Last Day In ParisbyLaTourEiffel©
It is the last day of our vacation in Paris.
"What shall we do?" I ask my wife and daughter.
"Let's go to the Louvre one last time," my wife says. She loves the Italian Renaissance, especially Da Vinci.
"Oh no!" my daughter whines. "Not that old Mona Lisa again!"
We had been in Paris for most of August. That had meant a trip to the Louvre every week!
"If I never see that painting again it will be too soon!"
My daughter had turned 13 this summer – too young to be on her own, too old to want to follow her parents around all day. And I knew about French men and their love of fresh young girls. I wasn't letting her out of my sight!
"How about going to a concert at Notre Dame?" I say. That was MY favorite pastime. I had gone every evening there was a free concert. The first one had been the last one for my wife and daughter. It had been a modern piece of music, with accompanying psychedelic slide projector show and lots of percussion.
"No thank you!" my wife and daughter say in unison.
"Well, let's not spend the day sitting in this apartment!" I say, and we fill our water bottles, pack some left cheese, and head down Rue Hautefeuille towards our favorite bakery – a hole in the wall on Rue Saint-André-des-Arts. We pass the little movie house at the corner of Rue Serpente.
"Hey, look," I say, pointing to a notice on the doors of the theater. "It says the movies are free today!"
I go inside to ask why, and make sure I hadn't mistranslated the sign.
"C'est le rentrée des étudiants," the lady says, "the return of the students. The city pays for the movies, to keep the students off the streets before school starts on Monday."
"Et les touristes?" I ask.
"Yes, yes," she laughs, "it's free for you, too!"
"C'est très bien, très bien. Merci!"
I return to my family with a big smile. "It's free today! Something to keep the students from getting into mischief before they go back to school. How about we see the new animated movie about the rat?"
"You mean Ratatouille," my daughter corrects me.
"Yeah, that's the one..."
"Sounds good to me," my wife says. "It's air-conditioned!"
August had been hot, our apartment doesn't have air conditioning. It was a contentious subject, especially when several hot days in a row would heat through the thick, stone walls. The rock would radiate heat day and night. And since our apartment was on the top floor, the ceiling would get hot, too. "That's why this place was so cheap," she would snort, reminding me that she would have preferred an air-conditioned hotel.
"Is the movie VO?"
Version originale (VO) meant the movie was not dubbed, but subtitled. For an American movie, that meant we got to hear the movie in English instead of dubbed in French. I checked the marquee.
"We're in luck! VO!"
We decide to go to the first afternoon show, when it will be hottest outside. In the meantime, we walk down to the bakery and get our favorite loaf of bread, a baguette.
"Never more than two hours old!" Christine tells us, the owner of the bakery.
"Why make it so often?" I ask.
"Nobody would eat baguettes more than two hours old," she huffs, indignant, as if I had insulted her.
"I'm getting some apple pastries, too," my wife says. When I give her a typical French look that indicates she is eating the wrong thing at the wrong time, she pleads, "It's our last time!"
Her pout is so Parisian that I cannot not resist.
"Trois chaussons aux pommes," I say, careful not to add "s'il vous plait."
I had learned from every shop in Paris, "Non, non, monsieur, if it pleases YOU!" I once asked a waiter at a cafe why he took so long to get me a coffee. He said, "Well, monsieur, you told me to get you a coffee, if it pleased me. I was hungry, so it pleased me to eat something, before I got you your coffee." "How should I have asked?" "Cafe, maintenant!" he barked. Then he smiled. "It is my job to please you, monsieur, your job to tell me what you want." I was never able to bark like a Parisian, but I did stop asking, "s'il vous plaît"!
We take our prize lunch and walk to the fountain at Place Saint-Michel. It is crowded with noisy tourists and littered with wrappers from MacDonald's and Starbuck's. Someone had put soap into the fountain, again, turning the pools into bubble baths. We walk across Boul'Mich, then through the crowded restaurant district of the Quartier Latin. We stop to have our lunch at the Square René-Viviani, looking across the Seine at Notre Dame.
Finishing her cheese and bread, my daughter says, "I'm going to say goodbye at Shakespeare's." She heads over to the English language book store. Though not the same place as described in Hemingway's A Moveable Feast, the bookstore keeps alive the mystique of the original Shakespeare & Company – a book store which lent books to Hemingway (because he couldn't afford to buy them) and published James Joyce's Ulysses.
"I'll come with you," I say, following her. I have seen the young men employed at the bookstore. They are writers and poets who work in exchange for a place to sleep. These male philanthropes were always generous enough to offer a place to stay to any young girl entering the bookstore alone. I often imagine coming back to Paris, alone, and working at Shakespeare's, sleeping with a new conquest every night. Ah, the writer's life...
I got to the shop just in time to hear the cashier ask my daughter if she needed a place to spend the night.
"Not tonight," I say, taking her by the elbow and leading her towards the back.
"I'm going upstairs," she says.
"I'm right behind you."
She turns and stands defiant on the stairs. Neither of us moves for several seconds, but I can tell she isn't giving in.
"Don't be long," I say, taking a step back. She turns and bounds up the stairs. "I'm right here," I call, but she has already disappeared.
She isn't long, but does look a little flushed when she comes back down.
"Who do you know here?" I ask.
She slips past me, walks quickly to the young man at the cash register, says "goodbye", then leans over the counter and gives him a kiss. She runs outside. I give the young man the evil eye, but he just winks and smiles at me. I follow my daughter outside, where she is in the arms of her mother.
"Let's go to the movies," she says. "I think it's getting a little warm."
I walk behind the two most important women in my life, and realize my little girl is growing up faster than I was accepting it. When we get to the theater, I resolve to be more trusting.
"You can sit by yourself," I say, but it sounds wrong, like I don't want my daughter to sit with us. "I mean, if you want to."
I go about a third of the way towards the screen and turn down an empty row. When I get to the middle, I sit. My wife sits beside me and my daughter beside her. We were the only people in the theater.
"Are we early?" I whisper to my wife.
"It's nice and cool," she answers.
I watch as people arrive and find seats. The lights go down. The theater is mostly empty. As the movie starts, a couple sit in the two seats just to my left. The movie gave enough light for me to see the dress and legs of a woman sitting beside me. From the clothes and the shapely legs, I would guess she was in her late 20's.
For the first ten minutes or so of the movie, I am busy enjoying the difference between the French subtitles and what the actors say in English. The audience laughs at different times than we do, especially when there was some joke about France, which isn't translated. When I whisper this most important tidbit to my wife, she just says "shhhh!" and waves me away.
When I move away from her, my leg happens to bump into the young woman on my left. I turn to ask her to excuse me, but I stop when I see she is kissing her date. I watch for a bit, not really able to see, but listening to a deep, French kiss.
I feel her leg press lightly against mine. I turn to watch the movie, embarrassed, but don't pull my leg away. When she kept her leg against mine, I gently pressed my knee into hers. My heart beat faster when she pressed back. Without turning my head, I look over at my wife. She is watching the movie intently.
My attention is shifted back to my leg as the woman begins rubbing my leg with her knee. I dnn't dare turn to look at her, but listen carefully. They are still kissing.
I have never had such a thing happen to me before. I'm not sure if such a thing would ever happen in the U.S. But this is Paris, city of love, and it is my last day. "What better way to experience Paris?' I ask myself.
I glance over to my wife, again, who seems engrossed with the film. I take a deep breath, then slowly let my hand move across my leg until the back of my hand is touching her dress. Then, gently, ever so gently, I press my hand into her thigh.
Her reaction is immediate. She kisses her boyfriend more passionately and presses her leg against my hand. Encouraged, I turn my hand, until my fingers are on her leg. She keeps her leg against my hand as I let my fingers squeeze her thigh. She presses back, and with each movement of hers, I let her dress catch on my fingernails. Slowly, I inch my fingers as her dress climbs up her leg.
"What are they doing?"
My heart stops as my wife's voice whispers towards my ear. I roll my eyes down to see what she sees, but it is too dark. I relax, knowing she isn't talking about me, but the young couple's kissing. I turn and give her a louder than necessary "SHHHH!"
Her reaction is just what I wanted. She pulls herself away from me, leaning towards our daughter's side of her chair. I see my daughter look around her mother towards me. I can't tell where she is looking. I wait, not moving my hand, in case that would draw her attention. I wait and hope that her eyesight isn't that much better than mine.
The theater erupts into laughter and my daughter turns back to watch the movie. I take a deep breath. After the theater quiets, I listen for the couple's kissing, but instead hear the man say, "Non." Then after a few more seconds, another "Non!". The woman moves away from her boyfriend. She shifts her legs. I lift my hands off her. When she stops moving, I slowly let my hand come back down.
My fingertips feel it first. Her skin. The dress is gone. She doesn't jump or move away, so I let my fingers touch her bare leg. Had she moved her dress? Had she pulled it up on purpose? I let my fingers settle onto her soft thigh.
"Mmmm," I hear. She shifts again, her leg moving out, and my fingers dropping down her leg to her inner thigh. "Mmmmmmmm." she says, again. Her boyfriend turns and whispers, "Tais-toi! Be quiet!" The woman leans forward then sits back. I feel her cover her legs with a jacket or raincoat. The boyfriend goes back to watching the movie.
The woman sinks down in her seat. Though I can't see, I can feel her leg sliding under my fingers. She bends her leg towards me as she sinks down. I let my fingernails scrape the inside of her thigh. Emboldened by the protection of the jacket, I pull my arm back and slide up her leg as she slides down in her seat. I swallow hard as I feel the heat of her body build up under the jacket. I feel her other thigh against the back of my fingers.
Suddenly, she lets out a whimper, and I feel my fingers touch soft, puffy, slippery skin. Not only is she not wearing any underwear, she is clean shaven. I didn't feel any hair. And now I was touching her engorged pussy lips!
Her whimper causes her boyfriend to turn towards her. I dare not move. She leans towards him, pushing her pussy into my fingers. I am shaking. Her boyfriend leans over and gives her a kiss. I begin to pull my hand away, but she grabs my wrist with her hand under the coat, and pulls my fingers up into her crotch. I am so surprised that I can't move. Their kiss becames more passionate. She moves my fingers up and down her wet lips. I feel her swollen clitoris pass under my fingertips. She wiggles my fingers against her and I feel her shudder. I can't resist, and begin to massage her on my own. Soon, her body starts twitching. I don't want all this to end too soon, so I slow my movement. Her boyfriend, still locked in a kiss, shifts his body. I glance over at my wife, who is staring at me. I can't tell what her expression is. She was staring at the kissing couple, not at the crotch where my fingers were buried. I give her a shrug of my shoulders and whisper, "C'est Paris!" I hear her snort, then she turns back to the movie. If she had had a remote control, she would have turned up the sound, just like she did the first week in Paris. Our neighbors were making love like two wild animals in the apartment below us while we watched a BBC program. She just drowned out the grunting with a louder English accent!
My attention is yanked back to my fingers as I feel her fingers touching mine, again. But this time it is different. She presses me into her pleasure button and begins to vibrate my fingertips hard and fast. I feel her begin to orgasm and I try to slow down, but her fingers don't let up. Then my heart stops. It isn't her fingers on top of mine. They are HIS fingers!
"Oh my god!" I think. "What is he doing? Does he know it's my hand? My fingers? Suddenly, her body cramps with an orgasm, His hand slips away.
"Ça va, maintenant?" I hear him whisper, not too gently, as he sits back in his seat to watch the movie.
She doesn't answer, but I sense her disappointment.
I give her a gentle squeeze, brushing her thigh. She begins to cry.
"Ça sufit!" he says, not too quietly.
I hear my wife turn, give a "SHHH!," then turn back with a disapproving "hmfff."
My hand is still under the jacket, still between her legs, still wet with her juices. She moves away from her boyfriend to my side of her seat. I give her another squeeze and she locks her thighs around my hand.
I look over at her. She was looking straight at me. In the flickering light of the theater, I see a beautiful, young woman.
"Touchez-moi," she says, not asking, not "s'il vous plait," but rather telling me what she wanted.
I try to move my fingers. She loosens her grip, then sits back and opens her legs. I slowly brush up and down her thigh, rising higher each time, until my fingertips pass over her slit. She slides down to give me easier access and I curl my fingers into her pussy, stroking the edges of her lips like I was playing an arpeggio on the piano. She responds with more slippery love juice. I plunge my fingers inside, curling them up, searching for and finding her spongy G-spot tissue. I gently massage, moving in and out, pushing on her clit for leverage, as my two curved fingers press inside, against the roof of her vagina.
When I feet her begin to squirm, I slow down, then start up again as she recovers. Soon, any movement of my fingers is making her hips rock. I stop massaging, but this time she continues on her own to her climax, while I softly cup her crotch. She presses her hand on top of mine as she is overcome with her orgasm.
I feel her contractions, each accompanied by a gush of warm fluid over my fingers. She lets out a moan, stifled, so that it sounded more like a whine.
"Ça! Ça c'est de trop!" her boyfriend says, no longer whispering. "C'est finit! C'est fin-it!" He stands up and walks away in disgust. I think he thought she was masturbating, because he never directed any of he comments to me. I pull my hand back, out from between her legs, out from under the coat. I am certain my wife is watching the couple, and hoping she can't see what is really going on. The boyfriend comes back and yanks his jacket off of her. Even though the light is poor, I can make out the bare skin of her legs, all the way to her crotch, where her hand is still holding her pussy.
"Oh my god!" my wife exclaims.
"Gross!" my daughter says.
My wife stands up, then pulls my daughter up.
"I'm leaving!" my wife says.
"But the movie's not over."
"We're leaving!" my wife says.
When I don't stand or say anything, she continues, "We'll see you back at the apartment."
"What about going out tonight?" I ask.
"I've had enough for one evening," she says.
She is angry, but she isn't angry at me. She didn't seem to have any idea that I had just given this woman an orgasm in a public theater while sitting next to my wife as she watched a movie!
"I'm going out, tonight. It's our last night in Paris!" I say.
"Shhhh!" people in the theater hiss at us.
"I'm not," my wife whispers back, and leaves with my daughter.
I turn to the woman. I watch as she pulls her dress back down her legs. She turns to look at me. I can't see her very well. I put my hand on her knee and asked, "Do you live nearby?"
When she doesn't answer, I switch to French. "Vous habitez près d'içi?"
She leans forward, so close I could now see her sad, sensual eyes. She whispers, "Ouiiiiiii.." and her breath tickles as it rushes past my burning cheeks.