Paris Encounter {FM, true)

March 2000

It is my first trip abroad in my entire life. I choose Paris for my first
European vacation, my first big trip alone in my life.  Why Paris? Because I've
wanted to visit Paris for my entire life. Why not treat myself to the realization
of a dream. Also, I speak French and want to be able to immerse myself in the
culture. Because there are a million things to do and see; I don't have to make
any plans. Each day all I need to do is wake up and see what I feel like doing,
then do it.

I have gone alone on this trip for several reasons--partly because there is no
one I want to travel with, and partly to prove that I can do it. I can go on a
wonderful vacation by myself. I don't need a male companion, or any companion,
for that matter. I want the freedom to be alone and do what I want, when I want.
I want the freedom to bed a man if I meet one who appeals to me, who captures my
fancy.

I secretly hope I will. I am prepared; I have an entire box of condoms. I am not
audacious enough to think I will be lucky every day, but there are enough to
cover that possibility. It is July, hot and humid, the peak of the tourist
season. My hotel is air-conditioned; I choose to indulge myself in every creature
comfort on this vacation, my first "big trip," including business class seats on
the airplane.

I confess that I worry a little bit about how I will "play" in Paris.  In my late
'40s, I am less confident of my attractiveness to men. My figure has softened and
become more womanly as I have aged. My legs and cleavage are still terrific, but
I seldom wear short skirts or low-cut tops. I am not built to the American
standard of beauty-"slim and athletic." Botticelli would have chosen me for a
model, with my creamy complexion, large breasts and round belly. Despite my
weight, cameras like me and I would have enjoyed modeling for a painter in a
different era.

A few months before the trip I am fortunate to meet a gregarious, charming man
who has an apartment in Paris. He is the retired head of the French department
for a major university in my area. We share a love of things French and classical
music. He regales me with tales on a long flight and we exchange emails. 
Planning my trip, I pepper him with questions- Do I need to tip? How much? What
shall I see? And so forth. He assures me that I will not suffer for lack of male
attention in Paris. He tells me to simply enjoy it. I am skeptical but determined
to be optimistic.

After arriving, I crash for a few hours, then wake and go walking.  Paris is like
a fairyland. Turning each corner I discover a new church, or park or monument. I
wander where my nose leads me, looking up the name of every treasure in my
guidebook, hungry to embrace this city as my own. I walk until my feet scream for
relief, developing a blister from my brand-new walking sandals, then limp back to
the hotel again to crash.  I have fallen in love with the city.

My hotel is in the first arrondissement, the oldest part of Paris, just steps
from Notre Dame and the Louvre. It is a tiny hotel, only 40 rooms. I found it on
the Internet, intrigued by the ad that said, "Four charming hotels in the heart
of Paris." It had the amenities I wanted: breakfast, air conditioning and a hair
dryer. Unlike in the United States, I do not choose a fancy hotel with a
restaurant; I want to experience Paris and to do so means I must dine out, even
if alone.

There is one cultural difference that is a great surprise to me-the hotel room
key has a giant weight on it. When you go out, you leave your key. When you come
back, the person at the front desk gives it back to you. Someone sees your every
coming and going. I am not used to this and it feels like an invasion of privacy 
for me. I am used to large American hotels with their card key entrances where
people come can and go anonymously, with no questions asked, no probing eyes. To
meet a lover, all you need to do is give him your room number and he walks
unobserved to the elevator and then to your door. Not so in Paris, in this little
hotel.  I hope this cultural factor will not prove a hindrance to me on this
trip. I do hope to get laid.

I quickly discover that dinner is the biggest challenge of the trip.  I am
painfully self-conscious being alone. In the summer all the restaurants are open,
the image of sidewalk cafes in Paris as portrayed by the media. I feel
conspicuous. But I must eat and I refuse to visit the McDonald's nearby. I
bravely approach a restaurant each night and ask for a table. I have no problems
being served.

The second challenge with dining out is-what to eat? While my French is adequate
I confess I do not know French cuisine. I recognize the major words:
poulet=chicken, poisson=fish, etc. The problem is the adjectives which precede
the words like chicken or fish. I have no idea what the chef has done to the
chicken or the fish Baked? broiled? fried? These are not words I studied in
college French and I am too self-conscious to spend time looking up culinary
words in a dictionary in a restaurant I choose the "prix fixe" menu at each
restaurant because I have less of a bewildering selection of foods to choose from
but I cannot order with confidence. I eat whatever is put in front of me and it
is mostly fine, but I do not recognize any of it, even though I think it was
supposed to be chicken or fish-or maybe salmon? I think the pink something was
vaguely familiar.

After two nights of not knowing what I have eaten for dinner, I am inspired with
a strategy--eat ethnic! After all, Paris is a major cosmopolitan city, like New
York or Chicago or LA, with every possible type of restaurant within a few steps
of me. I decide to go to restaurants whose cuisine I know, whose food I will
recognize even in French. I don't think I am copping out on experiencing Paris; I
am trying to survive. After all, I speak reasonable French to everyone, petit
dictionnaire with me at all times, and I am traveling about with the greatest of
ease, seeing many wonderful things.

So, in my pursuit of ethnic food, I begin with Italian. It is my third night in
Paris and I confess that in addition to being hungry, I am feeling a little
lonely. No man has leered at me or flirted with me. The Parisians all appear to
be thin and dark and the men are mostly short. I don't look like them, plus I'm
tall. I hope I will meet someone!

The concierge at the hotel recommends an Italian restaurant nearby. It is a
casual restaurant with an indoor and outdoor section. The tables have red and
white checked tablecloths. It is well-lit. The guests there appear relaxed and
comfortable. I am ushered to a table and a waiter brings me a menu. I recognize
all the selections. I am happy.

The waiters are dark-eyed and handsome, of varying ages, but mostly in their 20s.
One of them appears more like a manager and seems a little older, maybe in his
late 30s. We make eye contact. I admire his face and his tousled dark hair and
blue/green eyes. I look at him and catch him with my gaze and we both break into
a smile. Chemistry! I am ecstatic and turn all my energy towards him, drawing him
to me with my eyes and my smile.

Unfortunately I am being served by a different waiter so it is hard to have a
conversation with this man. I think he is surprised at the intensity of my
attention; who is this woman?

After dinner I linger way longer than necessary and we carry on snippets of a
conversation, half in French and half in English, as he serves other customers
and generally supervises. He does not always understand me when I speak French,
which puzzles me. I discover he is Greek, working in an Italian restaurant.  He
asks me to meet him at 12:30 am when he gets off work.  It seems late to me, but
I feel I must seize the opportunity. I finally say yes. After all, I am only here
a few nights; I cannot be coy.

So I go back to my hotel room and read, excited and nervous, then at 12:30 am I
go back to the restaurant. I wait for him at a discreet distance, but where he
can see me. He comes and greets me. We start to walk and talk, mostly in French.
I tell him I have been lonely in Paris and he has made me smile just by his
attentions so far that evening. He smiles but I am not sure he understands what I
am saying.

We ask each other questions about who each other is. He tells me his name is
Niko. He has lived in Paris for 11 years. He is divorced and has a son who is 6
years old who lives in Paris with his ex-wife. He is 34. He seems pleased to
discover that I am single and am not in a relationship at present. We have a hard
time discussing any complicated topics, struggling between languages. I cannot
possibly explain my complicated corporate job working with the Internet. But he
seems to recognize that I am a good person with no hidden agenda, just an
American woman tourist who is attracted to him.

We try to talk for awhile and then give up. We walk a few blocks and then stop on
a street and he reaches for me and takes me in his arms. His lips touch mine  and
his tongue probes my mouth with the gentlest of exploratory kisses. We are the
same height, about 5'9".  We pull apart for a moment and smile at each other,
breathless. Then he takes my hand and we walk to another street, which is less
busy.

We stop. He again takes me in his arms. Then the passionate kissing begins in
earnest. He is a powerful, sexy, hungry kisser, who devours me in the way I want
to be devoured. I have the sense of him eating me alive in an erotic way. But we
both want more. He begins to reach into my blouse and fondle my breasts, first
through the bra, and then finally unhooking it. He pulls one breast free and
strokes and massages it with his hand.  I pull back a bit, saying, "My hotel is
very nearby-let's go there."

He says he cannot take me to the hotel because of the relationship between the
owners of the hotel and the restaurant. We cannot go to his place because he
lives far away, at least 45 minutes, and he has no car; he takes the Metro. I
rearrange myself in my bra and we begin to walk again, in search of a quiet
street with more privacy.

But there is no quiet street with privacy. Even deserted streets at 1 a.m. have
people walking through them.  There seems to be no dark place to go.

So we stop again and go back to kissing, tongues tangling and playing and
teasing. Then he frees both my breasts and kisses them, fondles and sucks them in
turn. I don't care that he smokes and that he needs a shave-he is warm and sexy
and wonderfully male. I feel his hard cock pressed up against me as he grinds his
hips into me.

They say Paris is the city of lovers and I would agree. People pass us on the
street as we engage in this passionate display, his hand reaching up under my
blouse, freeing first one  breast and then the other, his head going down to suck
on my nipple as I arch my head back with pleasure. It is wild to be almost taken
there on the street, with people passing by. No one cares. This is nothing
special. This is Paris. The French obsession with sex plays out wonderfully on
the streets, or anywhere. I am thousands of miles from home and no one knows me
here. I want a man and I have found one. For tonight I am French.

I am powerfully aroused by his kisses and sucking on my breasts and am able to do
little more than stand there and enjoy it. I try to stimulate him in return by
kissing and nibbling on  his ear. His quick intake of breath tells me that he
likes it. But as he is reaching into my pants, attempting to undo them, I pull
back and say stop. I will not bend over and let him fuck me in the street. I want
him to fuck me, but it must be in the privacy of my hotel room. I want to lie
down with him, to be naked with him, to feel a man's body in me and around me,
the warmth of his skin against me. I don't just want his cock-I want all of him. 
The experience of a man is much more than just his cock.

He struggles with this conundrum. I cannot understand how this can be so serious
and he cannot really explain it.  Has no woman ever picked him up before? Why
can't he simply go to my room with me and pleasure me?

We are both frustrated and want to fuck. But I am adamant on this point.
Eventually he decides that he can tell them at the hotel that he's escorting me
for my safety, since it is almost 1:30 am - except that he really says nothing at
all once we're back at the hotel. I get my key from the man at the front desk and
we go to my room. He says he cannot stay long.

Once in the room, we quickly tear our clothes off and lay down on the bed.  His
body is beautiful to me - medium build and no gut on him - black hair on his
chest and a small forest of soft hair on his belly. He wears black, silk bikini
briefs, emphasizing his sexy body. His body reminds me of John Travolta in
"Saturday Night Fever," compact and perfect.

I suck his cock and then he has me put the condom on - he has never used one
before and does not know how. He slides inside me and begins thrusting-hard and
fast. He comes quickly and it is over. He apologizes and says in rough English,
"It was--short." I say it doesn't matter and really it doesn't. What matters is
that we were attracted to each other, and he turned me on. He desired me and he
fucked me. I felt this man's hands and mouth and body all over  mine, skin to
skin, mouth to mouth, breath to breath-- and he buried his cock in me and
reminded me of what it feels like to be a woman, taken by a man.

What matters is that I am on vacation -I wanted a man and I found him. In my
favorite dreams and fantasies a vacation is richly filled with sex. Unfortunately
there is no way to order it in advance like a hotel reservation. ("I'd like to
reserve one hot lover for 9 nights in Paris, please. Only men with strong libidos
need apply. Expert at cunnilingus also desirable. Must appreciate full-figured
women. Please send resume, recent photo and salary requirements to
mdurois@yahoo.com. French or English-speakers required.")

He dresses quickly and worries about money for the taxi. He lives far away and
the Metro is no longer running at this hour. I give him 200FF to make sure he has
enough. He says he will pay it back, but I say it doesn't matter, and don't
really expect to see it again. I am sure he needs it more than I do.

To help him keep up appearances I also dress again and walk to the entryway of
the hotel with him. As we are leaving he says, in broken English, "When you go
back to the United States, I hope you find someone to love."

I return to my room, alone again. For a long time I sit there on the bed, not
wanting to shower, wanting to smell the smoky maleness of him, the lingering
smell of him on my body.