's all very carefully regulated on remote islands," Chester explained. "It does nothing to mess with the ecosystem and the specimens are trained to interact with humans, for the most part." "Riding one of those big horned dinosaurs would be a kick." Mark mused, grinning. "You've already got a perfectly good horn I like to ride," Becky giggled, squeezing his hand again. "Besides, this is where our host tells us that it won't be possible for us any time soon." "You're a very perceptive young lady," he allowed. "We can't have just anyone mucking up the time stream, you know. It's especially difficult when people who lived before time travel was commonly accepted try to get involved. They inevitably get exposed to technologies they shouldn't be aware of, or events that weren't known during their own time;” "I'll give you a tiny example," he said, leaning forward now, as if he was confiding a secret. "Have you heard of the Tunguska Incident?" "Sure, the Tunguska region in Siberia, 1908," Becky answered, nodding. "A large meteor slammed into the ground, creating a blast equal to sixty megatons and flattening everything for nearly a hundred miles around." "No, that's what you need to think," he corrected, pointing the stem of his pipe toward them. "It was, in fact, an advanced weapon that was stolen from a future date, and before temporal agents could recover it, the thieves blew it up to cover their escape. Granted, there are people in your time who have conspiracy theories about nuclear blast, nearly forty years before the first atomic tests, but they're wrong as well. It wasn't a nuclear device, simply a weapon with an incredibly high conventional yield by your age's standards." "So; why can you tell us this now?" Becky asked. He grinned and spread out his arms in a gesture of farce. "Who would believe you?" "So how did you know that we were time travelers?" Mark asked as they followed their host and guide through the woods. "Well, I heard snippets of your conversation," Chester said as he led the way. "But to be honest, even though your outfits might pass with locals for 'reasonably authentic', you couldn't possibly hide your origins from a fellow time-traveler. Mark claimed to be Spanish, he doesn't look at all Spanish, certainly not from this era. Miss Rebecca is remarkably tall for a woman." "Well there's something I don't hear very often back home!" she giggled. "And you're both in strangely good health, with unblemished skin and full heads of hair," Chester added. "I was relatively certain, and then I heard you discussing your relative inexperience, so I sought to introduce myself." "I'd' have thought that you wouldn't introduce yourself to newbies," Mark stated, helping Becky over a log. "Isn't it safer to keep your chatter to people who know what they're doing?" "It's actually the exact opposite," replied Chester. "The best thing you can do around veteran time travelers you don't need to talk to is to not talk to them. Their timelines are probably very intricate and you don't want yours getting snarled up with them. Newbies, as you call them, probably still have linear experiences that are simple to understand and educating them about what awaits is the simplest way to keep things from getting weird." Getting up to leave the cottage, Mark asked; "So this device the time cops gave me," Mark stated, holding up his chronometer. "It's actually pretty useful then, because it warns me when I'm getting too close to myself or something I've affected." "That was very generous of them," Chester said in a serious tone. "They don't do that for just everyone who shows up suddenly in the time stream. Sometimes they let matters work themselves out, if you know what I mean." Chester's Forest Farewell.  The meadow they stepped into, had a mature lush forest further back. They reached a small clearing in the forest they'd been tromping through and stopped for a bit, sitting on a fallen tree trunk. Chester looked at them both and slapped his hands on his thighs. "Now then, I've brought you here so that you can witness a casual event that is due to happen just outside the woods. Nothing major, but it will give you a taste of what can await you. I have something to attend to and should be back in a few hours. Just stay out of sight and don't leave the tree line." "You're leaving?" Mark protested. Chester turned to look at him. "It might be that the events you will see unfold work better for me if I am nowhere near them," the man replied. "Fear not, I shall return. Enjoy yourselves." And then he walked into the woods and was gone. Mark looked around and finally sighed. "Helluva way to mentor someone," he muttered as he stood to take in a panoramic context. "Take 'em somewhere and then just fuck off? Nice." "He's not your mentor, Mark," Becky chided, sitting on a log and smiling at him. "He's a fellow time traveler who is doing you a favor. He's given you plenty of valuable information free of charge already, something I doubt he does frequently." "Well, okay," Mark allowed. "So, we just wait until we see something happen?" "No idea when that'll be, he didn't really tell us, did he?" Becky pointed out. "Yup," Mark sighed. "So, now what?" Becky tilted her head slightly as she looked at him, like there was something wrong with his brain. "Here's an idea. How about you come over here and fuck me?" Mark was so determined to be bent out of shape for having no instructions that he'd overlooked the completely obvious. He laughed and stepped forward, pulling Becky to her feet. They were holding their hands between them and staring into one another's eyes, smiling. "Now this is what time travel is all about," she purred, her eyes shining with delight. "You're going to fuck me in the woods in Louis the Sun King's France, Mark. For all we know, this is some sort of royal ground and we're trespassing. How many people can say they've done that?" "Just the lucky ones;” he replied, beginning to unfasten the clasps on her dress, freeing her chest from its confines. As the dress fell away, she was left standing on in a low-cut, blouse-like shirt and some panties, having chosen to forego the usual layers of buntlings and knickers. She bit her lip as he pulled her blouse over her head, exposing her glorious tits. Kneeling now, he slowly slid her panties down, feeling a thrill as her hairless, smooth cunt came into view. She stepped out of the tiny thong panties, letting him drink in the sight of her. Yes, he'd been with her for over a week now in France, but he never tired of seeing her beautiful body. "Your turn now, my lord." Becky whispered as she began removing his clothing, peeling away the layers until he was as naked as herself. She stood up again and moved close, her nipples gently kissing against his chest. Unable to hold back any more, Mark pulled his teacher to him and kissed her deeply, making Becky moan into his mouth. Their hands wandered over one another's now-familiar forms, seeking to stimulate, tease and pleasure. His hands found her pert ass cheeks and he squeezed them, causing her to moan again. "Hmm, can't wait to get some grass stains on this dress," she murmured, looking up into his eyes. "And maybe a few on my knees." She slowly knelt in front of Mark, kissing and nipping at his skin on the way down. His swelling phallus was in front of her face now and she licked her lips hungrily before taking gentle hold and kissing it. Mark closed his eyes and shivered, loving the feel of her lips on him. Everything about his teacher was incredible. He was just sorry it had taken so long to realize it. Becky now had the head of his cock inside her warm, wet mouth, swirling her tongue around flicking the tip of her tongue against him. She giggled as his rod throbbed and grew longer and harder. She loved how turned on he could get by her, it made her feel so primal and sexual. She then slid her mouth a little further down his shaft before pulling back, shivering in delight at the sight of his glistening skin. Mark's fingers were in her hair and flexing gently as she began to bob back and forth, taking more and more of him into her mouth. She hummed lightly, vibrating her lips around him and making him groan. Her hand rested on the shaft, pumping as it followed her lips, making a gentle twisting motion on the sensitive skin. Becky loved sucking cock, and Mark's was ridiculously perfect for her, in just about every possible way. She hoped that wouldn't be a problem down the road. She took gentle hold of his hips with both hands and moved back and forth along his shaft, breathing through her nose as she deep-throated him. Mark groaned in pleasure, his fingers flexing into her scalp and tugging her hair. She looked up at him, maintaining eye contact, which she knew he found so erotic. She could feel his skin growing warm and knew now was the time to stop and change things up if she intended to have his cock inside her. There was indeed one good thing about them being out of sync, with her current self three months behind him; they already knew she wasn't pregnant in his current timeline, so he could cum deep inside her as much as they liked. She pulled her mouth off his with a wet 'pop!' and smiling seductively. "I'm thinking maybe my girl wants to say hello too;” she purred. Mark nodded and spread out her dress before lying down on it, his rock-hard cock standing straight up and throbbing. Becky crawled over him, straddling his face, her creamy, wet cunt mere inches from his mouth. She faced down his body, giggling and he snaked his tongue out to taste her, but she kept her prize just out of reach. "So that's how it is, eh?" he said from below her before suddenly wrapping his arms around her thighs and pulling down on them and causing her to lurch unexpectedly (for her) onto his eager mouth. Becky shuddered and moaned loudly as his tongue snaked along and massaged her nether lips, before flickering against her throbbing clit to make her gasp and almost double over. "No fair;” she panted, trying to regain control of herself, but Mark seemed inclined to cheat. He kept her pinned to him, leaving her to squirm helplessly above him while he lashed her with his tongue. "Uh, you bastard; yes, right there; Oh, God, Mark;” Her pleas exhorted him to even greater measures. He was determined to make her cum on his mouth at least once before they fucked. And he seemed to be pretty damned good at making her cum with oral sex, he had to say. Becky squirmed on top of him, playing wither tits, pinching and pulling on her pink nipples, her eyes squeezed shut, because it almost felt too good if she was looking at him. His eager tongue snaked deep inside her hungry cunt, making her wetter still. He had this maddening technique where he formed shapes or letters inside her with his tongue, reaching almost every nook and cranny of her. She whimpered, knowing he intended to make her cum and she was more than happy to oblige. She leaned forward while sitting on his face, reaching out to his twitching cock, caressing and massaging it gently; she didn't want him to cum, she just wanted to keep him stimulated. She felt the thrill of anticipation, knowing it would soon be inside her, pumping in and out, throbbing and finally releasing his creamy essence into her, something she accepted gladly because of the temporal mechanics between them. Mark sucked her clit into his mouth, rolling it around and making her shudder, groaning deeply as something started to build within her. She pushed down onto his face with her hips, grinding eagerly, while her clit throbbed. Then her released it and pushed his tongue deep inside her again, probing and lashing her until she was writhing and panting heavily. "Oh, God, Mark;” she gasped, sweat streaming from her sensual form. "Oh, fuck, yes, please; Uh, so close, baby;” He pushed into her as hard as he could and she jerked and squeaked arching her back. Her whole frame was wracked with pleasure as she cried out loudly, the orgasm crashing through her until she almost couldn't breathe. She shook violently, her eyes rolling into her head before she collapsed on top of him, her body limp and her chest heaving. Her limbs felt like tingling lead, but she managed to lift one to find his cock, determined to keep him hard until she had recovered. She stroked him gently while he kissed at her gooey nether lips, his face glistening with her cum. Fortunately, Becky was insatiable and recovered quickly, slowly rising and then sidling forward down his body so she could look back at him and smirk. "How about it, big boy?" she asked coyly. "You ready for the main event?" Mark grinned and nodded while she slithered down his body, finally hovering over his hips while facing his feet. She took hold of his throbbing cock and teased it against her slippery entrance before sinking down, making them both sigh in relief. "Hallelujah;” she moaned as he bottomed out inside her, filling her completely. "Oh, that's exactly what the doctor ordered." Mark nodded and took hold of her silken, pert ass cheeks and gripped them firmly, making his teacher purr. Becky loved having her ass played with, and while she began to sink up and down slowly on his cock, he massaged the peach-like orbs, eliciting moans from her when he spread them wide, giving her a delicious stretch. "Hmm, get me nice and ready back there," she cooed as she moved up and down on him. "Because once you're done in my cunt, I want you in my ass and I want to feel your cum in it." Mark nodded eagerly, because he loved fucking Becky's ass. Her cunt was incredibly tight, but even that couldn't match her exquisite back passage, which gripped him so strongly and always made him cum so hard he thought he might faint. His fingers teased against her little puckered, pink knot, sending the most divine tingles through her luscious body. Becky undulated on him, picking up the pace and counting on Mark to control himself until her was in her ass. She bit her lower lip, working herself on that thick, throbbing tool, pulling up until it was almost out of her and then sinking back down in one long stroke, filling her completely. Her heart was strumming in her chest as she thrilled to the notion of the oncoming climax. She was hissing now, struggling to hold on just a few seconds longer, to draw out this wonderful pleasure for them both. But then she felt the point of no return and willingly stepped over it, moaning loudly as her cunt fluttered and she began to cum, hard. She wailed and rocked on her lover, bathing his middle with her excitement. Her head lolled for several seconds as she came down from her orgasm, but she remembered that she still had Mark inside her and needed him, promised him, that he would be cumming in her ass. Slowly, lethargically, she raised herself until his cock fell out of her, still rock-hard and yearning for more. For such a young man, he had exceptional control. She inched forward, until she felt his pulsing head teasing against her notch. She reached underneath herself and took hold of the shaft, holding him steady while she pressed down, slowly but surely. She heard him groan as the head popped through her tight ring suddenly and then he was sliding inside her. It was Heaven. She sat still for several seconds, just reveling in the feel of him filling her ass. She felt the need to be sensual, and she leaned backward, until she was resting her back on his torso, her head next to his. But her knees were still bent and she groaned like she was going to burst, the angle of his penetration in this position more than she could bear. Whispering for him to wait patiently, she slowly, sinuously slid her legs out from beneath herself and straightened them, relaxing in pleasure as they rested on Mark's thighs. "Sorry, that would've downright killed me right now," she whispered to him, her glassy, heavily-lidded eyes looking into his. "And I wanted to be down her to kiss you and let you fondle me as you fucked me and came in me." "Sounds like a plan," he agreed readily, his strong, but gentle hands coming up to rest on her opulent tits. Her began caressing and massaging them in circles while Becky started moving her ass on top of his cock, squeezing him inside her tight confines. "God, I love your ass, Becky." "Umm, it loves your cock, Mark," she purred, undulating on him, the throb of his tool being felt through her whole body like another heartbeat. "You always make me cum so hard;” They squirmed and ground together, with Mark tilting his hips up to push inside her while Becky squeezed him, the lovers shuddering as they kissed feverishly. His hands were squeezing her tits now, pinching and pulling on the nipples again to make her groan with the delicious sting. But Mark felt his climax approach and he knew it wouldn't be long before he was pumping his cum inside her. Becky moaned into his mouth as she felt his cock swelling and twitching erratically, a sure sign he was about to cum. She squeezed him tighter, feeling the buildup inside herself, yearning to share that unreal ecstasy. The groaned into one another mouths at first, but then the kiss was broken as they panted, fighting for air, their voices carrying around the woods they were in. He pushed up hard inside her, pulling down on her tits while she squeezed with all her might, his cum almost searing hot inside her, filling her up. Mark went limp, breathing heavily and clearly spent, not that he minded. Becky could barely move, bound in ropes of silken bliss that kissed every nerve in her body. Her own heartbeat plus the relentless throb of Mark's rigid cock, still oozing inside her, almost meant she didn't know how to center herself. But they relaxed together finally, kissing gently, eyes closed while they clasped hand on top of her tits. Tongues softly tangled, tasting one another while they let their rapture slowly ebb. Minutes passed and they lay silently, waiting for Mark's cock to soften so Becky could sit up. Finally, she giggled, squeezing his hands. "Feels like somebody doesn't wanna go to sleep," she said cutely, wiggling her ass on him, feeling her ass refusing to relinquish its hard-earned prize. "What're we gonna do?" "Iono," he said drowsily. "We just wait, I guess. If I try to have another orgasm right now, I'm pretty sure he'd just spontaneously combust inside you." "Alas, poor cock," she cooed, stroking his cheek. "I guess we happily wait, then." They closed their eyes and relaxed, waiting for Mark's erection to subside so that they could get up without difficulty. Their hands remained at rest on her tits while they nuzzled their cheeks together. Then there was a 'click!' sound. Arrest in Flagrante delicto. Becky's eyes snapped open and she goggled up at a man dressed in rather colorful and opulent period clothing, staring down at them as he pointed a flintlock rifle at their face. Looking around, she now saw they were surrounded by men carrying pikes and muskets, all of whom stared at the naked couple with varying level of interest. The man directly over them moved his musket muzzle, indicating they should sit up. Mark's eyes were open by now and he glanced around in confusion as well, clearly not understanding what had happened. The man's eyes narrowed and he moved the musket muzzle again. Becky, sensing the danger they were suddenly in, tried to move, but shivered; she was still impaled on Mark's solid cock, which had shown no signs of softening and kept her pinned against him. She couldn't get up. "Great time to develop priapism, Mark;” she said sourly. "Maybe Louis the Sun King's France just isn't for us after all," Mark sighed as he hiked along behind Becky, who had been stuffed hurriedly back into her dress while he was allowed to put on his breeches again. Neither of them even had shoes on as they followed the soldiers. Their hands were tied behind their backs. "This is twice now that we've;“ "I know, Mark, I was there," Becky said somewhat tersely, wondering if Chester Edgeworth was now someone she had to add to her shit list. She hated adding names to the shit list. "I guess we were so busy fucking that the event our host meant for us to witness has found us." "Tais-tois!" one of the men guarding them said as he walked nearby with a musket. "Vou ne pouvez-pas parler!" Becky scowled at the man and continued trudging. She wasn't really embarrassed about being caught fucking, it wasn't the first time it had happened to them here in France. But at least this lot had the decency to let her have an orgasm first before taking them prisoner. She couldn't even enjoy the grass stains on her clothes! They had exited the woods and were now tromping through a field, heading toward a much larger cluster of soldiers. Mark couldn't help but notice that a lot of them were wearing red. "Shit;” Becky muttered as she saw them as well. "That's all we need." "Huh?" Mark asked, but he was silenced when a soldier shoved him roughly from behind with his musket, indicating he was to stay quiet. They approached the encampment and Mark soon realized there were several hundred soldiers. The tents were spread out around one rather illustrious red tent of grand size. He then saw a cluster of cavaliers milling about and they seemed to be headed in that direction. Soldiers stared at them as they entered the perimeter of the camp, usually at Becky. Mark and Becky found themselves hauled in front of the cavaliers, who parted, making way for a single man on horseback. He was at least middle-aged, with a somewhat grey pallor to his skin and thin, hawk-like features. His expression was a rather lemony one, as if he felt inconvenienced by this entire incident. For all that, though, his dark eyes glinted with intelligence. He was wearing the flowing red habits of a high-ranking member of the Catholic church, although he had a burnished breastplate on his chest as well. "You stand in the presence of his Eminence, the Cardinal Richelieu," announced the captain of the troops that had taken them prisoner. Mark's eyes went wide. He didn't speak French, but he'd seen enough Three Musketeers movie reboots to know who Cardinal Richelieu was and exactly what sort of deep shit they were suddenly in. "Show respect!" Becky dropped to one knee and bowed her head, looking at the ground. Mark rapidly followed suit, since she probably had a better grasp of the situation than he did. He could feel everyone's eyes and on them and it was beginning to weigh heavily, like a yoke around his neck. His face flushed, but he said nothing. "Who are these persons?" the cardinal asked finally. "Your names, my children." "My name is Rebecca, your Eminence," Becky said humbly, still not looking up. "And you, good sir?" the Cardinal asked, looking over at Mark now. "M; me llamo Marco del strade, tu Eminencia." Mark stammered. "A Spaniard," mused the Cardinal, pursing his lips. "In the presence of a peasant girl. And you both have unusual accents, I admit." "Your Eminence," said one of the captains, looking at them suspiciously. "This man, why is he here traipsing about Champagne like this? With this peasant girl? We found them in the woods, doing unspeakable carnal acts to one another." The Cardinal's eyebrow arched and he looked on in seeming distaste. "You don't say." "Very likely he is a spy for King Phillip, your Eminence!" said the captain, almost sneering. "No, your Eminence," Becky said suddenly, her voice full of concern. "I assure you, he is no spy!" Mark hadn't heard or understood everything the Frenchmen were saying to one another, but he understood 'espion' and his teacher's reaction indicated that he was in some kind of trouble. Go figure. "And what grounds can you give me to believe you, child?" the Cardinal asked with feigned interest. "Please," she begged, her head still bowed. "You have my utmost assurances he is no spy, he's an idiot!" This made the men around them laugh and even Richelieu grunted in amusement. "Both of you rise." Mark saw Becky get to her feet and he did the same. All around them, men with pikes and muskets were watching them warily, some of them levelling weapons at the pair. Clearly they took the Cardinal's safety seriously. Richelieu observed them with interest. "The girl is very unusual," he mused. "Tall, very healthy and very beautiful. Very, very beautiful. I know only one other of such unmatched attractiveness." Mark wasn't sure where this was going, but he doubted it was good. The Cardinal's interest in him was waning. "And yet you say you found her acting in a most carnal and un-ladylike manner in the woods, hmm?" Richelieu continued. "Well, it certainly won't do for her to be out here alone in the countryside, rutting like a nymph, would it? Perhaps her majesty could make use of the girl, once we fix her atrocious accent." "My what?" Becky snapped, looking offended now. "Put her in the cart, we'll bring her to the capital, with regards to the Queen." Richelieu declared, turning his horse about and riding off. Men began to try and wrangle Becky into one of the carts, many of them laughing and leering as they took the opportunity to grope her. Gut shot. "Hey, stop that!" Mark said angrily, surging forward, but he suddenly found himself confronted by a captain, who stared at him impassively. There was a sudden and frightfully loud 'crack!' sound and Mark halted suddenly, his eyes wide. Becky's head snapped around at the noise and her eyes went wide. Blinking, Mark slowly looked down and saw there was a very red puncture hole in his abdomen. Sounds slowed down, taking on an almost syrupy quality and he started to feel confused. Becky screamed and tried to force her way to him, but she was being hustled away by many guards. The man who had shot him wandered off, sliding his flintlock pistol back into a holster, clearly no longer caring about Mark. Everyone seemed to be wandering off now. He felt cold, and vaguely nauseous. The ugly red wound in his stomach pulsed, blood welling from it slowly. He felt himself toppling over, white light bathing the field around him. He could still see things, but they seemed distant. He tried to focus on something, finally identifying Becky's voice as she screamed for him. He could just make out the soldiers wrestling her into a cart while she struggled and kicked savagely, her face contorted in rage. "I'll Get You For This, Richelieu!" she roared as Mark's world was absorbed by the soft white light. "You Just Made The Shit List Of High Doom!! See If I Ever Dance A Sarabande For You, Pal!" Mark bolted upright suddenly, gasping. His eyes were wide and he was covered in sweat. His heart thundered in his chest and he fought to control his panic. The white light was slowly replaced by close walls of grey stone. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to control his breathing. His hands bunched against sheets that were covering him. Finally, he could breathe normally and he tried to organize his thoughts. He still felt confused, everything a total jumble. "Calm yourself. Think!" He'd been fucking Becky in the woods. Apparently they were waiting for Cardinal Richelieu to go by, which he guessed passed for a historical event, seeing the man. But the Cardinal's soldiers heard the two of them and took them prisoner. Then they took Becky and Mark tried to stop them and got shot in the stomach; His eyes snapped open and he was frozen in place. He forced himself to look down at his middle, seeing that he was still covered in a sheet. His hand was trembling as he moved it slowly toward the heavy, dun-colored blanket, sweat trickling from his brow as he felt fear rise in his throat. He flung away the sheet suddenly, unable to bear not knowing. He wasn't bleeding. There was no puncture wound, only a strange, round scar about two inches in diameter. Eyes wide, he slowly lifted his head and looked around, now noticing his environs; he was indeed in a small bedroom, the curtains drawn to keep out the light and very little in the way of décor. Just a chair and a table in one corner, some other surfaces with candles spaced around the room. His bed was solid and comfortable. "Ah, there you are," Chester Edgerton said as he came through the door. "I was beginning to think you had no intentions of waking up." "Where;” Mark said somewhat feebly. "Back at my place," Chester answered, sitting down in the chair and settling in for what was no doubt going to be a long and perhaps trying conversation. "I found you lying in the middle of the field nearly a kilometer from where I'd left you and you were very close to dead." "How did I;” "You should have died," Chester continued. "But ultimately you wouldn't have, due to a time lock, I'm assuming. You weren't meant to die there in that field. Luckily for you, there are still plenty of ways to get yourself killed for doing absurd things." "Why did you leave us in the first place?" Mark asked. "I've been around Richelieu and several of his captains at various points in the time stream, and it's getting difficult to manage," Chest replied, shrugging. "Best way to deal with that issue is to simply not be present." "So why leave us there?" "To see Richelieu, of course," the man said simply. "One of history's truly great men, certainly more so than that twit of a king he serves. I was just trying to ease you into the idea of witnessing historical events. It never occurred to me that you'd be found because you made your teacher yodel like a Swiss Miss when you flagranting the delicto with her. I admit I hadn't planned for that nonsense." Mark blushed. "So, what, I wasn't meant to die here, so my body just healed itself?" Chester laughed. "Oh, no, dear boy, nothing of the sort. I came back to the woods, as promised, as when you weren't there, I began noticing the tracks of many solid shoes and boots in the vicinity. Not to mention the clothes you left behind." "Yeah, sorry, I was kinda tied up at the moment." Mark muttered. "In any event, I followed the tracks, noticed that Richelieu had broken camp and then found you. You'd been lying there for nearly three hours, you should have been dead from blood loss, but you weren't. I brought you back here, removed the ball from your stomach and then healed you." "You can do that?" Mark asked. "I thought you said you were a dealer in chroniques." "It helps to have a few irons in the fire and some hidden talents if you're going to mess around in the time stream," Chester replied. "But I was under no obligation to complicate my life and save you." "I guess I'm glad you did," Mark sighed. "Thanks. But wouldn't I have healed anyway?" "Yes, but maybe not fully," replied the enigmatic dealer. "You might've been found by some local peasants, brought back to their hovel and spent life as a weakened vegetable until you died of the Plague. People die in the past all the time, Mark, and everyone in their own era thinks they just disappeared and mourns them. It's frightfully common." "Can I; can I see the tools you used to heal me?" Mark asked hopefully. "Nope," Chester replied, shaking his head. "They're from your future by a few hundred years, the only reason I used them at all was because you were out cold." "Uh, how long was I out, anyway?" "Almost a month," Chester answered, smoothing a corner of his pencil moustache. "I had you fully healed and ready for action by the next day, to be honest, but you just refused to come to. So, I just left you to it, figuring you would wake up when you felt like it." "Oh, shit," Mark breathed, realizing something. "Where's Becky?" Chester raised his hands. "Why would I know? I wasn't there. What do you remember?" Mark tried to concentrate while Chester got up and poured a glass of water. Mark drank it thirstily and placed the glass on the table. He found himself wishing that he'd taken French instead of Spanish in school. He'd thought Spanish might be more useful, but all it did was get him shot. Fuck that. "I don't really speak French, so this is hard. Umm; they thought I was a spy because they thought I was Spanish." "Because you've been presenting yourself as Spanish while you're here," Chester mused. "In spite of your outrageous accent. France has been at war with Spain on and off for some time now." "Whatever," Mark grumbled. "They seemed really interested in Becky." "To be expected, she is quite lovely. I dare say I've only known one woman in this entire era to match her beauty." "Well, I think I heard them say 'capital', and then I think 'la reigne', which means queen, right?" "Indeed it does," Chester agreed. "My bet, then, is that your teacher has been taken by the Cardinal to be presented as a gift to her majesty, Queen Anne, to serve as one of her ladies-in-waiting." "Why would he do that?" Mark asked, frowning. "I've seen enough Three Musketeers movies to know that the Cardinal and the Queen hate each other." Chester smiled. "It's a game he plays with her. As the years go on, Anne is, sadly, getting 'a little long in the tooth', to borrow a phrase. She remains dignified and regal, but her best days are behind here, where attractiveness is concerned. Richelieu now takes great delight in surrounding her with women of magnificent beauty, seemingly a gesture of devotion, but really meant to hurt the queen's feelings." "What a dick." Mark muttered. "You have no idea," Chester said dryly. "If they got her back to the city roughly a week after she was taken, then she's been with the royal court for three." "Meaning that she's either loving life as a lady-in-waiting, or she's killed and eaten them all," Mark said heavily. "I guess I have to go get her." "I can't imagine this not being amusing," Chester said, smirking. "But out of morbid curiosity, how, exactly, will you affect this rescue?' "I dunno," Mark said, shrugging. "But I can't leave her. She'd kill me." "She probably thinks you're dead, I feel obliged to point out." Chester mentioned. "She saw you suffer a mortal wound at point-blank range. You should be dead and only an as-yet undetermined temporal snarl has kept you alive. I wouldn't count on that again if I were you." "Well I can't do nothing!" Mark insisted in frustration. Chester tilted his head, observing his guest for a moment. "Do you love this woman?" Mark blushed furiously. "I; no, I don't love her, or if I do, then I'm not in love with her. There's a difference, ya' know." "Well and truly said, Boccaccio," Chester chuckled. "Well, if there's no stopping you, then I'll see what I can do to discretely help you." "Why?" Mark queried. "I've got a friggin' time machine. All I need to do is get there, zip in and zip out." "Correct me if I am wrong," interjected his host. "But did you not tell me, early on in our association, that your current self is from three months in the future of the Miss Rebecca that I know." Mark nodded. "And you plan to add another layer of temporal travel on top of that wedding cake of disaster?" Chester mused. "Rebecca could be subtly altering the timelines in Paris now with her very presence, involuntary as it might be. Your oh-so-carefully laid plan could simply not work because of a slight temporal consideration." "So you're saying no time machine." Mark stated flatly, not impressed. "I'm saying the idea is bad. Atari Jaguar bad," Chester replied. "If you intend to do this hare-brained thing, allow me to assist you in what moderate ways I can." "What, you've got some funky tech or weapons you can loan me?" "We'll see about that, but more importantly, I guess I'll call in a favor. A certain person who moves in the circle of the royal court owes me a small boon, and I can use it to assist you. They happen to be an accomplished master of intrigue and getting out of sticky situations, with a blade if necessary." Mark's eyes lit up. "Is it D'Artagnan?" "Only if you want to get Clock-Hammered out of existence," Chester laughed, shaking his head. "Everybody wants to meet Charles de Batz, thinking they're going to see D'Artagnan of Three Musketeers fame, and then it just turns out he's a bad-tempered Gascon who loves to punch people who bother him. He's punched more time-travelers than Jesus, I'm pretty sure." Chester then went over to a drawer and rummaged around inside it, finally pulling out a yellowing envelope that was sealed with wax. "I assure you, the agent I am referring you to will be much more effective than D'Artagnan. I will send you with instructions about where in Paris to meet them and offer them this envelope. Warning, though, if they see it is opened, they will simply refuse to help and go away to where you cannot find them. Are you strong enough to keep from opening the letter?" Mark nodded. "Well, then," Chester announced, opening a bottle of wine and pouring two cups. "Shall we drink a toast to your success, o Macro del Strade of Seville?" Palace Mission. Mark was sitting on the back of a hay wagon, wondering if he could really pull this insane plan off. In addition to the letter, Chester Edgeworth had indeed furnished him with a few small devices and curious that they hopefully would help him, though it cost him almost all the rest of his money. Chester pointed out he was a businessman and didn't intend to take a loss just because some idiot created a time crisis for himself. Fair enough. Mark tried not to play with the little bud that sat deep in his ear; Chester had sold it to him, saying that it could translate languages, speaking into Mark's ear whatever he was focusing on. It could also possibly formulate phrases; if he spoke in English, it could tell him the closest translation to what he was saying. This model was old, though, and only spoke the French of this period. Chester didn't want him getting any clever ideas with a more powered-up version, since if something bad happened, it might come back on him. The reasoning initially annoyed Mark, but the more he thought about it, he reminded himself that he was here to rescue Becky. Nothing else. He thought about the conversation he'd had with their host while drinking wine and planning his initial move, heading to Paris. "So why did you begin time-travelling at all?" the man had asked. "Well, I;” Mark started saying, unsure of how to answer. "I found a time machine. Seems perfectly logical to use it." "Granted, but what's your personal motivation, Mark?" he asked. "Is it to see glorious historical events, are you a treasure hunter, a thrill-seeker who wants to run with the Dromaesaurs?" Mark blushed now. "Honest? I thought it'd be cool to have sex with women from history." To his amazement, Chester didn't laugh uproariously, he simply smiled and shrugged. "More common than you would think, especially amongst men your age, who are full of hormones. Let me ask, then; was getting laid in your own time-period difficult?" "Not really, no." "Well it's not any easier in the time stream, just so you know," Chester pointed out. "In some periods of history, it can be even harder, where religious fervor runs rampant and sexual repression is the law of the land. I assume you wouldn't go as far as to rape a girl." Mark shook his head. "Lots of men do when they find out that having sex in the past is harder than they anticipated," Chester said almost sadly, shaking his head. "You're one of the better ones. But for all that, the problem remains; getting into bed or a rug with Cleopatra is pretty much next to impossible. You might as well hope to seduce Scarlett Johansson when you're no one in particular." "Hey, I got Becky, didn't I?" Mark had protested. "Dumb luck, really, and she's a remarkable woman. Have you had sex with any women aside from Becky since you came to the Sun King's France?" He shrugged. "A few, I shared 'em with Becky." "Peasants, I assume?" "Mostly, yeah," Mark admitted. "There was one sophisto girl, but Becky did the talking and charmed the knickers off her for us." "If it weren't for Becky, you'd be completely out of your league here, boyo," Chester said simply. "And trust me, it won't get easier. Even history buffs who think they know everything get caught and pay the price. There's the history you know, the history you don't know, and the history that you don't know that you don't know." "What?" "What year did World War Two end?" Chester asked. "Simple. 1945." "So you know that. What year did the Crimean War start?" "I've heard of it, but I don't know anything about it." "Something you know that you don't know. Okay, tell me about the League of Ages Twelfth Nicean Temporal Council." "The what?" "Exactly," Chester had said emphatically, leaning forward and pointing with his wine glass to make a point. "An incredibly important historic event that you've never even heard of, but it happened all the same. Can you imagine trying to do something that conflicted with that? You wouldn't even know what clock-hammered you, or why; because only a practiced temporal traveler would be aware of the event at all. Time travel can be tedious." "It's certainly becoming less and less fun by the moment." Mark grumbled. "Probably the smartest thing you've said since you found that Holmes-Field Device," Chester agreed. "Life would be a lot easier if casual nitwits like yourself walked the other way when a time machine appeared in their path." "But don't you make a living selling to people like me?" Mark asked. "Hardly," Chester almost snorted. "Nitwits like you rarely have anything to even pay me with and usually require drastic amounts of assistance. No, my friend, the majority of my income is derived from customers who hail from the far future where time travel is an established industry and carefully regulated. Now those people are my bread and butter." "Did Becky and I really stand out?" Mark asked somewhat dully. "More and more with each passing moment," Chester answered. "You're too tall, too healthy, you have all your teeth, and your accents are absurd." Mark said nothing. "And by the way," added his host. "Those little packets of Airborne that you both carry in your pockets? The little Vitamin C boost things to ward off the sniffles? I can guarantee you that those will in no way, shape or form protect you from illnesses in this era. Only thing it'll do is turn your piss such a bright yellow that people will think you're possessed and the Inquisition will burn you." Mark ended up leaving the packets as a curio that Chester could sell to people from the future who wanted to snicker at how dumb people from the turn-of-the-millennium were. Carting to Paris. He had arranged transport to Paris with the wagon he was now on, making sure the farmer put some extra perk in his horse's step by offering him twice as many sou as was normal. The journey, which would normally take a week, with good weather, was promised to six days because of the extra money. Whatever the difference was between six-day speed and seven-day speed, Mark sure couldn't tell it. His communication with the farmer had been sluggish, certainly, mostly on his end, because he would try to say exactly what his little translator bud told him and he probably sounded like he'd had a stroke when he was speaking. The farmer laughed at his speech, but still did as he was asked. Mostly they slept at the side of the road in the piled hay, but one night they stayed in a roadside inn. Mark's funds were running out fast, even though the food he ate was paltry and rather unappetizing. He had to reach Paris. They then trundled through the town where Mark and Becky had first come to; and Mark hid himself in the straw, figuring it was best to not be seen by people whom he might be familiar with. Even if the innkeeper's two daughters would no doubt readily fuck him again. He fought the temptation to ignore Chester's instructions and simply go get his Holmes-Field Device and use it to rescue his teacher. But he disciplined himself and refrained, he was in enough trouble as it is.  Then he meditated; Known knowns. Known unknowns. Unknown unknowns. Fuck. The days and nights passed with Mark trying to keep himself from growing crazy by practicing his French and thinking of his plan. He had no idea whatsoever about what to do once he reached Paris. Get inside the royal palace? He couldn't exactly Google the plans for it, could he? "Regardez la!" the farmer said finally, calling back to Mark and pointing toward the west. As the sun was rising behind them, he could make out a sprawling sea of darkness in the distance, the silhouette of which prickled the sky. Endless plumes of smoke hung over the city as deep grey gave way to dawn behind them. He thought it might actually be pretty. And then the wind wafted over them from the west, bringing the unique scent of fabled Paris. "Jesus!" Mark croaked as he turned green, leaning over the side of the wagon and puking his guts out while the farmer roared with laughter. They entered the city. Mark wandered through the choking maze of streets, gaping at the chaos of architecture around him; houses seemed to almost be built on top of houses, to the place where some of them were leaning over almost drunkenly. The cobblestones of the road were wet and sticky with effluence, there was no way to avoid it. The stench was beyond belief. How had people ever lived like this? He had asked on repeated occasions where he could find La Rue de Grenuie, the place Chester had told him he would find the agent he'd referred to. Mark was reasonably certain most people were being helpful, even if they stared at him like he was an alien. He might as well have been, he was a head taller than just about everyone, clearly well-fed and had all his teeth. Mark had seen jack-o-lanterns with more teeth than most of the denizens of Paris' infamous streets. He took many wrong turns, because where he thought people had told him to go was often a dead end. Eventually, by divine providence, he found himself on the street he'd been asking for, evidenced by an ancient, worn rectangle of wood that said the name in faded green letters. Certain he was on the right track, he headed down the crowded street, stuffing his purse into the front of his breeches, since Chester had told him Paris was home to countless scoundrels who could remove his wealth without him even noticing. The crowds began to thin out somewhat, and the street got narrower, as if that was possible. The cobblestones were also surprisingly dry, not sticky or running with the sewage of the city behind him. Before long, it was barely wide enough to accommodate one person and he felt very uneasy about the rickety buildings that loomed over his head, almost blocking the sky. He then stopped in front of a black iron fence, pitted with age and with a chain wrapped around it. He tilted his head and unwrapped the chain, finding that the gate now swung open freely and with decidedly little noise. He stepped in, closed it behind himself and then fixed the chain back in place as best he could. He found himself walking through a tunnel, the buildings about him now made of stone. Dank and foreboding, he resisted the urge to run, not knowing what lay ahead. Eventually, he came to a small, bare courtyard. It might have been thirty feet by thirty feet and was devoid of almost all decoration. High brick and stone walls concealed it from the chaos of Paris. It was surprisingly quiet, as if the city dared not disturb the austere serenity. There was a single, grey stone bench in the middle of the courtyard. Facing away from him, clad in a great cloak, was a person, the hood thrown over their head to keep the merciless sun off them. Mark swallowed and took a deep breath before beginning to move forward. Was this Chester's agent? If he was, Mark had to be careful, because he'd been told the man was dangerous. He approached slowly, finally coming to a stop some five paces away, still facing the stranger's back. "Hello," he said faltering French. "My name is Mark. I have; sent; to you; today; for big help. I is need big help." "That you do, my friend," replied the person in a strangely lyrical voice. Then closed a small book of devotionals wwhich had clearly been studied and stood, still facing away. "That much is obvious, because your French is painful." Mark blushed in embarrassment as the translator bud told him what the person had said. Still concealed beneath their voluminous midnight-blue cloak, the mysterious person turned around and approached him. He resisted the urge to take a step back as the shrouded presence stood right in front of him. He couldn't help but notice the person was on the taller side, strange for a Parisian. Gloved hands pulled down the hood and Mark's eyes widened in amazement. Shining golden hair spilled in luxurious tresses down the person's back. The eyes were a dazzling blue, glinting with intelligence. The smile was serene, the teeth within white and perfect. Lady Alexandra. <

Frédéric Beigbeder a passé une partie de sa vie à boire des cocktails trop chers dans des clubs trop tard, à tomber amoureux trop vite, à le regretter trop tôt et à l'écrire trop bien.Il a cette élégance un peu froissée des gens qui en ont vu passer, une ironie tendre et l'œil de celui qui observe le monde comme s'il allait disparaître demain matin. A son contact on sent qu'on peut être soi même et parler de tout. Et justement, cet après midi là, nous avons parler de Milady et des femmes fatales dans la fiction, de la forme souvent plus importante que le fond à ses yeux, de sa collection de phrases, mais aussi de son père qui était peut-être agent secret, des carnets qu'il remplissait pour raconter sa vie d'enfant, de la friendzone, de ses enfants, de la publicité, du mensonge et des excès. Tout cela et bien plus encore c'est à découvrir dans cet épisode intelligent et tendre. Générique composé par Jean ThéveninHébergé par Audiomeans. Visitez audiomeans.fr/politique-de-confidentialite pour plus d'informations.

Aujourd'hui, dans ce 115e épisode d'On The Verge, vous allez entendre le témoignage de Mark, 29 ans, qui vit dans le Sud-Est. Mark a grandi dans un environnement familial où la parole était libre et ouverte.Son parcours intime est traversé par des épreuves douloureuses, notamment une relation de quatre ans avec une jeune femme polytraumatisée. Une histoire au sein de laquelle il a subi des violences psychologiques, physiques et sexuelles. Mark le raconte avec lucidité, tout en reconnaissant aussi qu'il a lui-même été violent dans cette relation. Il essaie encore aujourd'hui de comprendre comment l'escalade de la violence a été alimentée, jusqu'à les abîmer pour de bon et laisser de profondes empreintes chez lui. Parallèlement à cette relation, il évoque comment s'est installée une addiction au porno et à la masturbation dans une recherche de stimulation toujours plus extrême, parfois au point de se mettre en danger. Ces excès, cette violence et cette confusion l'ont amené à interroger en profondeur sa masculinité, son rapport à la domination, ainsi est apparu un intérêt marqué pour certains mouvements comme le MGTOW, dont il parle aujourd'hui avec recul et esprit critique, tout en reconnaissant qu'il a flirté avec des courants de pensées extrêmes et dangereux. Les expériences de Mark ont laissé des stigmates psychologiques, mais il raconte aussi comment, peu à peu, certaines rencontres récentes lui ont permis de retrouver une forme d'espoir dans sa vie sentimentale et intime.Avant d'écouter cet épisode, je vous invite à bien prendre connaissance des trigger warnings qui l'accompagnent et d'être dans de bonnes conditions émotionnelles. Si vous traversez vous-mêmes une relation douloureuse, ce n'est peut être pas le bon moment ! Et comme toujours, je vous rappelle que les propos tenus par mon invité n'engagent que lui, qu'ils reflètent son expérience personnelle, sa perception et son cheminement.Bonne écoute.TW : rapport non consenti, tentative de suicide, chantage affectif, violences intra conjugale, agressions sexuelles, vi0l ** Infos **

La recette du bien-être : cet épisode et 1 goutte de tea tree, 1 goutte de menthe poivrée, 2 gouttes de thym thujanol, sur un sucre ou du mielPour venir assister à un enregistrement cliquez super fort sur ce lienCalme toi :Laura Laarman : production et sonLéa Jourdan : communicationLucie Meslien : illustration animation Lou Poincheval : chargée de productionCaroline Bérault : illustrations Manon Carrour : vignette Joanna & Gaspar : générique Axelle Jérina : make up Esteban Decarvalho : montageMk2 : Isis Hobéniche : directrice de projetEmma Moschkowitz : directrice de production événementielleEtienne Rouillon : directeur de production audiovisuelleVincent Desormeaux : directeur mk2 BibliothèqueJoao Carta : régisseur Philippe Leroy : régisseurMenad Mahiou : régisseur Hébergé par Acast. Visitez acast.com/privacy pour plus d'informations.

Aujourd'hui, Antoine Diers, consultant, Fatima Aït Bounoua, professeure de français, et Jérôme Marty, médecin généraliste, débattent de l'actualité autour d'Alain Marschall et Olivier Truchot.

vous allez assister à un événement inédit, cad SML qui expérimente en live ce que c'est que d'écouter un ABDTR (ça fait beaucoup d'abréviations là).Kalindi n'est pas mytho, elle est juste tout le temps up et a 1000 anecdotes, ce dont on ne va jamais se plaindrePour venir assister à un enregistrement cliquez super fort sur ce lienCalme toi :Laura Laarman : production et sonLéa Jourdan : communicationLucie Meslien : illustration animation Lou Poincheval : chargée de productionCaroline Bérault : illustrations Manon Carrour : vignette Joanna & Gaspar : générique Axelle Jérina : make up Esteban Decarvalho : montageMk2 : Isis Hobéniche : directrice de projetEmma Moschkowitz : directrice de production événementielleEtienne Rouillon : directeur de production audiovisuelleVincent Desormeaux : directeur mk2 BibliothèqueJoao Carta : régisseur Philippe Leroy : régisseurMenad Mahiou : régisseur Hébergé par Acast. Visitez acast.com/privacy pour plus d'informations.

Aujourd'hui, Antoine Diers, consultant, Laura Warton Martinez, sophrologue, et Mourad Boudjellal, éditeur de BD, débattent de l'actualité autour d'Alain Marschall et Olivier Truchot.

Aujourd'hui, Abel Boyi, éducateur et président de l'association "Tous Uniques Tous Unis", Barbara Lefebvre, professeure d'histoire-géographie, et Jérôme Marty, médecin généraliste, débattent de l'actualité autour d'Alain Marschall et Olivier Truchot.

Bienvenue dans ce nouvel épisode de On The Verge — et pour ouvrir cette huitième saison, je vous propose un témoignage fort, bouleversant, et profondément humain.Fred a 46 ans. Il se décrit volontiers comme un garçon plutôt discret, qui, adolescent, se tourne d'abord vers les filles, même si, dans sa vingtaine, il explore aussi des attirances pour des garçons. Il enchaîne quelques relations timides avec des jeunes femmes… puis une amitié en particulier devient une histoire d'amour, un mariage, deux enfants, et treize années de vie de couple.Un couple avec ses hauts, ses bas et une sexualité qu'il qualifie d'épanouie. Pourtant, en parallèle, des questions continuent de le traverser. Fred commence alors à fréquenter des sites de rencontres gays, d'abord pour discuter, puis pour vivre des expériences concrètes. C'est une double vie, jusqu'à ce qu'une rencontre plus intense que les autres entraîne un basculement : séparation, divorce, et surtout son coming-out.Mais ce n'est pas la fin de l'histoire. C'est même le début d'une autre. Fred rencontre alors celui qu'il appelle son grand amour. Un homme qui, comme lui, a été marié avec une femme, a eu des enfants… Très vite, leurs vies s'emboîtent, ils s'aiment, s'installent ensemble, forment une famille recomposée heureuse.Jusqu'à ce que la maladie vienne tout bouleverser.Le compagnon de Fred tombe gravement malade, une longue épreuve, à laquelle il ne survivra pas. Fred va l'accompagner jusqu'au bout, avec une tendresse immense. Il souhaitait partager ce qu'est le quotidien d'un compagnon aidant et comment leur intimité va évoluer en parallèle de la maladie. Dans cet épisode, Fred nous raconte son histoire : une traversée de la rencontre de soi, de l'amour, du deuil, de la reconstruction. Il parle, avec ses mots, de ce que c'est que survivre à son grand amour et comment envisager la suite de sa vie, pas pour la refaire mais bien pour la continuer. Merci de bien consulter les TW avant d'écouter cet épisode qui abordent des sujets difficiles.