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

I have alluded to my propensity for getting sick when partaking of foreign travel.  I ingested one fucking killer bacteria or another whenever I went anywhere outside the U.S.

Paris was no exception.

But it was about the timing.  My God, what lousy timing.

Anyway, moving right along, the next morning’s breakfast with my buddies turned out to be the last breakfast with my buddies, although I didn’t know it at the time, or I likely would have bawled like a baby.  We had all grown so close to each other.  I took a lot of humorous abuse from them about my new-found “love” with the tall, cute American singer.  And when the meal concluded, we all hugged, as was our custom, and then I ran off with Chris, who had arrived at my little hotel precisely at noon.

The first thing we did was hop on a bus for a short ride to the Eiffel Tower.  And that’s where we spent the entire afternoon, doing the tower tour, strolling and trolling along the river and around the grassy areas, stopping to kiss in the middle of everywhere, right smack in front of people who paid no attention because apparently it was not unusual to see people making out in public in Paris, especially at the Eiffel Tower.

We topped off the day at a nearby restaurant, where we ate what Chris ordered in his gorgeous and flawless French.  There were foods I’d never eaten before, like brains and pancreas, which Chris insisted I try, which I disliked immensely.  We also ate Steak Tartare and escargots, which I thought were amazing, and I remember it so well because it was the first time I’d eaten either of them.  

“Let’s go back to my place,” said Chris.  We were nearly finished with our second bottle of wine, and at that point we couldn’t keep our hands off each other.  Under the table our legs stayed intertwined, and above the table it was difficult to eat, really, because we couldn’t stop stroking each other’s faces and arms, and just imagine deep tongue kissing while trying to chew and swallow food.  It was ridiculous.

Even though there was a kind of misty-drizzle-like rainfall, we chose to walk to the high-class apartment building where he shared a vast, two-bedroom split design flat with an aspiring young and gorgeous French actress named “Adrienne” who shared an agent with Chris. By the time we arrived, it was pouring down rain and we laughed hysterically at ourselves, completely drenched and still kissing and groping at each other as we walked through his front door.  Adrienne brought us a couple of huge plush towels and we both stripped right then and there while she wrapped them around us and chattered along in high-pitched French while I quickly stole a glimpse of Chris’s mechanical left leg. 

Adrienne then retreated in one direction while Chris picked me up and carried me in another.  He plucked me down in the middle of his bedroom, unwrapped his towel and wrapped it up again around the both of us, whereupon I dropped my towel to the floor, and we stood there, our naked bodies pressed together inside one towel, our arms around each other so tightly, and we just held each other, not wanting to move an inch, not wanting to move ever.

Until I felt my stomach suddenly tilt and roll, then lurch, and I jumped away from that heavenly cocoon and screamed, “BATHROOM!  WHERE IS THE BATHROOM?”

Thank God it was just a few feet away, because I barely made it in time.

And there I remained for the next two hours, shitting in the toilet while puking in the sink and sobbing in between, as the new love of my life waited patiently outside the closed, and locked, bathroom door.  

Stay Tuned for Part Eleven