Standing On A Chair

Telling it like I see it…

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

I stole a quick glance at Sarah and saw the dawning of fear in her eyes.  And I knew…we both knew that we could be in some serious danger.  I had to think of something quickly.

“What?” I said to Omar with a winning smile.  “Absolutely not!  You guys are fantastic.  I’ve had more fun tonight than I’ve had during my whole time in Paris!”

He smiled back, thank God, touched my cheek and said, “This is good!”

Whew.

“It’s just that you’ve gotten us so stoned,” I continued, “all I want to do now is dance with you!  Right Sarah?  Don’t you feel like dancing with Farouk?”

She nodded her head in agreement, still too rattled to speak.

And to my enormous relief, we left their apartment in another taxi and took off for the club.  I knew we would be safer in a public place.  There was just something in Omar’s eyes that said to me, I am a lunatic filled with menace and hate under this gorgeous exterior of mine.

Relieved also that they hadn’t lied about being members of a private club, the taxi turned down a narrow alley, and behold, we were at the entrance of Le Régine. 

Just so you know, since I can’t remember the name of the real club, or where it was in the city, I Googled ‘private nightclubs in Paris’ and borrowed this one for my story.  And after all, since Le Régine has existed since the 1940’s, it actually could have been where I was!

Omar and Farouk presented their membership cards to a tall, thin young man standing vigil at the door.  His hair was white-blond, parted on the side, and hung perfectly straight down way past his shoulders.  (Think Lucius Malfoy.)  The men said things back and forth in French, and then we were invited inside.

We walked down a rather narrow hallway and checked our coats in.  That was kind of cool.  There was even a coat check girl!  And then we followed Omar and Farouk down another hallway, where there was a young woman who opened a door and we were suddenly in a large, dimly lit room full of loud, drinking, laughing, gorgeous people, who were mostly dancing where they stood, some alone, some with partners.  Almost all the women wore micro-miniskirts and boots.  The guys?  Hip hugging flared jeans, boots, leather vests, all with varying lengths of long hair.

We scanned the room for celebrities, and all we could find was one of the guys from Mungo Jerry, a British group that would soon be famous for “In the Summertime.”  Truth be told, I thought the song sucked, but I guess I was in the minority because it turned out to be a huge hit.

The bar, situated in the very center of the room, was large and square and adorned with long, brightly colored fluorescent tubes under the fiberglass surface.  We headed there right away and “the boys” bought us drinks. 

Then I noticed the band.  Omar said they were American.  I noticed the lead singer.  I couldn’t take my eyes off of him.  They weren’t doing anything original as I recall.  Beatles and Stones, that kind of thing.  But they were really good.  I slid off my bar stool and walked closer to the stage to get a better look. 

There was something about that singer.

Handsome in a boyish way, he wore tight jeans and a long belted tank top, leather tied around his bicep, a leather headband, straight brown hair just past his ears with straight cut bangs, and black leather boots with pointed toes.

We made eye contact.

We held eye contact.

Then to my horror I was jerked around by a strong grip on my wrist, and suddenly face-to-face with an enraged Omar, who demanded to know what the fuck I was doing.  He teetered a bit, visibly drunk.

That jerk of the wrist…jerked me right smack back into reality.

I pulled away from his tight grasp and said something like I needed to pee, and I practically ran back to the bar, grabbed Sarah and dragged her with me to the ladies room, which wasn’t easy because at first I didn’t know where it was, but somehow we managed to find it.

We stood together in front of a large mirror, breathing heavily, and I grabbed her hand.

“We’ve got to get out of here, Sarah,” I said to her reflection. “These guys are fucking crazy.”

“I know,” she said.  “Farouk wouldn’t let me off the bar stool to go check out the band with you.  I’m scared shitless.”

“Okay,” I said.  “The crowd is pretty thick out there, so we should be able to sneak out if we’re careful.  We’ll head straight for the door, left down that hall, remember?  Then to the coat-check, grab the coats, and out the front door.  Got that?”

Sarah started to cry.

“No, Sarah!” I said, holding her shoulders with both hands and forcing her to look at me.  “Not now!  We’ve got to concentrate on getting out of here.”

I took her hand, held it really tight, and feeling like we were Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid in their last scene alive, out of the ladies room we went.

Stay Tuned for Part Seven

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May 1, 2012 - Posted by | Foreign Travel | , , , , , , , , , , , ,

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