9. FRENCH TICKLER

WHY: The culture is made for love.

Okay, let’s face it; I went to Paris on my birthday to have a French lover. I thought I would find a man who knew his way around a woman’s body, who knew how to please a woman. Let’s just say I didn’t exactly spend my 31st birthday eating bonbons with my feet in the air.

Edith Piaf boldly sang "La Vie en Rose" in my mind as I boarded the plane. I awkwardly had to ask which row was mine upon seeing a good-looking, tall, slightly nerdy but perfect for me man sitting next to what would be my seat. I knew my luck was not that good, I'd never actually had the good fortune on my numerous flights to be put next to a potential mate; 70 year old retired school teacher, check, woman with crying baby, check, soul mate, err, no. My trip and future flashed in front of me. I would have to edit my French lover fantasy, but it would be worth it when we told our grandchildren of our romantic meeting on our way to the City of Lights. I was blushing as we chit chatted. Then I saw it. David nervously started twirling the band around his wedding finger as if it had given him a little bzzzzt shock to remind him it was there. It wasn't even a real wedding band, just one of those gimpy Irish heart friendship rings.

I calmed down, reverted to original fantasy, and tried to figure out how to get this guy to stop talking to me. We chatted often throughout the flight. He was a marine biologist professor who traveled the world doing research. The little voices were laughing in the back of mind at the fact that this too was perfect for me; that I had often said my dream husband will be a professor who has to travel the world doing research and I would be his muse with him every step of the way. All in all my dream man was a bit too preachy and I'm sure I'd be ready for separate bedrooms before the first anniversary. His wife was from Chile. I had bought Tales of My Melancholy Whores by Gabriel Garcia Marquez in the airport bookstore. He had his South American, I had mine.

About half an hour before we were set to land he came out with the confessional. Why do married men always have a confession, a shadow story? His was that his wife had come to the US under a study visa and her country required her to return for two years. They were six months into this time period but he was speaking with doom and doubt in his voice of their uncertain future. He finished it off with an "ah, now you know the whole sordid story" and asked me if I wanted to go to Versailles with him the next day; hmmmm.

The evening of my birthday I set out for dinner around 10pm. I had overestimated Paris' pleasure principal; I expected it to be like New York where 10pm is considered a perfectly reasonable time to begin your evening. The streets seemed rather empty and restaurants were closing up.

A disarming, goofy Spanish guy who did not speak English met me on the street and was intent on trying to help me find the restaurant I wanted. I was too naïve to realize I should’ve told him to shoo like vermin. After walking nearly in a circle and asking numerous people for directions, we found the restaurant I wanted to try only to discover that it was closing. Being that it was MY BIRTHDAY I was intent on having a full dinner despite Juan’s gentle suggestions that I settle for a crepe. After several blocks we came to a café still serving food and I ordered an appetizer, entrée, and carafe of wine while he had only coffee. After he sat patiently as I gorged myself on foie gras and duck and a delirium-inducing carafe of wine, I felt pity on him. Everything was closing down and I figured this was my chance for birthday sex so I decided to go for it. He was young and cute and buff; I could do worse. He bought me a Nutella crepe which served as my birthday cake.

I thought he had indicated he lived nearby, so I was shocked when the cab driver drove an unsettling distance and delivered us to a slum area I had wrinkled my nose at on the way in from the airport. I had tried asking this guy where he worked during dinner and he kept saying McDonalds. This was also his answer when I tried to ask him where he had eaten dinner so I was hopeful he just did not understand what I was saying. As we pulled up in ‘da hood it became painfully clear that the misunderstanding was all mine. We climbed several flights of stairs to his small room with two twin mattresses propped against opposite walls, a TV, a kitchen that creatively placed the refrigerator beneath the burners (New York apartments have been wasting so much space with a stove!), and a bathroom with a seatless toilet.

I rolled my eyes as I undressed for this overeager creature. Should this be my first sex in Paris? I think not! It wasn’t just that he was poor, but the place was unclean and creepy. He mentioned that he had not had anyone at his place and was clearly elated when he stumbled upon me, sucker du jour! He wrestled with the condom like he was trying to stuff a watermelon into a Ziploc bag sideways. He came at me; we engaged for a brief time then I got up. I ran to the bathroom and hopped in his shower trying to wash off the nasty experience and then had to dry off with a hand towel. I rushed to my clothes and began applying them as he begged desperately, dick in hand, for me to give it another go. I threw on dress then coat, not bothering with buttons or belt, and sought out the door. He accompanied me down the stairs, dick in shorts, to tell me to be careful and he specifically indicated what street I should turn on. Of course I went one street too far; being brazen and always right, I figured the street closest to the freeway would be the most trafficked. On the way I snapped photos of the blighted buildings like an American tourist nitwit.

As I turned the corner a skinny, light black man with dreads asked me if I needed help. Ha, I had learned my lesson with Juan; I wasn’t going to talk to anyone else on the street. I said no thanks and continued down the block. About half way down the block I realized he was running up behind me. He quickly overtook me as I began to run. He grabbed my bag, I yelled NO, NO PLEASE NO, TAKE THE CASH BUT NOT THE PASSPORT. He dragged me into the street; I was lying down in the middle of the road clutching the bag to me when he finally got the best of me and ran off with it. I ran after him into a courtyard in front of a social housing project. I continued my rant. I caught a glimpse of a man on a bike escaping into the building just as the door slammed shut.

I ran to the street which now had traffic and a blessed African family pulled over. The driver phoned the police for me as his family looked upon me nonplussed. The police came soon and dispatched men to the building. I was quite pleased. If this had happened in, say Austin, I’m sure I would’ve been questioned and accused as to why I was in “that” neighborhood, not sober, and smelling of sex. Not only were none of the above brought up in an accusatory way, but I think the Chief officer developed a bit of a crush on me. He convinced me to fill out a police report, suggesting it might help me get my camera replaced. He had a NYPD vehicle as the background on his desktop and was getting quite a kick out of interviewing me. I sheepishly confessed that the perpetrator was alone and unarmed. The Chief had me look through binder after binder of mug shots hoping I would recognize him. Some faces came close, but I wasn’t about to ruin some guy’s life based on my faulty memory.

As I was describing the brand new $400 camera Mom had bought me for the trip, I received my birthday miracle: the two cops who had gone into the building returned with my bag! The camera and cash were gone but my passport and credit cards were still there. The officers said the mugger would not want traceable items. When we were finished he handed me a four-page police report and I was taken aback when I realized it was all in French! I was eloquently labeled Victime Mademoiselle. Two officers sped recklessly through Parisian streets to return me to my hotel around 4am. Having an officer escort was the crowning touch to my birthday evening.

Several days later I followed a cutie out of Shakespeare and Company after we made eye contact several times. I crossed the street to where he was and he spoke to me. Vincent knew little English and had only went into the English language bookstore because I did. He asked me if I wanted to get a drink. The sexy French accent is not so sexy when stumbling over English. Listening to and deciphering his speech and simplifying mine was exhausting. I jumped when he offered to drive me around town on his moped, a romantic moment that required no speech!

We had a lingering kiss on one of the bridges over the River Seine. After knowing him only a couple hours he was embracing me and kissing me all over Paris as if we were life long lovers. I wondered how many of the cute couples I spied in envy also just met hours earlier. I suppose this was the secret of the French romantic mystique.

Vincent, although cute, was smelly and had long, yellowed teeth, and bloodshot eyes. He was hyper and heaving and came too quickly, then couldn't get hard again. He had no technique to speak of for fellatio or intercourse and he kept his hand at his dick while he was fucking me. Very annoying. He also stayed too late; I thought it was hard to get rid of a guy in the morning who speaks the same language. He articulated “it is difficult to get up;" try harder buddy!

The best thing a vacation can do is make you happy to get home. Back in cowboy country I read through some of my favorite parts of A Moveable Feast. Hemingway and I were both starving Americans in Paris. He starved out of poverty; I starved because I was frequently too embarrassed to request a table for one.

My sampling of French men left me unimpressed. They use too much tongue when kissing; shameful considering the kiss is named for them. And they smell! Isn't it the land of perfume?