Standing On A Chair

Telling it like I see it…

Stories from the Chair: My One-legged Lover in Paris – Part Two

I didn’t initially intend to even talk about the achievement of my number one objective in Paris: to have sex with a French boy.  But my fingers got away from me on the keyboard last week in Part One, so now I have to talk about it.

Plus, I’m here to tell the truth anyway, when all is said and done.

I mean, what could be more delicious and intoxicating than feeling free enough to do absolutely anything one wants to do, without the debilitating fear of repercussion; of judgment; of criticism?

And another thing:  I had absolutely no fear.  No fear at all.  I attribute that to being only twenty-two, and being youthfully and unfathomably ignorant.

Anyway, On that first night, I ducked into a place a few blocks from my hotel, which did not turn out to be “the hottest nightclub in Paris,” but did turn out to be the perfect spot for me; a smallish establishment with low pink lighting, with a long bar, a dance floor, and lots of tiny round tables for two.  The room was pretty packed, but I found an empty stool at the bar, ordered a Cutty and water with ice (thankfully, bartenders worldwide understand “alcohol” as a universal language) and watched a mop-topped, Beatles wannabe foursome as they set up their equipment in a corner.

“Pierre” sat on the next stool over, his back turned toward me, in deep French conversation with a fellow to his right.  When he heard me order, he swung around to face me, and with a big smile said, “Américaine?

He knew about three words in English, and at that point, I knew about two words in French. 

He was young, lean and blonde, with big brown eyes, a rather large nose, full lips and a dimple in his chin.  His hair fell to his shoulders in large waves.  He wore bangs. 

The attraction was instantaneous. 

We laughed a lot because we didn’t understand each other most of the time.  We drank, we danced, we drank some more, and then he walked me back to my hotel room, where I pulled him through the door and rushed him directly to my bed.

Maybe it was the way he whispered in my ear, in French.

Maybe it was his slow, sensuous approach; his soft touch.

I certainly came to a new and deep understanding of that thing somebody said, “Sex is a universal language.”

As dawn cracked on the morning of my second day in Paris, I politely sent him on his way, having to use hand signals, gesticulations and even some grunts.  I somehow got that he wanted to share the day with me, but I really needed to be on my own. 

It wasn’t easy letting Pierre go, mainly because I really liked him.  I think. 

But I had new things to see, new people to meet, new places to go.  

The sun was up in Paris!  I couldn’t sleep at a time like that!  So forgoing any real shut-eye for going on three days, I showered and threw on some clothes…probably my hippie jeans, a tie-dyed poncho, sandals, and a floppy wide-brimmed hat, if I remember correctly.  Pretty cliché for 1970.

And then I shot out of my hotel like a cannonball and hit the ground running, having no idea how different life would become for me in Paris, by the end of that second day.

Stay Tuned for Part Three


April 3, 2012 - Posted by | Foreign Travel | , , , , , , , , , , , , ,


  1. I’m not surprised you fell for Mr. matching chin dimple, though I am surprised that a city could get you out the door before noon! Can’t wait for part three!

    Comment by gerinomad | April 3, 2012 | Reply

  2. Jill, I want, no, I need to read part 3! I have to know what happened on day 2 in Paris.

    Comment by Linda Wines Stokes | April 6, 2012 | Reply

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