from new york to paris
5 january
New York: I showed up at the sexy sounding client and was not disappointed. Not
only did he look hot, he was an expert cocksucker, posessed a beautiful,
accomodating ass, and I found myself in one of
those "I love this job" moments. There's something to be said for Sicilians.
But business was slow this trip. I did see another client down near Wall Street
and the first thing I noticed about him was how great his hair looked, but I
didn't say anything. After the
session he confessed I reminded him of his grandfather because I was wearing boxers.
Then he ran off a list of unsollicited opinions, one being how annoyed he gets
when people comment about how great his hair looks.
Saw one of my LA regulars who happened to be on the east coast, and thank god, since
I really didn't see anyone else for the rest of the trip. It pays to treat people
well.
I went back to New England to visit family and my dad gave me a ride to the
airport. I was excited to get back to England, though not so excited to be spending
my days in an unheated building in the dead of a British winter. Fortunately, I
had a heated option for sleeping, and I knew I'd be going to Paris soon,
and that would include lots of heat, as I'd find out.
18 January
Paris: I had been to Paris once before, sort of. I was waiting for a train to Amsterdam,
and had a few hours to kill. I remember seeing rabbits on the flight runway.
This trip was way beyond.
Some background: I had started a dialogue with a fan of this journal, and last fall we finally met.
He was in New York during one of my visits, and I agreed to meet in person for dinner, as
long as I could bring a friend. I brought Pop Tart.
Pop Tart and I were both a little wary, meeting a stranger
I only knew through the internet, but the evening turned out to
be very entertaining. We were wined and dined at Cipriani's in SoHo (when our
host listed options, Pop Tart practically knocked me off my seat, stage whispering
"Cipriani's, pick Cipriani's"). Our host, let's call him Rosco, treated us like
celebrities and by the end of dinner collected a set of shot glasses. Afterwards Pop Tart and I escorted
our new friend to his apartment and agreed, we should be taken out more often.
So, when Rosco offered a weekend in Paris, I made a deal: I'll pay for my
transportation, and you cover everything else. He went for it, and I went to Paris.
I was able to plan ahead and get a discount on the chunnel train. I felt
very jet set in my navy jacket, navy sweater, midnight blue jeans, and a
silver pendant Pop Tart made for me. I studied the small emergency French phrase
book I bought the previous week, focusing on such usefull phrases
as 'hi, I'm new in town' and 'do you have a place to go nearby?'. Actually,
I just wanted to memorize the more mundane 'I'm sorry' and 'I don't understand'.
I had sent e-mails out to fellow
escorts in France, and also had a number for a friend of a friend someone thought I
should meet.
The first little snag developed when I tried to check in, but Rosco came down
stairs and cleared things up. What about 'a boy and his uncle' didn't the clerk
understand? When I got to my little room, I instantly felt like something out of
the travel pages of last century's Vogue. From the balconey window
I could see the Louvre directly across the street. And there was heat and a hot shower.
Rosco turned out to be my escort for the weekend, taking me to tony restaurants and
museums during the day and letting me tear around on my own after dinner. In
spite of the January cold, the City of Light looked splendid.
After making several phone calls, I made a connection with the friend of a friend.
I could understand my friend's attraction to the pony dick, but let's just say I
was glad to get this man out the door. I don't mind fisting somebody, but I'm used to
being alerted before 'hand'. He did leave an interesting tidbit: mention that
my hotel was near a notorious gay sex place. I now had
a mission.
The next day Rosco and I went to where Vogue (which century, I don't know) said we'd find the best croissants
in the city. Wandering in the Latin Quarter (check something else off my
life list) we found the bakery and took shelter out of the rain in an entry.
Then the Louvre, Venus de Milo, Mona
Lisa, the life list kept getting shorter and shorter. That night we could not
get into the restaurant we wanted, no big deal, just wandering around the first
arrondisment looking for an alternative was itself a feast.
After dinner, we went to our separate rooms. Rosco went to sleep, I assumed, and I went on
the prowl. Confident in my abiltiy to sniff out available cock, I stalked the
Parisian streets, letting my divining rod lead me to a local spa.
The rules governing sex spaces and where they are located translate everywhere, I
reasoned, so just as if hunting a new club in the states, I searched for a poorly
lit side street, single men, drivers looking for parking
space, empty store fronts. No luck.
The only thing I could bank on was that it was not situated near the police station.
What I did find was a charming pedestrian passage near the opera, a French YMCA type building
where students were dancing to French accordion music, and a gay couple with their
groceries and a dog. The couple didn't look like they'd admit knowing the spa's location.
I decided to call off the hunt and get more information tomorrow.
The next day, Napoleon's Tomb and The Museum D'Orsay. Ok, no items checked off, but
plenty of unexpected treats, including getting cruised on the sly by a cute guy
with his female friend. I developed a new interest in Art Nouveau, the Arts and
Crafts movement, and the artist formally known as Nijinski, but pounding the marble for the last two days (in wingtips, no
less) began to take its toll on Rosco and me. After a good lunch at a brasserie
we grabbed a taxi instead of walking to the hotel. It was time for a nap and then, the highlight of
the trip: our dinner at a four star restaurant.
To prepare for this event, after my nap I took a lavish shower, and
gave myself a manicure and a fresh shave. Then I ironed my jacket, slacks, shirt
and even the Versace tie Rosco gave
me for the occaision. Before putting on my clothes I stepped onto the balconey
naked for a breath of French air.
Putting on my outfit, I looked quite posh- until I looked at my slacks. As we used
to say in junior high, I had ESP: extra short pants. Ok, part of my job for the evening
was to keep people so interested in what was above the waist that they wouldn't
notice my socks. I was partly sucessful.
The restaurant was located in a major hotel that used to be
a palace, and it stood alone in a city where buildings look like they've been
squeezed together by a Tokyo subway attendant. For weeks I had visualized this
moment, walking into a crowded dining hall, surveying the rich and famous, women
dripping in Cartier, men wearing their yacht caps (in winter, no less) and I
maintaining my innocence while Mugler and Gaultier argued over who saw me first.
The the man I'll refer to as the 'head waiter', for lack of knowledge of the
correct term, showed us to our table.
Although the room was smaller than I had imagined, and not filled with jewels,
deck shoes or battling couture designers, I was still floored. This was the fanciest place I've ever eaten in, or been eaten
in. And as the ingenue, I got the sans prix menu.
Watching the waiters orchestrate the elaborate meals fascinated me, especially a couple
times when I caught them covering for a small glitch and sharing discreet 'whoops'
smiles. One waiter in particular, who looked like a soccer captain, got me wanting
to know more about French service.
Being a vegetarian who doesn't smoke in a country where it seemed everything, even
dessert, had beef or chicken in it, I was limited in my choices all weekend, and
at this establishment I was forced to choose truffles, not only for my apppetizer,
but for my entree as well. Major item checked off the life list. Rosco had various
animals done up in various mouth wateringly smelling versions. He would regret
this later.
The food was astounding, the service impeccable, the Texan tourists shrieking at
the next table appalling. It seems Muffy and husband saw Jessica and husband eating
and couldn't resist coming into the restaurant to squawk like macaws. Oddly, I wasn't
bothered; must have been the calming side effect of so many truffles.
Perhaps it was a mistake, but I have never experienced a dessert where you start
out with dessert appetizers- amazing little chocolate things- and then get dessert,
and then dessert apertifs- more amazing little chocolate things! Everything superb.
At one point I wanted to see the bathroom, so I excused myself and asked the soccer
captain 'ouver le bain' and he started walking toward the door. I knew it, he'd have
to show me personally, but no, he just wanted to show me the stairs. I looked behind
me as I descended to see if he would follow and caught the head waiter giving me
that look that translates into 'what are you doing later?' So he was a head
waiter after all. And he wasn't looking at my socks.
I had the men's room, nothing special, completely to myself, even the attendant was gone. I
looked in the mirror thinking wow- no, not at my reflection but remembering one
of the great things about life: you just never know. I made sure there was
nothing in my teeth and strode upstairs.
Back at the table, it was time to leave. Rosco was impressed by the bill, he
wanted to spend a lot for dinner, and indeed he did. He thanked me again for
being such nice company, and now it was time to head back to the hotel and call
it a night.
He wanted to just take the night off and go to bed early. I had another kind of
dessert apertif in mind but needed an address. Once inside my room I changed from
Cinderella to Satyr Fella. Not able to get Mr.
Red Hankie Right Pocket on his mobile, I did contact another local who gave me
a name and street of the nearby 'spa'. When I asked the concierge
for the direction of the street, something like Rue du Bon Enfants, he gave me
a sly grin.
And no kidding, this place was nearby, and to
my surprise, it was down the street from the police station. So much for my
divining rod, which I was about to put to better use.
Inside, I folded my clothes and placed them nicley in my locker, this was after
all Paris, and I walked around like everyone else in
nothing but a towel. Here was a buffet of another kind, and I enjoyed several
delicious flavors of French cuisine, starting with someone Moroccan.
After getting, and giving, my fill, and because it was closing time, I
headed back to my locker to get dressed for my walk back to the hotel. That
was my plan, anyway, but I noticed one guy I hadn't seen inside the human
habitrail, and I thought to myself, I feel like a night cap.
Turns out he was an American on vacation, from Illinois, and he invited me to
his hotel room near
the gay section of town. Just as well, as I didn't think I could get him into
my hotel without some questioning by the staff.
No such problem at his place, a far cry from my lux digs. Still, it was
private and after clearing the luggage and clothes off his bed, accomodating. But
there was no way I was going to sleep over and miss another night overlooking the
Louvre. I knew enough of Paris now to find my way to my hotel without a problem. When I
got back I took another naked turn on my balconey, then flopped into bed savoring
the whole trip.
The next morning, I made arrangements to meet a friend of mine visiting from New
York. Rosco had taken ill, something he ate upset his stomach and made him lose
his expensive dinner, sounded like foie gras revenge. He was staying inside
all day but wanted me to come get him so he could take me to the train station,
and I moved my luggage to his room and checked out of mine.
I met Tess at the Pyramides. She looked as cute as ever, and very continental.
Anyone who can grow up on Staten Island and not have that accent is destined for
international travel. She also spoke fluent French, which made everything easier.
We first met at a Prostitutes Of New York meeting a few years ago, and now she was
staying in France to research and write a thesis paper on trafficking in women. She decided to
take on the academic whore bashing by becoming an academic herself. We toured
the Marais, looking for the strolls. The strip clubs were already open.
We visited Notre Dame, check off another item, and toured the relequies display
where you could see a splinter off the crucifix or Saint Sophie's bone chip. I
was particulary taken by the saintly looking guy on the other side of the room, but
couldn't concoct a plan to get rid of his girlfriend and excuse myself from Tess, so
off we went in search of a suitable substitute, French chocolates.
Being Monday, her favorite place was closed, but she found another, and I got a bag
of two kinds to take back to my mates at the pub. I tried one and it sent me into
near orgasm and I remembered I didn't promise anyone that I'd bring back anything,
but I left the rest of the chocolates alone.
Tess also introduced me to what is now my favorite grafitti: tiles. She told me
about this grafitti where instead of spray painting a silly name as a dog would
urinate to mark its territory, this person or group of persons tagged with
small pieces of tile art.
Sometimes it filled a crack in a sidewalk, others tags were replicas of Space Invaders
or Pac Man characters. On the way to a picnic by the Seine, she pointed out a
giant one under a bridge.
When it was time to head back, we parted ways and I walked back to the hotel to
meet up with Rosco. I don't know why, but I sometimes think I have an approachable
aura, as strangers will come up to me and ask directions no matter where I am. In
London it happened three times in one day. Paris was no exception. What was
exceptional was that the man asked me, in French, for directions to the one street
I knew, and I was able to give him directions, in French.
Rosco was feeling weak but better. We grabbed a taxi to the bus and again he thanked
me for accompanying him for the weekend. I thanked him for such a great time, it
was an experience of a lifetime.
Soon I was back through the chunnel into Very Colde England.
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