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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