Bringing it home.

She spoke like a lady and fucked like a KISS album. When we fucked, she turned the volume up to 11 and rekindled the passion of BDSM pageantry that I’d started with in the first place. But before all that, we met at a smoky bar in Saint-Germain. Children were out and the sun was shining, and I had a skip in my step, because it’s not every day you are on your way to meet a six-foot tall Portuguese ex-supermodel, living and wining and dining in Paris.

We spoke. She looked me in the eyes and said, “Fetch me a razor and a bottle of wine, and meet me at my house in ten minutes. No later, please,” and her neatly manicured nails meant it as they gripped my knee under the table. I showed up in eight, like a giddy schoolboy bearing not flowers, but blossoms of an erotic sort, that would allow us to bloom and fuck and sneeze as we ought to. And bloom and fuck and sneeze we did, as I brought her wine and massaged her body, so muscular and strong. I rode her as though I were riding a Lamborghini, so driven was my stride, and broke my resolve to behave at the end, begging her to slap me as she massaged my clit. She was a terrible kisser, but an erotic orator of the highest order, switching from French to Portuguese to English and back again, never once breaking eye contact as she provoked me to orgasm, teased and touched and stroked until I left and came once more.

“I’m a healer. Everyone in my family has gifts, and mine is to heal,” as she massaged, massaged the places where she’d slapped and scratched. To give and to take away, but she was a generous lover, generous in all the ways I desired. Four hours of love-making and lust-taking and I left, for yesterday I was merely a placemarker in her busy social calendar. Her Master arrives in a week and she had a threesome planned for later that night. For once, I wasn’t the center of someone’s life, or even their day.

I topped from the bottom. I lied about my age. I bought the wrong wine, the wrong razors. I wasn’t cute enough. All of these nagging inconsistencies in what I believe to be perfection scratch at me insistently, despite my satisfaction that such an encounter happened at all. There will be more. Of course there will be more. There will be many in this beautiful country, this shitty, dirty city, maybe with her, maybe not. “There is time for you,” she said, “So much time to relax and know who you are. And for that, I envy you.” Envied. Enviable. The life I lead is indeed fulfilling, and hopefully, one that will resolve itself neatly and with peace. Until then, zii e zee, and to you, I write. “Ciao, coquine,” she said, kissing me heavy-lidded as I bounced out the door. Ciao can mean goodbye, but it can also mean hello.


Power lunch

The Metro can be a thousand different things at each stop, on each line. Coming home from Olympiades for a mid-day lunch seemed to work in my favor. She was wearing things that seemed tailored for her body and her life. I wanted all of them. I wanted her bag, her slender wingtip shoes, the fine, invisible lines giving her lips a permanent look of dissatisfaction, of perfectionism, from the top of her suit jacket to the bottom of her legs. She was slender, probably mid-fifties or so, and I couldn’t stop looking at her.

And then, she smiled. It happened and left so quickly, it was as though it never happened. Parisians don’t smile. I don my je ne sais quoi when I leave the house as I would my underwear or shoes. It is vulnerable, showing the belly of the face, and yet, she looked at me and grinned. I was elated. We both exited at Chatelet. Her eyes barely left mine, and I watched her walk, turning in the elevator.

For a second, we both looked forward as the doors closed. And as the hydraulics hinged together, so, too, did we. It was a blissful sixteen seconds, until the light of day and busy street drove us apart. Her teeth mashed against my lips in an abrasive hunger befitting a corporate business woman. I liked it. And as quickly as she was with me, her warmth, she was gone, a small drop in the sea of people swirling around us. She slipped her business card into my pocket, pausing at my crotch, before she left. Her phone number is disconnected. I will never see her again, but I’m satisfied that she was able to squeeze me in just the same.


Montorgueil Queen

She was a dancer in Vegas and now she’s a model in Paris. I liked her immediately. We met in a gogo bar slash steakhouse in the 3rd for expensive screwdrivers at eight. I dressed up and took it slowly. She feels like someone I would like to know and explore Paris with. She bought our first round and we launched into conversation. As we spoke, it felt like we’d been friends for ages. One of those connections that makes you feel like the internet actually knows what it’s doing. Or maybe like people are just listening more.

She plans photo shoots by day, pets neighbors’ dogs by night, and invited me to be her model for shoots. I know a good opportunity when I see one, so we planned a shoot juxtaposing power and sex appeal and wealth with a schlub in bondage (yours truly) because I like a little kink with my comedy and a little laughter with my leather. Feminism, music, New England, and running were lobbed across the iron table as though we were experts in conversational sport.

We didn’t kiss. I was too shy, a new for me, but I held her hands a little longer and held her gaze a little stronger and told her I would see her again. I really hope I do.