You'll Always Have Paris

The harvest moon shines down on me as I duck through a hole in a fence that was once at least partially mine. I look around to make sure no one is out here to see me. Except for the occasional sounds of the farm animals and the insects, the night is silent so I move on. I cross into the cornfield and notice that the corn is already thick and very high. I try very hard not to make any noise as I stealthily move through the stalks of ripening corn. In the center of the field there's a small clearing where all of the corn stalks have been cut down to the ground. It's a relatively small area, and in the heart of the field can't be detected from any direction except directly above. Its placement doesn't even allow it to be seen from the upper levels of the farmhouse that I spent most of my life making into a home. Even in the middle of the day this small clearing can't be seen unless you're flying directly over it.

"Took ya long enough ta git here," said Bert, as I stepped into the clearing.

"I was trying to be quiet," I whispered.

"I didn't really expect you to be on time anyway," he sighed. "You were always late for everything even back when ..." he stopped in mid sentence and I wondered what he was going to say.

There were so many ways that he could have completed that sentence. "Back when we were married," was one way. "Before you became a whore or slut," was another. The one that hurt the most of course would have been, "Back when we were in love." But Bert didn't say any of those he just motioned with his hands and I lay down on the soft ground. I pulled my skirt up and removed my panties. Bert knelt down between my legs and started to rub my vagina. He was very gentle, and I began to moisten almost immediately. Perhaps it wasn't his gentle stroking, maybe it was just the fact that he hadn't called me in two weeks. He inserted his finger in my vagina and began slowly moving it in and out a little at a time, then inserted a second finger when I began whimpering quietly. "Bert I'm a big girl, I can take it," I hissed.

It wasn't that I wanted him to hurt me, but I wanted his dick in me so bad that I was prepared to take a little bit of discomfort to get it. It wasn't just a want, it was a genuine need. I found myself at times dreaming of Bert making love to me in the big soft sleigh bed in the farmhouse. I wanted to feel him kissing me and ramming his big dick in me hard, and cumming deep inside my vagina. Bert was 45 now, and I was 39, so It wasn't out of the question to hope that he could get me pregnant one more time. But it would probably never be.

Bert squeezed my breasts and gently pushed his dick into my opening, filling me with warmth. Almost involuntarily my legs spread even farther, as he began thrusting himself inside me. He used slow and steady strokes at first then gaining in both force and tempo until he was just slamming me. I watched his face intently this time, to see if what I'd seen 2 weeks ago was real or not. As he continued stroking my pussy I noticed that he had closed his eyes, and was making that face that only a wife, a lover or a mother could love. Then he lowered his body onto mine until we were united down our lengths. His arms reached around and under me as if he was trying to pull me inside of him.

I was watching his face so intently that I lost touch with what my own body was doing. My own orgasm caught me completely by surprise, and I felt my legs clutching him desperately. My own arms pulled him further into me as his pulled me into him.

"Oooooh" he exhaled, though he was trying not to make any sound. There it was he lowered his face to mine and as he lost control of his bodily functions temporarily as he came, I saw it. I was very sure now. Suddenly he stopped moving his face towards mine, but his lips had already started to pucker. I quickly raised my own lips and kissed him before he got out of reach. I would have given every dime I had in the bank right now, to feel his semen spurting inside of me the way he used to, but he had shot all of his baby juice into a condom.

He quickly turned his head to the side and spat then wiped off my kiss, but it was too late. I knew that he had wanted to kiss me while he was fucking me. And the look in his eyes told me that no matter what, there was hope. That maybe someday, there might be more. No matter how guarded he tried to be, I was sure from that look that way down deep inside of him, he still loved me. Maybe someday when all of the pain and hurting was over, there'd be more than what we had now.

But if all I could hope for was these late night booty calls, I'd take them.

"Gotta go, T...," he began. "Miranda will probably wonder where I am." He must really be off his game tonight, I thought. First he lets his guard down so I could clearly see that there might be a little bit of love left for me. Then he almost kissed me, and didn't slap me when I kissed him. But now this was really big he had almost said Tina, he had almost used my name. After over a year of referring to me as whore, or slut, or skank, he had almost called me by name.

"Bert, can you make it tomorrow?" I asked. "Please don't make me wait 2 weeks again."

"I don't know," he said slowly. "I've been trying not to call you at all. I hate myself every time I do. I'm just weak and worthless. Miranda deserves far better."

As Bert slowly headed back to the house, I knew that he'd circle back by the barn and then go to the house. That way if Miranda was looking for him; she'd think he'd been in the barn.

I lay there on that soft ground with a warm feeling inside me. Then on a whim I looked around in the moonlight and found the used condom he'd discarded. I licked the end of it with my tongue and then swallowed all of the contents. It should have been mine anyway. It used to be mine.

Bert used to kiss me all the time, now he wouldn't kiss me if his life depended on it. Even when there was no one around to see it, he just wouldn't do it. He used to love eating my pussy, now he wouldn't even allow me to give him a blow job. He used to beg me to do that. I picked myself up off the ground and started slinking back through the corn to the road. From there I'd just walk the half mile to my little house.

I'm sure a lot of you are wondering why a 39 year old woman is sneaking around and fucking in cornfields like a high-school whore. It wasn't always this way. Bert and I used to be married. There was a time when that man loved me like there was no tomorrow. We were high school sweethearts and we married young and we still have 2 beautiful children, who moved to the big city when they got done with school.

We had a great life. Our house and farm are beautiful. We don't have to worry very much about what we grow or when, because we grow corn and a couple of other staple crops for one company. A big supermarket chain uses our crops to make their own store labeled products. Good steady money every year. Not like some farmers who have to scrape and just barely make it. We were very lucky. I guess the problem was with me. I'm the one who fucked up paradise. You see Bert and I were happy like I said. But I was the one who spent all of her time dreaming while Bert spent all of his time working.

I didn't quite live in the real world. I existed in a fantasy life of Audrey Hepburn movies and dime store romance novels. My name is Tina Johnson. I'm moderately pretty I guess. I'm kind of a corn fed farm girl type. That means I've got a big ass and sturdy legs. Almost everyone around her is built like that though. My best friend Miranda on the other hand, is different. Miranda is really pretty and she's thin, like Audrey Hepburn. When we were growing up she was too thin. None of the boys liked her. Miranda went away to college and came back a career woman. She works in a store about 40 miles away and drives there every day in her car. She dated a lot of the guys in town and never seemed to stay with any of them. Over the years she became like a member of our family she was here so much.

She's the Godmother of both of my kids. She took care of me when I was sick and Bert had to run the farm. She was the shoulder I had to cry on when things weren't going well with Bert, and the one who defended me when he was sure that I was wrong about things. She was also the one who tried to pump some common sense into me before I went and fucked up my life. She really tried but I was so far from reality that maybe I just couldn't hear her.

I wanted my life to be a romantic fairy tale like "Breakfast at Tiffany's," or "You were never Lovelier." Any of those 40's musicals would do. I wanted to be wined and dined and travel to wonderful places. But my life was not only not like that, my life was in a rut. I felt like I was on a treadmill. I kept doing the same things over and over and over again. Bert had to do them over and over too, but I never saw that. The life that I had started to seem like a prison to me. I couldn't see any of the good in my life, I saw only boredom. So last year, after my daughter Kathy, the youngest of our children moved to Chicago, I started telling Bert that I wanted us to sell the farm and move to the city, and travel.

I wanted to go to Paris, and walk down the Champs Elysees, and drink cold Champagne on top of the Eiffel Tower. I wanted to go to Italy, and Spain and cruise the Mediterranean. Bert just got a cold towel and placed it on my forehead. He kissed me and wrapped his arms around me, and told me someday we'd do those things. But this wasn't someday, and he had crops to get in, but he promised me we would. I guess that wasn't enough for me because I just saw myself chained to a schedule where everyone except me got to do what they wanted to do and I had to sit around bored. Everything we did was on a schedule. We even had sex on a schedule. I'm not saying that sex wasn't good, it was great. Bert got me off every time, but sometimes it seemed like even sex was on a schedule. Bert would come in, eat me for exactly the same amount of time, in the same way, then roll me over and fuck me and be asleep by 9 so he could be awake by 5 a.m. to start his chores.

Miranda was constantly telling me how great Bert was and how mush he loved me and how fucking lucky I was. I didn't feel lucky though, I just felt trapped. Then one day when I was in town shopping, I saw it. In the ladies dress shop in town, they had a new display. But it wasn't the beautiful spring dresses that grabbed me, it was one small item. A hat, but what a hat it was. It was almost exactly like the hat that Audrey Hepburn wore in Breakfast at Tiffany's. I went into the store and bought it immediately. I didn't even try it on I just got out my credit card and bought it. I got home and tried it on. I wasn't even thinking about what Bert would say when he found out that I'd spent 85 dollars on a hat that didn't quite fit me. It was at least 2 sizes too small for my big head. I was sure that I looked like Audrey Hepburn.

Well, except for the fact that she was tall and thin, and I'm 5'3" and weigh 185. And of course we have different hair color, different eye color and different facial features, we could be twins. As I sat there in the mirror I was sure that I looked exactly like her.

Miranda came over later on that day, and when I showed her my hat, she wrinkled up her nose a bit but didn't say anything. I know now that she didn't because she was my friend, and didn't want to hurt my feelings. But as they say, kindness can sometimes be the unkindest blow of all. I told her that I wanted to go to Paris, and I was going whether Bert wanted to or not. If he didn't go to Paris with me I would simply divorce him and find someone who would. I was too special to waste in this one horse town. Even our kids had moved away.

Miranda tried telling me that good men were hard to find, and especially in our town, men like Bert were not easy to replace. But I didn't want to hear it. I think she sensed somehow that I needed this. I think that we all, just every once in a while need to do something crazy, just for ourselves. Bert had done his crazy thing a couple of years back. In a rural farming community where everyone drives pickup trucks and tractors, Bert had gone out and bought himself a Mustang GT. He loved that car like it was another one of our kids, and even built a garage right next to the barn just to house that car in.

Miranda herself had done her crazy thing, and made herself the talk of the God Damned town about 8 months ago. She'd always been thin and petite so she raised a lot of eyeballs around town when she went to Chicago for a "Vacation" and came back with much bigger titties. I'm talking about every man in town is staring at you titties. So maybe that was why she understood why I needed to go to Paris.

Bert of course said "No." So we began arguing about it. After weeks of arguing, I finally told him that I wanted a divorce. There was no way that I could stay with a man who prevented me from living my dreams. Bert moved into the guest room, and stopped speaking to me at all. Miranda called me a fucking idiot and tried to talk me down off the ledge, but I couldn't hear her. She was also talking to Bert to try and get him to see what this meant to me.

Finally Bert gave in and though he couldn't leave the farm in the spring, he paid for my entire trip and Miranda's. He couldn't go with me but he loved me enough to let me go. I could tell that he didn't want me to go, but he tried not to show it. I could tell that the thought of me being away from him for 3 weeks was breaking his heart.

Miranda also couldn't go, she couldn't leave her job for three weeks without giving them sufficient notice. Kathy came to my rescue. My daughter and I would go to Paris together. When the day came for us to leave, Bert drove me to the airport where I'd fly to Chicago, Kathy and I would travel together from there. Bert hugged me like I was dying, and just didn't want to let go of me. If I knew then what I know now, I'd never have gotten on that fucking plane.

After a few small problems at the airport in Paris, we got settled in our hotel room. Kathy wanted to relax and get over the time difference and jet lag, but I was desperate to see the city. So I left her in the room and went down to the hotel lobby where I found a tour group that was just about to leave.

I spent the early evening on a cramped bus with a group of tourists from all over the world. There were Asians, Africans, Indians and people from other European countries, all linked by our mutual thrill at being in Paris. We saw many of the famous sites including the Louvre, and the Eiffel tower. The problem is that all we did was to see them on this tour. We drove by each one, paused for a few moments to take photographs and sped off to our next location. I guess I was a bit disappointed in the tour because it wasn't what I expected. I could have probably seen more, and been more in depth if I had watched it on television.

The next day I scheduled several tours, that did go inside some of the more famous places, including a two hour guided tour of the Louvre, that included a guide who talked about all of the most famous pieces of art. Kathy loved it and wanted to do it again, but I was still disappointed. All f the things that we were doing were just too touristy if that's even a word. I wanted to immerse myself in the true spirit of Parisian culture. This wasn't what I'd come here for. Of course Kathy didn't understand it. My daughter looked at me as if I was crazy, when I tried to explain it to her. "Mom," she said. "I think you've spent too much time watching those old movies. Paris is just a place, like any other. Your experience here is largely made up of what you want it to be. Some of the things that you're hoping for just don't exist. You're missing out on the experience you've always dreamed about, because it isn't like some fantasy you had that based on movies from 60 or 70 Years ago."

By the 2nd week Kathy and I often travelled alone. She spent her days going on boring tours and taking pictures and sending home post cards to family and friends. I of course did none of those things. I took to wandering the streets in my Audrey Hepburn hat searching in vain for the true Paris.

Then one day unfortunately only 3 days before we were supposed to come home I was wandering down one of those famous avenues, I was actually a little lost, when I saw him. An artist sitting right out on the avenue sketching the avenue itself and some of the people passing by. He had dark hair, and a scruffy unkempt beard. But he had the most piercing blue eyes I'd ever seen. I stopped to watch him sketch, and after a while he turned to me. As I watched amazed, he began to draw me. He even drew my wonderful Audrey Hepburn hat.

"Beautiful Lady," he said in heavily accented English. "I would like to finish the drawing of you but I must rest for a few moments and get something to eat. will you remain here for a while?"

He looked at me hungrily. No one had looked at me like that since, well no one had ever looked at me like that. "Yes," I told him. "Oui," I said using the only French word I knew.

"American," he said. "But you speak French like a native." He smiled at me and gathered his pencils and supplies. "Perhaps you would join me for a bite?" I nodded my head so vigorously that it could have come off of my neck. He held out his hand, just like Gregory Peck had done in... All of a sudden, I decided to take my daughter's advice and concentrate on what was real. Instead of living in my fantasies from movies of long ago, I decided to concentrate on what was going on now.

"My name is Pierre," he said in that deep voice and that accent. "Pierre Le Pew, but all of my friends call me Pepe." He led me to a small sidewalk cafe on the next corner. I looked around and we were off the main streets. there were no tourists to be seen and I was happy. I was seeing the real Paris at last. We spent the entire afternoon drinking rich black coffee and talking and laughing. Finally when it was time for the bill Pierre paid it. I offered to but he wouldn't hear of it.

"Oh my," he said sadly. "We have lost the light, I will not be able to finish the drawing of my new American friend." He seemed so sad about it that my heart broke.

But then he had an idea. I could accompany him to his flat, the light there would allow him to finish the drawing, and then he'd see me back to my hotel. It was beginning to get dark and I was supposed to meet Kathy, but I decided to go for it. After all I was leaving in only two days and he was the only Parisian I'd met while I was here.

Something in the back of my mind told me not to go, but I just didn't listen to that voice. I wish that I had. We walked through the darkening streets with Pierre taking my hand and waving to all of the people we met. I felt like one of those women from my movies. They all seemed to smile at me as we passed. Now as I look back on it, I realize of course that they weren't smiling at me, they were laughing at me. It's almost like I was one of those guys who wants to be a Samurai so badly that he gets a sword and goes to Japan. Or all of those guys who walk around in Star Trek uniforms speaking Klingon. I was that far out of touch with reality. The difference is of course that the guy in Japan knows there are no more Samurai, and the Trekkie knows that he's never going to really be Captain Kirk. I really believed I was Audrey Hepburn.

Finally we got to a small decrepit hotel. Back home I'd never have stepped into a place like this. It looked and smelled awful, kind of like a fleabag motel that hookers would hang out in. Again the voice in my head said you shouldn't be here, and again I turned it off.

Once inside Pepe's flat he began to sketch in earnest. He posed me the way he wanted. Often he would stand up and move me into a certain position. Several times when he did this he accidentally brushed my breasts, which caused me to feel a little bit wary, but I brushed the feeling aside, this was Paris after all and he was an artist. He just wanted to get the picture right. Maybe when he was done with it, I could buy it from him and take it home and show all of those hicks my portrait drawn by a modern day French Artist.