Paris, a California story

Word count 1761 (14 min read)

No map. I’d already seen the Louvre and the Eiffel Tower. I wasn’t looking for a crowd. I was just going to walk wherever my feet took me. The streets were wet, shining back up against the lights of the city. Not like California. I felt like I had brought a piece of California to this cold, rainy city. A warm, sunshine kiss to a cold, but romantic, lover. I passed a chocolatier, all the pretty, perfect pieces of chocolate placed so carefully in the window, imprinted with script and dressed with frosting. I didn’t have the heart to walk in and buy anything as if touching them would ruin their magic. I was afraid none of it could match the perfect expectation I had in my mind. So, I continued walking. Every step felt like I was walking into another dimension, a place so far away, no one there to see or judge. I passed many blocks of tidy, quaint residences with a distinct character before I felt the contrast of sex clubs and apartment windows with bars on them as I realize I’d wandered into the red light district.

I stopped and opened the pack of cigarettes I had just bought for my 3-day trip because I only smoke on vacations, especially in France. I took out a cigarette and was holding it and looked up and realized I was in front of not just any sex club but the famous Moulin Rouge. Hmm. Accidental tourist. Moulin Rouge was featuring a burlesque show that evening and I was imagining how great that show would be when he interrupted me.

I was still holding the cigarette. He extended a lighter. I noticed his pants right away, they were light blue denim but they looked so soft, and they seemed to hug him so right, I wanted to touch him right away. “Thank you” I said, and let him light my cigarette. He didn’t seem to understand what I meant when I said ‘thank you’. He looked at me without anything to say, just admiration in his eyes, a little shyness, and no expectation of me especially. He was not French, he was from Egypt. Neither of us spoke French, I didn’t speak Arabic, and he didn’t speak English. We were left with about 20 common words between us, leaving room for “Elvis”, “rock n’ roll” and “cafe”.

“Champs-Élysées?” he said.

“Ok,” I said.

And we walked to the underground station, where he paid my way and we waited in silence, smiling at each other, oblivious to the grime on the inside walls of the Metro. We boarded the first train that stopped. We hadn’t said a word to one another on the way there. A man sat across from us, watching us, clearly enjoying each other’s company and smiled at us when he got off. Amun and I had fallen fast in love starting 38 minutes ago and nothing could stop us now.

When we reached downtown, Amun took a picture of me below the Arc de Triomphe de l’Étoile, and then we walked along the promenade, just like in the movies, except with a spicy ending.

I put my hand on my chest and looked at his deep brown eyes. “California,” I said. He smiled politely, eyes sinking down to my bosom. “California.” He said back to me, suggestively, with a twinkle in his deep brown eyes and the edge of his sexy mouth turned up at the corner telling me he had things to show me, even if, in fact, he had no idea what California meant. He raised his eyebrows and said something that didn’t include any recognizable words. I shook my head, No. Then he gestured to the waiter thinking I wanted something to eat or drink. I shook my head again, No. A moment passed. We looked around. “Ah!” he said, surprised at himself for remembering a word in English, “Painter!” and he pretended to hold a paint brush and paint. I nodded and smiled. He said something else and looked somewhat desperately at me now, smoking his cigarette nervously. I pursed my lips, bewildered. “Amun,” pointing to himself, “Painter.” he said. I nodded, finally.

We sat in silence for a few minutes, finishing our coffee, returning to the long gazes and taking each other in, resolved in maybe, comfortably resigned to our verbal communication handicap. He paid the waiter and we continued to walk a bit further until we came to a park at the end of the promenade. The park was dark except for a few lamp posts shining lonely spotlights into the evening. We walked in and sat on a bench. He touched my hand and we looked, with bated breath, at one another. Finally. The good stuff.

By the time he kissed my lips it felt like they might burst, they were so full of anticipation for him. Every part of my body wanted to jump inside of him somehow. I couldn’t remember many other times I’d been so ready. Boy, was I ready. My painter, my lover, take me! Take me on this bench! Passionate French kisses on a Parisian bench in a quaint park with a handsome artist? Check!

I could feel the universe spinning around me when I closed my eyes. His lips tasted like that chocolate I had looked at in the window, bittersweet perfection lingering in a complexity of notes with which my mind danced and my memory worked hard to record, somehow aware of the fact that this would be a fleeting moment and I’d want to remember it in as much detail as I could.

I reached down and ran my hand up his thigh and quickly onto his hard cock through his pants. I could tell from this moment that he was very into me indeed and that I would not be disappointed. I undid his button and zipper and pulled it down so I could see everything bare. Then without thinking much about where I was, I looked around quickly to be sure no one was close by and lowered my head down.

Blow jobs are one of my secret powers. I felt him resist and look nervously around him. I didn’t stop. And he didn’t stop me. We were in this together. After only a few seconds, he relaxed and groaned and gently placed his hand on my shoulder. On one hand I felt like it was just the two of us, but on the other I felt that we had joined thousands of lovers that had done exactly what we were doing, just feet away and hours before, a collective love cycle, turning over and over. Paris is a place that attracts lovers, or spontaneously creates them from two people standing in front of the Moulin Rouge and we were just next in line. And so, the ride continued.

Not wanting it to end too early, he stopped me. I fumbled in my purse and showed him my hotel address from my itinerary and we took a cab across the city back to my room. When we got there he insisted on undressing me, which he did very slowly. The small rooms in the hotel Paris made our passion for each other feel compressed, concentrated, like bubbles in a champagne bottle. His hands, magnets on my body, and mine on his, and the last of our clothes fell to the floor as we climbed onto the bed in the room dimly-lit by a vanity light near the bathroom.

Amun’s body was thick with the muscles of a blue collar worker, he was young, maybe 25, and laid back confidently now, waiting for me to approach him. Here I was, as confident as I had ever been in my late 30’s, fit and at my sexual height, ready to go. I laid on the bed next to him.

I tried to take him in my mouth again but he stopped me and pushed me gently backward and spread my legs to see if I would let him go down on me. I accepted with great relief and Anum began kissing my thighs and then touched my pussy, spread my lips and started to lick my clit. I was a bit nervous because of the communication gap that I might not be able to guide him about what felt best but it turned out that moans and groans are a universal language and Amun was a natural, clearly some wonderfully experienced woman had taught him exactly what to do and he had been a diligent student. Before I knew it, that magical feeling came over me and I came, hollering “Yes!” “Yes!” in unison with him “Yes!” Finally, we were speaking the same language.

Amun’s vocabulary seemed to grow after that, along with other things. Next, he sat up and then lowered himself upon me, bringing his big cock closer and finally giving it to me. When he entered me, the anticipation had been so high that I thought I would explode. He started saying all kinds of things to me…”I love you”, “I love you, California” “Marry me, California”….I thought it was sweet that he thought my name was California so I didn’t correct him. In and out he went, every movement, bringing us closer to climax, closer together, closer into this dream together. He held my breasts like they were gold, with both hands like treasure, and laid his head down on them and smiled. He smelled my hair and nestled into my neck like a happy puppy and I felt his cock get so hard I had to adjust my hips. “California!” he said and he came.

We made love 3 times, all the while him proposing to the state of California over and over. Honestly, he asked for a fourth time but I was too spent. But who can blame him for asking! I was so happy we were at my hotel because I had barely enough energy to put on clothes to walk him to the door.

“Tomorrow?” he said and pointed to the hotel to show me where he wanted to meet. “OK” I said, knowing I would not be there tomorrow because I was leaving on a 6 am flight. I knew this would be it, this would be all, this would be all there ever would be for Amun and I and it was the best. “California,” he said, and his eyes and voice softened and he kissed me one last time.

“California, indeed.”

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