Paris: Day Four - Oops, Did I Miss Day Three, Part Two?
I am getting really pissed off with this place. I almost want to get out of Paris, it's driving me crazy with lust. All the stuff they say is true. It's one of those myths that are based in fact, on fact.
I was walking up the Blvd Du Montparnasse to grab a bite a 'La Closerie Des Lilas' where Hemingway's 'The Sun Also Rises' (I've never read it either) is set and was written... and there's this middle aged couple standing in middle of the broad footpath. She has short henna'd hair, and is short but nicely figured. He is dark, tanned, trim and healthy. His hands are running through her hair, repeatedly, his fingers apart spreading her hair into small clumps of red again and again, as he plants a huge series of kisses on her. She is responding in kind. They continue for maybe 30-40 seconds, maybe over a minute. GET A ROOM!
This is what I am talking about...
The restaurant is closed in the afternoon so I turn left and hey, flâneur exceptionnel, here is the leafy parkland leading to the entrance to Le Jardin du Luxembourg.
This was supposed to be a relaxed day resting in my room because my feet are buggin' me, as expected. However before I know it I have covered nearly as much ground as Day One. In fact I am only a few yards from the rear of the L'Odèon.
As I hit Le Jardin, more couples are at it. A solidly built man/boy (maybe 20) is kneeling on the grass in one of the rectangular swathes of green parkland - and it is a beautiful day! - his knees slightly spread to adjust his height and a smaller girl/woman (same age, younger) is attacking his skin with her lips. She holds his head still with both hands and plants kisses all across his face, his mouth, his eyes. She is slim yet curvaceous and bending her body, arching her back, squirming, forcing her face up to accommodate the task. The position she holds, it is an artistic tour-de-force but transient, live, a piece of performance art. I am shaking in the knees. He however takes this assault nonchalantly, almost like it was his grandmother doing this... and, then, when she pauses, the returns the favour...
I groan... inwardly - shit - I hope that wasn't out loud...
Everywhere I look today there are more couples; lying on the ground, sitting on walls by fountains ignoring the view, reaching across to each other from adjacent chairs, at subway entrances, as taxis arrive, in restaurants behind the glass... kissing, hugging, laughing, deep deep deep in love.
It's just like the Joni Mitchell song that Spike mentioned in my other post! Is there something in the water, in the air? Maybe it's in the magazine covers - a totally topless woman with a money-stuffed brief bikini and prominent natal cleft (camel-toe, to you clowns) 'graces' the cover of the latest "Video Hits" in the newstands. No, I do not have a copy... yet.
I wander down and rest in the sun with other tourists (judging by accents and guide-books) on a chair by the potential cricket ground at the front of the Palais, try to read to distract myself, but I drift off...
Didn't I tell you it was a beautiful day?
When the sun goes behind a cloud, the wind is brisk, chilly; it reminds me of Melbourne. I rouse myself and walk on. I have a choice once I pass the Fontaine de Médicis and leave Le Jardin Du Luxembourg. Do I turn left and hit the restaurant Le Rostand, or go straight ahead to, what is this place? - ah, The Pantheon. So, I'm back in the Latin Quarter. No question, no choice really, is there?
Looks to the left........................... Looks to the right...
Another young couple sits at the table next to me. The dark-haired girl has dramatically sculpted features: a wide mouth and big teeth, square jaw, overly-high cheekbones, strong nose, large wide-spaced black eyes - the mixture of these individually compromising features is stunning. She could be a model. I am stunned. Maybe she is a model. Then it strikes me: she looks like the Ruelas statue! (Sorry couldn't sneak a photograph, too close, boyfriend would have killed me...)
I groan, inwardly again, but pretend it is over the millefuelle that has been placed in front of me. Maybe it is about this dessert - another berry concoction that is just superbe.
I ponder my plight. What the fuck am I doing living in shitty dull, dull, dull, dull, desperately dull Singapore?
I groan a lot... Again and again, unique and spirited looking women walk past. I can't help it, I just keep groaning. I groan out loud, I am aware of it. Then, to deflate my rising passion, reality slaps me in the face. I catch a reflection of my body in a window and - for a totally different reason, in a different tone - I groan again.
Look at that fat ugly pig... Archetype, phenotype, stereotype.
Christ, I am one grossly bloated, unattractive swine of a man... could it be all these desserts? Fuck, I am repulsed by myself. It's not the food - I hardly ever have dessert. I really don't eat that much - OK, I drink some beers on occasion, but shit... Sweet mother of Mary, I SOOOOooooo want to be attractive to those women, I so want them to *want* to kiss me... But I know that I need to be someone else for that to happen, someone much younger-looking or at least slimmer, the young Yves Montand or Richard Gere for example.
She had leant forward to kiss him, had just sat up...
I was already married when I last had something close to a body like that (never, actually), or at least a body ready for those possibilities, capable of achieving RESULTS! but I never took them up. I never, ever, cheated when I was married, despite my darling wife suggesting I do (this was before AIDS hit the big-time) - "Maybe you'll learn something...." As I said on Indy's blog yesterday, only half joking, after I got married, I sort of had internalised that going out partying was for ESCAPING sex. Sex, that demeaning guilt, fear and pain inducing process, that battle on the dark shores of marriage, ignorant armies clashing by night, trying to score points but failing, forever failing. Going out was solely to escape the rigorous travails of sex, to escape the silent blame and the teary accusations; it was purely for getting pissed with mates. It still is.
Those days of a relatively attractive E@L are not going to happen again. I can diet, I can exercise, sure. But I am fifty, I am not going to change much. Living this way, I die at 60. (Fat men don't live forever.) Losing weight by exercising diligently, foregoing these once-in-a-lifetime pleasures of the palate here in Paris, I die at 62. Big deal, I am going to eat well here.
Fuck it. I'm ugly, so what? The girls are gorgeous, so what? A classic case of 'Never the twain'.
I am going to enjoy this trip, even if mean wanking till my cock becomes totally detachable from under my pendulous pre-pubic adiposity.
Let's start with some more epicureanism... On the way back I find that 'La Closerie Des Lilas' is now open. I pull up a table outside, finally finish reading the Cyrano du Bergerac book - it ends on a refutation of the existence of God, ha! - and I order half a dozen monstrous Brettaigne oysters.
It's only 7:30 and I have the place to myself. These giant huiles are amazingly good. I know, I know, this is not because of anything special the restaurant people did, all they did was shuck them, but with a squeeze of lemon, a drizzle of vinegar and chopped onion, a glass or several of chardonnay (even in this famous touristy restaurant, it is half the price of a similar quality wine in Singapore) and some crusty bread, I float away to the heavens, to the kingdom of the moon.
I don't care who I am or what I look like any more... All I need is one of the thousand girls I fell in love with today to kiss me in that special way, kneeling naked and fluid spined before me, to accompany me to a paradise where the body of the serpent of Eden has become my sated intestines and his slathering bicornuate tongue pokes from the head at the end of that long long neck that is my rampant, woman-tempting cock... (Imagery courtesy of De Bergerac!)
[OK, OK, I've had a few more wines since getting back to my room and starting to write this, OK already!!! Yes, I know, I've been told before, and by better people than you - I really need a girlfriend...]
OTHER MONKEYS SAID
Is it the adoration of soft limpid pools longing for your touch that you crave, is it yeilding lips that in those first moments are tentative and then with more assurance hunger for you?
Or is it as you have witnessed, the desire for others to see you in love? To have outsiders look with envy at the emotion and connection between you and another?
The first can be had, as you yourself know of women who would willingly yeild to your touch and your company if you but asked it...the second see's you searching for your Galatea...
...and you my friend do not believe in gods nor do you concede to miracles.
One other extreme annoyance I had in Paris ... I saw so many stunningly beautiful Chinese women sitting in cafes, dressed in French fashions, speaking in Mandarin, lounging the day away. I was reminded of an ex-girlfriend from Guangzhou, the TV star, who studied French at Le Sorbonne and spends half her year every year in France and Italy and Monte Carlo. And thinking, if she wasn't so very fucking annoying, this is probably the life I would have been living with her.
And I've had the same thought as you, what the fark am I doing in Hong Kong when there are cities in the world like Paris? Except then I come back home and go into places like Laguna and Neptune and think, well, there are some things in HK to make up for it.
I could live the rest of my life in Paris, learn the language, devote my life to seeing everything in the Louvre ... and never get laid again.
Are my priorities out of order?
The girls in Paris are special and unique
You see it in their eyes when they walk down the street
They sing a song my poor heart never can forget
This night I wish that I were still in Paris yet
The girls in Paris wear a sunshine on their face
They smile a Paris smile you'll find no other place
The girls in Paris fall in love just once a week
And love is all they know and love is all they speak...
Elles ne parles pas de 'sexe', mais d'amour et faire de roman! (je would like to pense anyway)
Votre 'mature' men who use f words and speak of lust etc. seem to break le fin sensualite de romantisme de France?
My suggestion is to venture out to a romantic cafe tonight, avec chansons d'amour, wearing black (very slimming) et avec penses positif - and who knows what lovely lady you might meet? Parce que 'faint heart never won fair maiden/mademoiselle'...
i wish i could give dating advice, sugar...but i do know a great wine shop la derniere goutte6 rue de bourbon le chateau (in the 6th arr)
Ah oui... les huitres de Bretagne...I know the perfect spot a short drive from St.Malo.
Indy: soft limpid tits, did you say?
Spike: true some gorgeous Asian girls here, but the jeune filles Francaise, ooh la la! One must Zen out one's priorities... To want is to destroy. To desire is to sin. To measure is to change. Or as Proudhon (see other post, photo) said, "Property is theft."
Mariah: is my high-school French as bad as yours? Mais oui! And as a friend said when I put on a black-shirt and used that line: "You'll never got one black enough!"
Sav: wine shops and cheese shops all up this Rue! Thanks a million for putting me on to this hotel. I absolutely love Montparnasse!
Dick: thanks for the spell check.