Confessions of a Commitment-phobe
So I decide to go to Paris in April because 1) I can't stand being away from my most favourite city for a long period of time, having only been there a few months prior (you might have already gathered that; and 2) I bloody love that Billie Holiday song "April in Paris" and figure I simply must experience it, because Billie must have been inspired in Paris in April if she sang about it.
As usual I have no expectations and just want to BE here. I rent an apartment from a very cute gay couple, Jean and Olivier, in my favourite neighbourhood, the 11th. Responsibilities are on hold. I can hardly contain myself.
Since I have been to Paris several times now, I have more than a few handsome men I can call upon should I wish; however, my better judgment tells me it is always better to experience new things instead of go for the ones familiar, so despite my half-hearted attempts at contacting guys I have slept with that are "friends" now, I don't try very hard to make rendezvous with them. This trip is really about what I love the most; being anonymous in a city where nobody knows me, where nobody will judge me and where I can just be myself. Seriously; I can walk around Paris for hours and hours and go sit in a cafe or brasserie and make friends with strangers, or while away a whole afternoon sitting in a cafe just writing in my journal over a carafe of Bourgogne Pinot Noir or a cold glass of Sancerre.
On this particular day I walk all around Paris to re-familiarize myself with the streets. I shoot photos and smell the smells and listen to the sounds. I am happy as a clam. It is past five in the afternoon. The Bastille is on the way to the apartment at Rue Chemin Vert. I figure since it's past five it's time for a glass of wine. So I find a little table at a cafe right in front of the Bastille, called La Region. I order a glass of Rose and suddenly there is a demonstration against the shit happening in Cote D'Ivoire. The Justice Minister of the Ivory Coast has admitted that both sides of the brutal conflict has "blood on their hands" and that supporters of the new President Alassane Ouattara have also killed those of his defeated rival, Laurent Gbagbo. There are hundreds of people with awful photographs of bloody faces; chanting, screaming, protesting, wailing. It's loud and chaotic as the crowd passes through; police sirens blaring.
I slowly sip on my Rose and watch their angst. It starts to rain. A waiter picks up my half full glass and tells me he is taking it to a covered part of the restaurant, after I almost object as to why he is removing it. I gather my things and follow him to another table, where he pulls out the chair for me.
And so flirting ensues. Major flirting. He is wearing Diesel jeans, a crisp white shirt, and Hugo Boss shoes. I like men who dress well. Even waiters in France have pride in what they wear, I am thinking to myself. He is attentive, handsome, and speaks English very well. I wish he would allow me to practice my French, but his English is so good there is almost no need at this point. He keeps coming to my table and asking me questions about myself which I answer between little smiles and sips of wine. I am reading "The Girl who Kicked the Hornets Nest" on my iPad and am well engrossed in it but apparently this does not seem to matter to, shall we call him...Sebastien. We friend each other on Facebook, via our iPhones and then he asks how long I am going to be in Paris. Of course I lie and say just a few days. You never want to give up the whole story, right? So he asks if he can see me and spend some time with me while I am here. He says he would like to show me his Paris. He says in that sexy French accent, "I know this city like my pocket!" I learn he has lived here all his life. This guy is hot. And he's ten years younger than me. I am thinking, "Why not?"
So, I run out of cigarettes. I beckon to Sebastien and ask him where the nearest Tabac is. He points to across the street over to the side of the restaurant and I tell him I need to leave for a minute. I tell him I'll be back just in case he thinks I'm leaving as he looks disappointed. I ask him to order me another glass of wine and that I will be back after I run across the street. His face lights up as I grab my backpack and go off to buy cigarettes. I always smoke in Paris.
When I come out of the Tabac, I am planning to go back and have another drink, but no sooner do I cross the street, I see Sebastien smoking a cigarette along the side of the restaurant. I walk across the street and he just takes me in his arms. He tells me he wants to kiss my lips. He literally takes me in his arms and bends me backwards and kisses me, full, on the lips. I can hardly believe my luck. I feel like I am starring in a movie. He pulls away and says, "Your lips are beautiful, I love to kiss you." To which I reply, "I like the way you kiss me."
Well, lo and behold, a second kiss sends little electrical tingles all the way down to the place where it really matters. Shit. It's all over. My brain has no choice...the kiss did it. Sweet, tender, passionate, amazing, with the right amount of tongue, the right amount of wetness, the perfect way he has one hand on the nape of my neck and the other hand on my arse. He's got enormous hands. I like a man with big, strong hands. Nothing worse than a man with girlie hands. And it is confirmed. I am going to sleep with him. Girls, you know, if the kiss sucks, you may not sleep with said prospective lover. I have always thought....the kiss says it all. So we spend his break kissing breathlessly and passionately. I love it, and don't want it to stop.
So I have to say, that this sort of thing has never happened to me in the US. American men are simply not as forthcoming. It seems, that French men have enough confidence in themselves or the situation where they think they will not be turned down. What is this phenomenon? Needless to say, I go back to my table. We talk at length, because it seems I am the only person he is waiting on. I mean, there are a couple of tables, but he keeps coming back to me to make conversation. In English. I really wanna talk in French. I need to practice. I see on his Facebook that there is a woman in his photos and I ask him who she is. Apparently he has a girlfriend. That he lives with. So I am wondering if I should go any further flirting with this gorgeous man. Then he says something about friends with benefits and that it's all ok with them and that she has been with others and it's ok if he does too.
At this point, I don't care, quite frankly. It's his business, not mine. Listen, people make choices. I am not here to judge anyone. We are adults here. And I am single. And he is bloody handsome. Oh and did I mention he has a pierced tongue?
I need to go to the bathroom. He follows me in and we make out, passionately, with thirst. He turns me around and we face the mirror while his hands are all over my body. I turn around to face him again and he lifts me up, and I wrap my legs around him. He's strong, and I can feel his hard biceps as he holds me. We go back outside as I wipe my lips and feel hot and crazy with anticipation, smiling like the cat who got the canary.
He tells me he is off for the next three days and will spend them with me. What's that sound a record needle makes when it's pulled the wrong way quickly while still on the record? That screeching halt of a noise? That is what sound I heard. What? Doesn't he have work or something? And the girlfriend? I mean, I like him, and I certainly want to fuck him, but he's asking me to commit to him for three days. Three whole days? Mon dieu. I hadn't planned on spending three whole days with a handsome Parisian, which isn't a bad thing by any means, but: THREE WHOLE DAYS?
I bat my eyelashes and smile nervously. It is now time for me to go home. So we agree that he will come over in the morning. He asks me if I like croissants. I say I do. He asks if I like to smoke hashish. I say I do. He says he will see me in the morning with chocolate croissants, something to smoke and some condoms. Wonderful. Sounds like it's going to be a good morning. I kiss him on both cheeks and he holds on to me, just that little bit longer and tighter. I walk home, one part of me tingling with excitement and anticipation, the other filled with dread, wondering what on earth I will do with this man for three whole days.
As usual I have no expectations and just want to BE here. I rent an apartment from a very cute gay couple, Jean and Olivier, in my favourite neighbourhood, the 11th. Responsibilities are on hold. I can hardly contain myself.
Since I have been to Paris several times now, I have more than a few handsome men I can call upon should I wish; however, my better judgment tells me it is always better to experience new things instead of go for the ones familiar, so despite my half-hearted attempts at contacting guys I have slept with that are "friends" now, I don't try very hard to make rendezvous with them. This trip is really about what I love the most; being anonymous in a city where nobody knows me, where nobody will judge me and where I can just be myself. Seriously; I can walk around Paris for hours and hours and go sit in a cafe or brasserie and make friends with strangers, or while away a whole afternoon sitting in a cafe just writing in my journal over a carafe of Bourgogne Pinot Noir or a cold glass of Sancerre.
On this particular day I walk all around Paris to re-familiarize myself with the streets. I shoot photos and smell the smells and listen to the sounds. I am happy as a clam. It is past five in the afternoon. The Bastille is on the way to the apartment at Rue Chemin Vert. I figure since it's past five it's time for a glass of wine. So I find a little table at a cafe right in front of the Bastille, called La Region. I order a glass of Rose and suddenly there is a demonstration against the shit happening in Cote D'Ivoire. The Justice Minister of the Ivory Coast has admitted that both sides of the brutal conflict has "blood on their hands" and that supporters of the new President Alassane Ouattara have also killed those of his defeated rival, Laurent Gbagbo. There are hundreds of people with awful photographs of bloody faces; chanting, screaming, protesting, wailing. It's loud and chaotic as the crowd passes through; police sirens blaring.
I slowly sip on my Rose and watch their angst. It starts to rain. A waiter picks up my half full glass and tells me he is taking it to a covered part of the restaurant, after I almost object as to why he is removing it. I gather my things and follow him to another table, where he pulls out the chair for me.
And so flirting ensues. Major flirting. He is wearing Diesel jeans, a crisp white shirt, and Hugo Boss shoes. I like men who dress well. Even waiters in France have pride in what they wear, I am thinking to myself. He is attentive, handsome, and speaks English very well. I wish he would allow me to practice my French, but his English is so good there is almost no need at this point. He keeps coming to my table and asking me questions about myself which I answer between little smiles and sips of wine. I am reading "The Girl who Kicked the Hornets Nest" on my iPad and am well engrossed in it but apparently this does not seem to matter to, shall we call him...Sebastien. We friend each other on Facebook, via our iPhones and then he asks how long I am going to be in Paris. Of course I lie and say just a few days. You never want to give up the whole story, right? So he asks if he can see me and spend some time with me while I am here. He says he would like to show me his Paris. He says in that sexy French accent, "I know this city like my pocket!" I learn he has lived here all his life. This guy is hot. And he's ten years younger than me. I am thinking, "Why not?"
So, I run out of cigarettes. I beckon to Sebastien and ask him where the nearest Tabac is. He points to across the street over to the side of the restaurant and I tell him I need to leave for a minute. I tell him I'll be back just in case he thinks I'm leaving as he looks disappointed. I ask him to order me another glass of wine and that I will be back after I run across the street. His face lights up as I grab my backpack and go off to buy cigarettes. I always smoke in Paris.
When I come out of the Tabac, I am planning to go back and have another drink, but no sooner do I cross the street, I see Sebastien smoking a cigarette along the side of the restaurant. I walk across the street and he just takes me in his arms. He tells me he wants to kiss my lips. He literally takes me in his arms and bends me backwards and kisses me, full, on the lips. I can hardly believe my luck. I feel like I am starring in a movie. He pulls away and says, "Your lips are beautiful, I love to kiss you." To which I reply, "I like the way you kiss me."
Well, lo and behold, a second kiss sends little electrical tingles all the way down to the place where it really matters. Shit. It's all over. My brain has no choice...the kiss did it. Sweet, tender, passionate, amazing, with the right amount of tongue, the right amount of wetness, the perfect way he has one hand on the nape of my neck and the other hand on my arse. He's got enormous hands. I like a man with big, strong hands. Nothing worse than a man with girlie hands. And it is confirmed. I am going to sleep with him. Girls, you know, if the kiss sucks, you may not sleep with said prospective lover. I have always thought....the kiss says it all. So we spend his break kissing breathlessly and passionately. I love it, and don't want it to stop.
So I have to say, that this sort of thing has never happened to me in the US. American men are simply not as forthcoming. It seems, that French men have enough confidence in themselves or the situation where they think they will not be turned down. What is this phenomenon? Needless to say, I go back to my table. We talk at length, because it seems I am the only person he is waiting on. I mean, there are a couple of tables, but he keeps coming back to me to make conversation. In English. I really wanna talk in French. I need to practice. I see on his Facebook that there is a woman in his photos and I ask him who she is. Apparently he has a girlfriend. That he lives with. So I am wondering if I should go any further flirting with this gorgeous man. Then he says something about friends with benefits and that it's all ok with them and that she has been with others and it's ok if he does too.
At this point, I don't care, quite frankly. It's his business, not mine. Listen, people make choices. I am not here to judge anyone. We are adults here. And I am single. And he is bloody handsome. Oh and did I mention he has a pierced tongue?
I need to go to the bathroom. He follows me in and we make out, passionately, with thirst. He turns me around and we face the mirror while his hands are all over my body. I turn around to face him again and he lifts me up, and I wrap my legs around him. He's strong, and I can feel his hard biceps as he holds me. We go back outside as I wipe my lips and feel hot and crazy with anticipation, smiling like the cat who got the canary.
He tells me he is off for the next three days and will spend them with me. What's that sound a record needle makes when it's pulled the wrong way quickly while still on the record? That screeching halt of a noise? That is what sound I heard. What? Doesn't he have work or something? And the girlfriend? I mean, I like him, and I certainly want to fuck him, but he's asking me to commit to him for three days. Three whole days? Mon dieu. I hadn't planned on spending three whole days with a handsome Parisian, which isn't a bad thing by any means, but: THREE WHOLE DAYS?
I bat my eyelashes and smile nervously. It is now time for me to go home. So we agree that he will come over in the morning. He asks me if I like croissants. I say I do. He asks if I like to smoke hashish. I say I do. He says he will see me in the morning with chocolate croissants, something to smoke and some condoms. Wonderful. Sounds like it's going to be a good morning. I kiss him on both cheeks and he holds on to me, just that little bit longer and tighter. I walk home, one part of me tingling with excitement and anticipation, the other filled with dread, wondering what on earth I will do with this man for three whole days.
So enticing, I was there for a moment, voyeur, reader,lover feeling the pinch, being turned on. The flow of your words disconnecting me from my earthly being sweating on the threadmill and found myself floating in Paris looking at you and sebastien. Drinking your words and getting drunk. I bow to you et ta magique plumme.
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