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.