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-=-=-=-=-=-=- Anne-Pierre, Chloe, or Elodie -=-=-=-=-=-=-
I should have kept it to myself.
Walking on fallen blossom leaves, the tree-lined boulevard carried the scent of hope. In a brief interlude of sunlight, we basked in the early warmth of spring. Fingers entwined, her expression pensive and doleful. We stopped for a moment under a weathered statue; it must have looked glorious once.
I used to enjoy these silences, today, it felt awkward. Tugging my hand, she embraced me, her head against my chest. The citrus notes of her perfume evoked last summer… that summer.
I had to know, “Did you think about what I said?”
She hugged me a little tighter, “Oui.”
The passage of time would not wait for us. The texture of cashmere denied me her soft skin. Clothes flattened out the curves where my touch inspired passion and longing.
“What do you think?”
“Je ne connais pas, c’est impossible.”
As a downcast whisper, she stepped back and showed me her melancholia. Caressing her cheek with my hand, she leant into it. I felt it, the cruel blow of irony. I did not know for certain, I had to believe for both of us, and she would not see the doubt in my eyes.
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
This is a true story and it happened almost twenty-five years ago. The passage of time smoothed the rough edges and left nostalgia in its place. Some events are as vivid as last week when I struggle to recall a routine yesterday. A lot of the dialogue is lost to time and memories only conjure the sentiment. Some of it is as high fidelity as it gets, intense recollections never forgotten, or as a fleeting moment triggered at random.
It started with my first relationship at University. As a product of naïvete, it swept me away. I gave up things that mattered to be the person they wanted. It was a fatal conceit, a life lesson that the world can be a cruel place.
It diminished me.
With this angst came its antagonist, my libido, and lust bested any hurt or regret. As a simple head versus heart consideration, my brains resided in my genitals. In these no-strings-attached encounters, I found a safe haven.
A casual liaison led to an invite to a swingers club. A few months later, I found myself invited to house parties. I would be a hypocrite to say that I hated it. I did not, in fact, the absolute opposite. Throwing myself into this hedonistic world, I found an upfront honesty in it. I sought out encounters that turned many fantasies into experiences. It was my rebellious act and as a secret life, I became what I was.
I was nothing special, I hovered between athleticism and a more muscular bulk. Defined with the gift of a strong body, I preferred to run and swim as opposed to team sports. They suited the solitary nature of my personality and I preferred more intellectual pursuits at odds with many friends. Maybe, it was my upbringing, a kind word or nothing at all, and good manners cost nothing. Women told me I had nice eyes and ‘down there’ when they saw it, they appreciated its above-average dimensions.
I met someone amongst my small group of friends and acquaintances. Abandoning this hedonistic life, for two years, I was happy. Then, I got burned… badly burned. Unhealed anger fermented into bitterness. Amongst my friends, it formed a canker impossible to ignore or forgive. Nature abhors a vacuum and animosity took its place. Our carefree dynamics corrupted, no one cared about my secret anguish.
It left me with an overriding conviction: I did not understand affairs of the heart. Being clumsy with people’s feelings was a hazard easily tripped over. It was not deliberate and I never sought to hurt. Deep down, my soul was a brittle and sensitive creature, a product of my solitary nature.
I told no one about this hurt and my insecurities, especially towards relationships. This was my secret.
Yet, the worst part of my solitary existence was the loneliness. I thought about returning to that familiar safe haven and no-strings hedonism. Truthfully, I missed it. Yet, I could not live two lives when I struggled to live one well. So, I existed as a contradiction stuck in no-mans-land. On one side, the frivolous no-strings-attached encounters, on the other, the expectation of finding ‘that special someone’.
This was my dilemma.
Twenty-five years old and the opportunity was too great to ignore. I ran away from my life in England with the overwhelming need to wipe the slate clean.
I took a year-long work secondment in Paris, the City of Light.
My language skills were poor and I needed the adventure. I would confront myself amongst strangers. Striking a bargain with myself, I would abandon the frivolous; I had to reform. It was either grow up or get left behind. I did not need to contemplate my persistent dilemma. My mind was made up.
Anne-Pierre, Chloe, or Elodie might agree or they might not; nostalgia does weird things to a person.
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
Every day, the walk home through Gallerie Vivienne had a symbolic purpose: work existed at one end and Ankara escort home at the other. It was ritualistic, the footfall of purposeful steps on the mosaic floor. Under a canopy of leaded glass, I became anonymous again. Distracted by its beauty, it shook off my work persona and back to my normal self.
Not today.
Elodie Duprix was the office manager. In the two months before I arrived, she helped me with the practicalities of moving here. We talked at length over the phone many times. As arrangements were made, our conversation turned to getting to know each other. If I had known what she looked like, rather than be effusive with charm, I would be tongue-tied.
Around my age and flirty by default, it was difficult not to reciprocate. Always dressed immaculately, not overtly sexual, it accentuated the power of her femininity. She was an elegant and beautiful creature. Smart and effervescent, she had a svelte body built for sin. Framed by wavy flaxen hair, her attractive features rested easily on a flawless honey complexion.
I would not lie, emblematic of my new life. I was incredibly attracted to her.
Out of the Gallerie, an overexcited moped broke my train of thought. As I waited at the crossing, my dilemma rattled its cage in my mind. I made my way towards the statue of Louis XIV around the small circus of buildings.
From my first day here, Elodie took me under her wing. She invited me to join in with her circle of friends: men and women. Nothing major, lunch and after-work drinks — she helped to alleviate my homesickness. They wanted to practice their English; I tried to practice my French. That is how my moniker stuck – ‘English’. I accepted it with good grace and soon eased back into my old self.
Crossing the road, the weight of traffic lightened, people milled around shops, and the sedentary relaxed in bars and cafes. The longer warmer evenings brought them to the tables and chairs outside.
I liked to hear Elodie speak, the musicality of her accent, and just a few moments to look into her eyes. She was a colleague, a friend, and I admired her from my desk.
Passing the Church, I rounded the corner at the bottom of Rue Montorgueil. These are the enclaves where the locals live and play. This is where I lived, I owed that to Elodie. Close to the office, what it saved in commuting, I paid in high rent. My budget only ran to this bijou accommodation: an apartment of two reasonably-sized rooms and a small bathroom.
Climbing the stairs, I denied my feelings towards Elodie again. Vacillating, I quashed a wayward emotion. We worked in the same quirky office. Turning the key in the lock, I promised to build on our friendship despite the flirtatiousness.
In Paris for two months, I should have seen this coming. I only wanted to be friendly and it was an innocent remark. Inquiring about her weekend, I found myself with an invitation to a flat-warming party. For the first time, we would go out at the weekend alone.
A rendezvous, and I was not ready for anything like that and there were many good reasons.
A run through the park resolved nothing.
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
My coffee cup clattered onto its saucer, and I huffed. This week felt like a year.
“It is a game, a very French game,” I muttered.
From my apartment, I peered down through the opened bay windows. Down in the street below, it played out before me: a man and a woman chatted outside a shop.
When I did not know, I did not see it. It amused me how it hid in plain sight. At my favourite café, a passing remark during a chance conversation revealed it. An ex-pat and his Parisian wife were keen to pass on knowledge of this cultural totem and a secret to outsiders.
In France, men and women flirt, it is the normal everyday discourse, a playful battle of the sexes. They flirt in the street, in a shop, office, café, bar, anywhere. An admiring look, a compliment, or observation, then it became a conversation. It was possible to make ‘Bonjour’ or ‘Bonsoir’ sound flirtatious.
It explained Elodie’s behaviour, it helped resolve our dynamic… and it did not.
I took another sip of coffee and across the street, he seemed to be doing well; confident, smiling, and she was playing with her hair.
This is how it went; if you liked someone, you asked to meet them again. There were no ‘dates’, they were ‘rendezvous’. There was no fixed list of venues, it was all very disorganised and laissez-faire.
The purpose of this game was simple, a kiss, a Prince Charming and Sleeping Beauty kiss. This is romance, you are now girlfriend and boyfriend. There is no ‘talk’, that is it, and they expect fidelity. I could only imagine the fun and games required to get them into bed.
As loneliness pulled at my burnished heartstrings, so far, one had a boyfriend, and another did not speak English. Chloe accepted my offer to meet again, a demure attractive brunette and she spoke good English too.
When she took me to a café to meet some of her friends, it came as no surprise. I Ankara escort bayan played to her air of mystique with well-natured charm. As our third ‘rendezvous’, I caught the signals, a lingering smile, and a glance at my lips – twice. I knew the endgame approached: kiss her.
Taking another sip of coffee, the foreboding weighed heavily on me.
At the end of that rendezvous, we walked from the café and chatted. Inconsequential, and it ended at the Metro station. When it came to part, I did not kiss her. I folded and chose to postpone this big step.
Watching the man and woman chatting, the notion of fidelity made me baulk. That old dilemma loomed large again and I cursed under my breath.
At the steps down to the Metro, I forgot to ask Chloe if we could meet again. Perhaps, she saw that as a challenge and she would call me. Her smile, wistful as much as a sign of interest, I defaulted with my own. My mind jumbled, I did not ask when.
Finishing my coffee, the woman on the street handed him a piece of paper. With a flounce of long auburn hair, she walked away and that fine derriere swished – he admired it.
In the kitchenette, I put the cup and saucer in the sink and sighed. I understood what I blundered into with Elodie. Weary, the party was this evening. Tired of over-analysis, I resolved to stick to my plan: do not flirt, do not have too much to drink, and do not kiss her.
Washing out the cup, I weakened again and pondered if I should. She was a beautiful kind-hearted woman, smart, pretty, and we shared similar interests. Yet, a spurned advance might cost me a friend — my only friend. Even if my advance was accepted, the expectation felt insurmountable. It would be tough to date someone from the office too.
I shook my head; this was a mess. I would remain on my best behaviour.
All I had to do was not kiss her.
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
It was a short walk through the Second Arrondissement to Rue Saint-Denis and Elodie’s apartment.
As soon as she opened the door, we gave our customary greeting, a kiss on each cheek. I felt awkward. She beamed and complimented me on my appearance. I wore aftershave, a seldom occurrence and she recognised it. That musical intonation broke and dropped a tone. Lost in her eyes, she placed her hand on my arm, and complimented me on my good taste. As a fillip to my self-consciousness, I could not help but smile.
In a tailored ivory dress and navy bolero jacket, she looked beautiful. As an unwitting fool, I played along with this game. Now, I knew what was going on, it would have been churlish not to reciprocate her compliment.
Keeping time with the click-clack of her heels, we strolled through the boulevards and she attracted many admiring looks. I complimented them on their taste too. So much for self-control, I indulged the notion that we were a couple.
Depending on your mood, the party could be chic, moody, and stylish; or arrogant, a pastiche, and dull. I opted for chic. It was a large apartment. Its décor was a typical understatement of plain painted walls with tasteful soft furnishings built for comfort. Swoopy ambient electronica competed with the animated chatter and laughter.
Such friendly people helped ease my reticence. Nursing a single glass of wine, Elodie introduced me to so many of them. I struggled to remember the whirlwind of names. With little room to move and bubbly French spoken at incomprehensible speed; I could not keep up. Losing the thread of another conversation, my eyes wandered.
A fiery-haired force of nature held court on a sofa, all gestures and expressive features. She wore a loose strappy printed dress that revealed the embonpoint of her breasts. Whoever she was, she did not wear a bra.
She became my point of reference, she moved and I moved as pieces on a chessboard. No boyfriend here, no rings on her fingers, there were a few admirers and that was understandable. Impossible to ignore, I lingered on her mesmerising eyes, strong jawline, and juicy porcelain cheeks. She carried herself with a confident poise. Her long hair in loose tresses, she used it as a prop to emphasise a point, an extension to her personality.
I appreciated her from afar until she caught me and smiled. It was easy to smile back. When she patted a scarce spot on the sofa, she made the first move; no one had done that before.
In Paris, she should not have done that at all.
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
Over the loud chatter and the louche breakbeat, the fiery-haired woman reclined, arms outstretched across its back. Her welcoming gaze did not waver. Elodie looked deep in conversation with someone called Gaspar so I slipped away.
Edging towards her, I avoided guests sitting on the floor with careful crab-like steps.
Arriving, her jade eyes sparkled, “Salut.”
“Bonjour, je m’appelle Martin. Vous parlez Anglais? Mon Français n’est pas bon.”
It plodded a bit.
“Yes, you are ‘English’. I am Anne-Pierre.”
I blew out my cheeks, “Wow, is my French that bad?”
She Escort Ankara giggled, “No, that was very good. I asked my friend who the handsome man was talking to Elodie and everyone calls you ‘English’. Will you join me?”
“Thanks,” I paused a little taken aback, “I would be delighted to.”
Eased into the sofa, she shifted her posture to face me, “Your glass is almost empty. I have been watching you, are you not drinking?”
Flashing my eyebrows, “Long story. I could use a drink.”
“Here, allow me,” and a lusty helping of white wine followed.
“Salut,” and clinked her glass against mine.
“Salut.”
She drained almost half of her glass. So much for disinterested women and the flirting game.
“Go on, English, drink.”
I matched her.
“Better?”
Easing out a big sigh, I smiled, “Yes, much better.”
Anne-Pierre provided a link between the hosts and Elodie. As a yoga teacher, she worked at the host’s studio and Elodie attended a class there. Over more wine, we shared potted biographies over the airy electronic swishes. We laughed a lot about situations, difficulties with the language barrier, and cultural differences.
Inky black outside, small groups around the sofa came and went, all keen to talk to ‘English’. Relaxed, buoyed by the alcohol, I felt more confident. Other guests switched to English, or Anne-Pierre translated. Elodie and Gaspar had been talking for a long time now. She looked across and smiled, I toasted her back with my glass.
Eventually, I found ourselves alone with Anne-Pierre, some danced, most guests seemed coupled up. She nudged me halfway through another amusing story and my drink almost fell into my lap. Nodding towards them, I saw Elodie kiss Gaspar. That was that and no matter how much I liked her — the matter had resolved itself.
What did I know? Gaspar could have been playing the game, just like every other man in France. Elodie never mentioned him, though. That familiar melancholia returned as an insult to my reasoning. Like my dilemma and the reasons I came to Paris, no one was going to wait for me to sort out my problems. That… was my responsibility. Still, I missed my chance with her. The sense of loss challenged my resolve, the alcohol did the rest – so much for doing the right thing.
Mister Jekyll never did meet Mister Hyde.
“I thought she was yours?” Anne-Pierre’s tone sounded severe over a very persistent bassline.
I shook my head, “No.”
“Why not? She is very attractive.”
I shrugged, “She is, but she is not my girlfriend, so I would not do that.”
Anne-Pierre leaned in and glanced at my lips, “So you would not do that to me? I am not your girlfriend either.”
Amused at how she skewered me; I finished my drink, “Are you anyone else’s girlfriend?”
She lingered on my lips and came back to my eyes again, “Non.”
That is how it happened and her lips tasted of summer berries. An evocative scent of whatever she dabbed on her neck amplified its effect. The delicate tip of her tongue against mine became the overwhelming memory. A swell of desire rocketed through me and built so ferociously that it connected with my loins and tightened them in an instant.
It came out of nowhere and I blurted it out, “Wow, you kiss good.”
Her expression coy, coquettish perhaps, “So do you,” she purred, “do it again.”
Her fingers through my hair felt so sensuous. I lost count how many times we kissed like that until we adjusted ourselves and she sat side-saddle on my lap.
We sat there, drank wine, and talked. Florid words punctuated with tender caresses as the provocation to kiss again. The demanding electronica developed into something more sensual; I counted eight people where there were once thirty. All of us coupled up, and Elodie was not amongst them.
Now, every kiss hinted at an escalation, each caress edged towards the salacious. My fingers rested just under the hemline of her dress and made delicate circles on her milky flank. Her fingers slid across my broad chest and over my thumping heart; it betrayed me. They slid between the buttons on my shirt. A soft caress of a nipple raised a murmur of pleasure she would feel.
Breaking from the kiss, my reaction curled her lips.
Fidgetting against my erection, she grinned, “Am I being too forward?”
Her fingers did not stop, “No. I know how we are supposed to do this and we have done everything in the wrong order.”
She giggled, “This is true and I am very forward.”
I kissed her, “Good, because I am very forward too.”
Entwined in each other’s arms, I took my chance. Squeezing her breast, I found its nipple, erect through the fabric. She wriggled against me with a stifled murmur.
“Come with me,” she murmured.
Everyone else seemed preoccupied as we left the sofa, hand-in-hand. I followed her around a bend in the corridor. Half-lit, she stopped at a door slightly ajar. Turning back, she looked at me with a new glimmer in her eyes: mischievous, sexual. Dry-mouthed with excitement, I watched her open the door.
One step forward, she stopped and I peered over her shoulder. Astride a man, the curve of a woman’s body flexed with the smear of her hips. Her dress as a band of fabric around her midriff, her long blonde tresses swished in time. A chill soaked through me, it was Elodie.
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