What Women Want; What Women Need 01

Author's Notes: (I) This is the first of several parts in a series. This initial offering is PG-rated. Don't despair: do read it first and then turn right to Part 02 (X-Rated), which is being launched simultaneously.

Freud famously asked: "What does a woman want?" This series explores what a woman truly needs.

This memoir is from the late '90's. The author reminisces not to brag on an early "conquest" ---- he didn't think of it as such at the time. He regarded it as typical, the norm for relations between the sexes.

Our protagonist couldn't know how notions of what is "normal" between men and women would change so very much over the ensuing years; today his attitudes of how men naturally should lead and women naturally follow, notions that are Biblically-based and served as the norm for countless centuries, are considered quaint. Though views about the "war between the sexes" have changed dramatically, few people today seem to link such revisions with the unhappy personal lives independent women often seem to face today. The author is pro-feminist where it counts. But the evolved "feminist" mind-set that women don't need men, can do it all on their own, ignores a basic fact: as an "independent" woman (one not inclined to be a "Proverbs 31" mate) ages, often she ends up alone and unhappy.

Here is a young, self-assured man (whom many today would describe pejoratively as a "dominant" or, worse yet, "controlling"), barely of legal age, beginning to realize the immense authority he can exercise over women (even savvy, self-confident, sexually-liberated femmes) by providing what they innately need: guidance, direction, supervision, rules, structure.

Some might argue that the protagonist holds women in low regard, treats them as disposable. Not true: he loves women, all women, and his ephemeral intentions are made clear from the very beginning to those with whom he interacts. In his own way, he cherishes them and leaves each one far better off than their initial unmoored state.

(II) The original French words set forth are the precise language used. But the English translation provided is idiomatic, not literal. Young people used slang then, as they do now. Some of the translated English phrases herein were not even in common usage when this episode occurred, but are the best modern expressions to reflect the behaviors and ideas involved.

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He was young and travelling alone. His first trip to France: seven nights in Paris followed by five on the Mediterranean. Very late May, school just out, a nice time of year. He didn't know much French, but he was quick to pick up languages: he had passable Spanish and had been a Latin scholar. He had been studying helpful phrases from a French-English dictionary for a few weeks, and struggled (as do all beginners of the Gallic language) with pronunciation.

He checked into an inexpensive, clean tourist hotel in one of the less-fashionable Arrondissements. It was next to a Metro Station, and travelling by subway and foot was the likely mode for this budget-conscious traveler's stay. Arriving at 2:00 p.m. the first day, our tourist ate a light meal in the hotel's little Bistro (bread, cheese, piece of fruit, a glass of white wine), and turned in very early to kill the jet lag. Up at 10:00 the next morning, there was no need to worry about being "lagged" the rest of the trip.

Out and about before the lunch hour, this young man had seen the Notre Dame Cathedral, eaten at an outdoor café, and trekked to Musée du Louvre (commonly called "the Louvre"), inarguably the greatest art museum in the history of mankind. He spent four hours traversing the museum's four-and-a-half acres of priceless artworks.

Walking through the second gallery, our tourist noticed a young woman, around 34 or 35, almost certainly a Parisienne, sitting on an observation bench and contemplating a study by Paul Seurat. She was tall, a lithe and slender woman with a gymnast's supple body, dressed simply in a short skirt and light sweater that showed off her modest breasts to nice effect. Our American visitor appeared to ignore her.

A little over an hour later, our traveler walked through the same gallery (in the opposite direction) to make a shortcut to a sculpture exhibit. And sitting there ---- same bench, same expression, still staring intently at the Seurat ---- was the same young woman. Slowing, so he could address her without breaking stride, the tourist (let's call him Arthur) bent over slightly as he walked past her, and whispered: "Il ne s'agit que d'une étude. L'original se bloque à Chicago."["This is only a study. The original hangs in Chicago."]

"Avez-vous vu?" she asked. ["Have you seen it?"] She used "vu," the familiar term for "you" in French, reserved for family members and intimates; or children. This was not lost on him: he was young, but he was not that young.

"Oui," he lied. (He has seen it since many times, at the Art Institute of Chicago which houses America's premier art collection; but Arthur hadn't been to the Windy City as of that point in his life.) He glided away to complete his circuit of the museum.

A little bit about Arthur. He was barely 21, and looked much younger. He was six foot, one inch and very strong though not yet fully developed in terms of his musculature. He had a spectacularly hideous scar on his left forehead ---- the penance God exacted for having allowed Arthur to escape a deadly dormitory fire that claimed the lives of six students and a professor. The scar then was much worse than it is today because the earlier screaming red coloration of the disfigurement has since faded over the years.

But let's ignore his looks: the remarkable thing about this young man was his attitude: He was special. He had power over women, and was well aware of it, though he hadn't yet realized how great his powers could be. From his very earliest recollections he had always sensed his superiority to others, especially females: Arthur had known plenty of women, and always on his terms. He had come to take his power for granted. Even women who were ardent and committed feminists often found themselves unexpectedly and inexplicably bending to his Will.

That night, Arthur went to a nightclub, the famous Crazy Horse Saloon. It wasn't the nude entertainment it has since become. Rather it was a serious challenger to the world-famous Moulin Rouge as a source of legitimate, bawdy, only slightly naughty, amusement. The show featured two dozen dancers, nearly indistinguishable as they performed mechanistic routines in skimpy but tasteful costumes. All the same height, same weight and build, with the same make-up and dispaying the same pouty, disinterested expressions. A further trademark was their preposterous Platinum Blonde wigs in a page-boy style. Arthur enjoyed the show, in a detached way. You should know this about Arthur: he was alone in the City of Love, but didn't feel the least bit lonely: He was comfortable with his own company. Over the years he has stated, immodestly, that his was the best company of anyone he'd ever met.

The next day, Arthur was out early looking over little shops, visiting Shakespeare and Co. (Paris' pre-eminent English-language bookstore) and enjoyed a pleasant park where marionettes entertained children and grown-ups alike. Late morning found him at a small table in an outdoor pâtisserie. And seated two tables away, was an attractive parisienne, Arthur's brief acquaintance from the Louvre the previous afternoon. She wore a pretty blouse and a very short pleated skirt.

With her at the table was a Frenchman aged somewhere around 40. And it was obvious to Arthur from the body language that all was not well between the couple. No loud or harsh words were spoken, in fact just the opposite: they barely whispered to each other. Glaring seemed to be the principal form of communication that marked the uncordial intensity between them. The man's meal unfinished, he got up to leave.

"Au revoir, Thierry," she said somberly. ["Good-bye, Thierry."] Silently he walked off.

Arthur hadn't been served; he waited about a minute and walked over to her table. "Puis-je m'asseoir avec vous?" he asked. ["May I be seated with you," using "vous," the formal for "you" in French used by strangers and business relations; this form was not lost on her.]

She promptly replied that her boyfriend would be returning in five minutes.

"évidemment," Arthur replied. ["Of course."] He knew she was lying, and she knew he knew it. And without an actual indication of accord from her, he joined her at the table.

They spent a pleasant hour enjoying a light meal, impressing each other with his serviceable French and her faulty English. Her name was Françoise. She had studied art history, but dropped out of university to support herself as a dancer -- at the Crazy Horse. She lived alone in a fourth floor walk-up. Arthur had noticed her well-muscled calves before he sat down; no doubt, he decided, her shapely legs resulted from her exercise on the stairs and on the stage. When Françoise grabbed the check for her meal, Arthur gently but decisively grasped her wrist, holding it firm and sternly staring decisively into her eyes for just a half-second more than would be considered polite.

"Mon plaisir," he asserted. ["My pleasure."]

Feeling the need to reciprocate somehow, Françoise invited Arthur to see her show that evening. She found a card in her purse, scribbled on the back and told him to present it to the doorman maître d'hôtel who would give him a good seat.

Now Arthur was planning ahead. He knew from his visit the night before that the dancers all looked very much alike. And though he couldn't yet articulate why, he sensed the importance of memorizing some little feature in her appearance that would enable him to distinguish her from the other dancers onstage. And then he saw it: her right collarbone had the smallest bump on it ---- just enough to be visible if he sat close enough to the stage.

That night, Arthur tipped 300 francs (about $24 U.S., a decent amount for 20 years ago) for a small front-row table. And he viewed the show again. He had no problem spotting which dancer was his new friend. At the stage door after the show he was waiting. Quickly taking Françoise by the hand, he asked, "vers quoi?" ["Where to?]

She frowned for a split second and said she couldn't stay out late ---- it was already past 2:00 a.m. ---- but there was a nice place nearby where they could have la boisson, a cocktail, and then separate. She stressed the last part, which he ignored. They walked, hand in hand.

Arthur was a very self-assured young man, always planning ahead: when the waiter (le garçon) asked this youthful-appearing tourist for his identification, Arthur already had his Passport in the palm of his hand.

They had two drinks apiece, again enjoying each other's company and conversation, giggling, getting along very well despite Françoise being 15 years older. She asked how he liked her dancing. He lied and told her she was the best of the group ["le meilleur de la troupe"].

So, she asked, which dancer was she as arrayed onstage?

Arthur answered (rather nonchalantly): "the third from the end, stage left." ["Le troisième à partir de la fin, la porte de gauche."]

Early on Françoise abandoned the fiction that Thierry was anything more than an ex-boyfriend. At one point, she casually asked, "Où séjournes-tu?" ["Where are you staying?" again using the familiar.]

He mildly answered, "à votre appartement." ["At your place."]

She gave him a very sharp look; but not an angry one. "vous êtes très sûr de vous." ["You are very sure of yourself," now suddenly using the formal "you"].

"Au contraire, je suis sûr de vous." ["No, I'm actually very sure about you."]

"Moi?" she replied.

Yes, Arthur responded, "Oui, vous désirez me beaucoup." ["Certainly, you want me very much."]

She paused for about thirty seconds, as he stared directly into her eyes. "Vous êtes très doux. Mais même si j'ai des relations sexuelles avec vous, vous ne pouvez pas passer la nuit." ["You are sweet. But even if I do sleep with you, you can't stay all night with me."]

Continuing his unbroken stare into her eyes Arthur replied, "Vous avez à l'envers. Je me déplace avec vous. Mais je ne vais pas dormir avec vous ce soir. Peut-être demain, si vous êtes bien comporté."["You have it backwards. I am moving in with you. But I'm not going to have sex with you tonight. Maybe tomorrow, if you are well-behaved."]

Françoise paused, downright amazed, but then nodded. Meekly. And she shuddered perceptibly at the realization of the power transference that had just occurred between them.

[TO BE CONTINUED]