I love the women in Paris.
All of them. They are so slim, so stylish, so refined, so utterly beautiful.
Take the lady right in front of me, for example. She was just gorgeous. Lustrous hair cut in a fashionable bob, bright red lipstick contrasting from her creamy pale skin. Her face was out of a Manet painting, with beautiful fine features. She wore a simple black blouse, a slim black skirt. Pointed flats. A silky red-white-black scarf matching it all. She was the epitome of Parisian cool. As she held her glass of absinthe toward me, I would have assumed that she'd lived in Paris all her life. That is, I would have thought that if I hadn't brought her with me from home.
I'd originally met her in my home city. We'd had a little flirtation via e-mail for a few days before she finally decided to send me her photos. And what photos they were. I'd already decided that I wanted to meet her, but the photos only helped seal the deal. She was so pretty. So tantalizing. So utterly appealing. Still gazing at my monitor, I picked up the phone right away and called. She flirted on the phone, and I spent a very pleasant few minutes flirting back. I asked to see her the next day, and she eagerly agreed.
We hit it off wonderfully. Right from the beginning, we had that rare chemistry that is so often sought but so rarely encountered. I remember closing her door that first time and driving home in a daze. It's a wonder I didn't kill myself on the way home.
I saw her a few more times over the next few months. I could count on her to keep things fresh and interesting every time. I never knew what to expect. At times she gave me deep, soulful, lingering kisses that left me breathless, leading to tender, sensual afternoons in the sun. There were other times, wild, creative, passionate late nights, fueled by a little white wine. There were a few special times where it was a little bit of both.
I didn't get to see her nearly as often as I would have liked. Life had a way of getting in the way for both of us, but we met when we could. But we chatted, talked on the phone, and exchanged messages between times when we saw each other, and that was always nice.
One day, I realized I'd been seeing her for quite a while. It was coming up to an anniversary of the first time I'd seen her. I knew that for us, it wasn't necessary to mark the occasion. But all the same, I didn't want to let the day go by unrecognized. I just wasn't sure what to do. A few days later, the idea came to me. What could be a match for her? What could be more crazysexycool than the city I had visited as a young man, and would be visiting again soon? The idea of the two of us together in the City of Lights thrilled me. But I had no idea if she would agree to coming with me.
A few days later, I got my chance to ask. We were spooning, satiated, catching our breath. I nuzzled the back of her head, breathing in the heady richness of her hair. It was the perfect time to take my shot. She was quiet for a moment. I couldn't see her face. I started to wonder what she was thinking. Then, she turned with a smile. "I'd love to, Birdie."
It had been a whirlwind first day in the city. We had sauntered through the Orsay earlier. She was excited to see the Impressionist paintings at first, but I could soon see that she was growing a little weary. Well, I knew what I could do about that. Paris was a city heavy with history, but even the most interesting history can pall with the weight of the ages. No, what we needed to do was to make our own history. And what better place to make our mark at the place where so much bohemian fun had taken place before? Montmartre beckoned. Taking her arm, l led her to the Metro. We wound up at this little bar that I'd remembered. We laughed, we danced, we shared some wine.
I raised my glass of absinthe to hers. "Sante", I said with a smile, tapping her glass with my own. She smiled back at me from behind the milky green liquid. Giddy with our drinks and the lovely evening, we walked arm in arm through the Montmartre streets, ending up at the steps near the front of the Sacre-Coeur Basilica. We sat at the top of them, and the lights of Paris glittered, sprawling out before us. We were all alone, and the night was still. La Tour Eiffel glowed off in the distance, pointing toward the heavens. She cuddled close, seeking warmth against the cool spring evening air. And soon La Tour wasn't all that was rising to the heavens.
She giggled, noting my exquisite distress. Lowering her eyes with a grin, she knelt in front of me. She didn't really speak much French, but this time, her dialect was perfect. My breathing became heavier, and I couldn't hold back any longer. I came in a rush, my body shuddering. She looked up with an impish smile, and she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.
"Gee.. thanks." I panted.
"De rien." And I thought that she didn't speak French, she must be a quick learner. That impish smile I knew so well widened, and kissed me. "Come on, Birdie. Let's go where it's more comfortable." She zipped me up and dusted me off, and we rose to our feet. I'd have my chance to return the favor, later. No rush. It was only our first day here, and only the beginning of our adventures. Only the start of a few days of utter joy. That's all.
We walked off into the night.
All of them. They are so slim, so stylish, so refined, so utterly beautiful.
Take the lady right in front of me, for example. She was just gorgeous. Lustrous hair cut in a fashionable bob, bright red lipstick contrasting from her creamy pale skin. Her face was out of a Manet painting, with beautiful fine features. She wore a simple black blouse, a slim black skirt. Pointed flats. A silky red-white-black scarf matching it all. She was the epitome of Parisian cool. As she held her glass of absinthe toward me, I would have assumed that she'd lived in Paris all her life. That is, I would have thought that if I hadn't brought her with me from home.
----------------------------||----------------------------
I'd originally met her in my home city. We'd had a little flirtation via e-mail for a few days before she finally decided to send me her photos. And what photos they were. I'd already decided that I wanted to meet her, but the photos only helped seal the deal. She was so pretty. So tantalizing. So utterly appealing. Still gazing at my monitor, I picked up the phone right away and called. She flirted on the phone, and I spent a very pleasant few minutes flirting back. I asked to see her the next day, and she eagerly agreed.
We hit it off wonderfully. Right from the beginning, we had that rare chemistry that is so often sought but so rarely encountered. I remember closing her door that first time and driving home in a daze. It's a wonder I didn't kill myself on the way home.
I saw her a few more times over the next few months. I could count on her to keep things fresh and interesting every time. I never knew what to expect. At times she gave me deep, soulful, lingering kisses that left me breathless, leading to tender, sensual afternoons in the sun. There were other times, wild, creative, passionate late nights, fueled by a little white wine. There were a few special times where it was a little bit of both.
I didn't get to see her nearly as often as I would have liked. Life had a way of getting in the way for both of us, but we met when we could. But we chatted, talked on the phone, and exchanged messages between times when we saw each other, and that was always nice.
One day, I realized I'd been seeing her for quite a while. It was coming up to an anniversary of the first time I'd seen her. I knew that for us, it wasn't necessary to mark the occasion. But all the same, I didn't want to let the day go by unrecognized. I just wasn't sure what to do. A few days later, the idea came to me. What could be a match for her? What could be more crazysexycool than the city I had visited as a young man, and would be visiting again soon? The idea of the two of us together in the City of Lights thrilled me. But I had no idea if she would agree to coming with me.
A few days later, I got my chance to ask. We were spooning, satiated, catching our breath. I nuzzled the back of her head, breathing in the heady richness of her hair. It was the perfect time to take my shot. She was quiet for a moment. I couldn't see her face. I started to wonder what she was thinking. Then, she turned with a smile. "I'd love to, Birdie."
----------------------------||----------------------------
It had been a whirlwind first day in the city. We had sauntered through the Orsay earlier. She was excited to see the Impressionist paintings at first, but I could soon see that she was growing a little weary. Well, I knew what I could do about that. Paris was a city heavy with history, but even the most interesting history can pall with the weight of the ages. No, what we needed to do was to make our own history. And what better place to make our mark at the place where so much bohemian fun had taken place before? Montmartre beckoned. Taking her arm, l led her to the Metro. We wound up at this little bar that I'd remembered. We laughed, we danced, we shared some wine.
I raised my glass of absinthe to hers. "Sante", I said with a smile, tapping her glass with my own. She smiled back at me from behind the milky green liquid. Giddy with our drinks and the lovely evening, we walked arm in arm through the Montmartre streets, ending up at the steps near the front of the Sacre-Coeur Basilica. We sat at the top of them, and the lights of Paris glittered, sprawling out before us. We were all alone, and the night was still. La Tour Eiffel glowed off in the distance, pointing toward the heavens. She cuddled close, seeking warmth against the cool spring evening air. And soon La Tour wasn't all that was rising to the heavens.
She giggled, noting my exquisite distress. Lowering her eyes with a grin, she knelt in front of me. She didn't really speak much French, but this time, her dialect was perfect. My breathing became heavier, and I couldn't hold back any longer. I came in a rush, my body shuddering. She looked up with an impish smile, and she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.
"Gee.. thanks." I panted.
"De rien." And I thought that she didn't speak French, she must be a quick learner. That impish smile I knew so well widened, and kissed me. "Come on, Birdie. Let's go where it's more comfortable." She zipped me up and dusted me off, and we rose to our feet. I'd have my chance to return the favor, later. No rush. It was only our first day here, and only the beginning of our adventures. Only the start of a few days of utter joy. That's all.
We walked off into the night.
