modest whys and wherefores

This blog has become a bit of a travelogue, which suits me fine. I don’t know what I thought it might be or become, but a few other bloggers have caused me to adjust my sails, so to speak, by their messages to me or by their own blogs. Montmartre started in homage to a site that no longer exists, that had a certain flavour, erotic and sensual, run just for fun by a woman from Toronto. The site is gone, and so is she – requiescat in pace.

Also, the posts I have made to this point have been from the past. A fellow blogger asked me if these posts were real; they are, but they are much more coherent here than they were in reality. I suppose I want them to be coherent, or at least I want myself to be coherent in them. I am discovering that as I read others’ blogs, the present also may have a place for me, so I am about to meander in that direction. “Meander” is the operative word: this is likely to be far from a linear journey, with much to and fro between past and present, between one continent and the next. So be it. I think it will remain true to its original conception, though – an arrondissement of the mind, and therefore without boundaries.

A Fable

It was late, but not dark, and the sun was setting on the Mediterranean. I was telling Catherine a story, so my tenses will change to bring her and my reader into that particular moment. Earlier, we had been in the harbour in Sete, where they make the vermouth that has given its name to the drink, the martini. We sat, holding hands in front of a large, long wooden boat whose green and white paint is peeling. The windows are old, the frames are old, the boat is old, but it will last for dozens more years.

It is easy to imagine her as the bowsprit, if the boat had a bowsprit.

Yes, this is how the myth would go, I say: she is a luscious figure, lashed to the bowsprit, yes, lashed of course. Sailors in many boats observe her carved form extending from the front of the boat; she becomes legendary, the story springs up that if you touch her it will bring luck. Her breasts are full and firm and announcing themselves like hanging fruit, hair streaming back in long, loose curls, hips flaring and then diminishing to shapely thighs and legs, covered with the most diaphanous fabric. One day, finally, in a state of mad possession, drunk or drugged, a group of rugged sailors, enraged with the vision of her, board the boat and cut off the bowsprit, the carefully carved figure. They drag her on board their own boat, then fade into a drunken sleep. The night deepens, and one of them awakens. By a miracle – perhaps the spell of their exotic spices and tobacco smoke and primitive oaths, she has come to life. Her eyes blink, her chest heaves, and the sailors are transfixed. Her eyes don’t comprehend them, or the world she has found herself in. They start touching her, gingerly at first, wondering what magic is in her. She has never felt fingers before, never felt anything. Her responses are natural, primal, shameless. Her body is pulsing and ripe, molten with decades of virginity. They leave her bound to the post, arms back, ankles tied on either side of it, and they fuck her, again and again. They take her any way they wish, in her cunt, her ass, her mouth. Her body quakes and explodes again and again, greedy, absorbing, knowing nothing else. They keep her, and use her like this, for years. At some point they realize that while they are growing old, she is not. They are so covetous of this creature they brought to life, she has wound herself so deeply around their hearts and souls that they will not share her. Finally, only one of them is left alive. He has a dream, and knows what he must do. Secretly, he takes her down to the harbour, finds a solid old boat, and fixes her to the bowsprit. She returns to her former state, a carved figurine. One day, another group of sailors will see her, and it will start over again.

Our hotel room is full of Catherine's smell now. While I tell her this story, I am slowly fingering her cunt. She loves the story, she is very wet, imagining being fucked like that, helpless and knowing nothing else, a life of orgasms and endless youth. She cums when I tell her about the first time she is fucked; she cums again when I tell her they are fucking her, all of them, in her cunt and ass and mouth simultaneously; she cums again when I tell her she is sucking five of them off one after the other; she cums again when I tell her she is being re-attached to the boat, lashed there, helpless and on display for weeks, months, years, while the yearning builds inside some secret part of her.

Danny

Danny is clearly going through a bad patch. He has a lot of inherited money, and he has not made a success of his recent business ventures. His family’s fortunes, however, are virtually intact. When he takes Catherine and me out to his favorite club he is immediately surrounded by pretty girls in tight, shiny, technicolor dresses. One of them sits on one knee, and he orders a bottle of scotch, Johnny Walker Blue Label. He needs to do this, to save face, to show that his business failures mean nothing, that he takes it all in stride, that he still has all this power over people. A bottle of Blue Label costs the equivalent of about $1000 US at this establishment.

Momentarily he looks over at Catherine wondering if she is uncomfortable, but she is not. She is entertained, and she tells me afterward that she found herself imagining what it would be like to be one of these girls, the most successful one. They are all whores.

As we drink glass after glass of scotch, Danny becomes looser and louder, his hands making free with the girls’ buttocks, while they giggle and laugh in return. He is obliged to buy them drinks, which cost about $20 each on the official tab, but really they are colored water. They also dance with him, at $20 a dance. That’s how the girls get paid, that’s how the club makes its money. But really it is little more than a brothel. There are about five girls who are attending to the three of us. They get up and dance with each other every few minutes; they are good dancers. Catherine joins them from time to time; they don’t make her pay, and she seems to be the only one enjoying herself.

Finally Danny is far enough gone, glazed over, that we feel we can leave. His driver will take us home. At the car, one of the girls shows up. Danny has told her she has to go home with us, back to the hotel, or whatever we want. Danny is a good customer, she says, and she can’t disappoint him. I look at Catherine, who smiles, rolls her eyes mischievously and slides into the car. The girl follows her in. The car is a new Jag; Danny buys one every year.

I ask the driver to drive us along the Seine after going over the Pont Neuf, instead of going straight back to my apartment. The streets are packed, even though it is after midnight. I am trying to figure out why, but I can’t. The neon signs above the street and above the stores make it as bright as daylight but eerily blue and red and green. Catherine and the girl are curled up with each other, touching and kissing softly, slowly, with interest but without a great deal of passion. The girl’s hand slides between Catherine’s legs and for a long time they kiss and finger each other’s breasts and cunts as the driver picks his way.

Finally we are at the apartment, and get out. Catherine tells me to send the girl home. She is tired; she has had enough, if I don’t mind. Besides, she doesn’t want to get any diseases,she says. I am ragged with the after-effects of too much scotch. The driver takes the girl home. Or back to the club. Danny calls the next day, hale and hearty, asking us how we are doing, saying what a great night we had last night. He has to fly to Zagreb this afternoon but maybe we can get together again tomorrow night when he comes back? He doesn’t ask about the girl.

As I put the phone down, Catherine comes out of the bathroom, fresh from her shower, naked, a white towel stacked up around her hair, which is now dark red. “You’re perfect, you know,” I say, and she comes and sits on my lap, as if something has suddenly come over me.

Sugasm

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The Balcony

That particular time we had a tiny apartment. It was adequate, with a small, very private balcony, enclosed by a wrought iron railing, and gave on to a harbour full of sailboats, cafes, and sundry other commercial operations. There was often music in the square, and off to the other side a late night arcade whose bells rang till about 1 a.m.. We could sit on the balcony drinking a bottle of wine in hot night air, and observe the holiday-makers milling around down below. It was busy, yet we were very private.

With Chantal, I tended to travel with small lengths of rope. One night began with my tying just one of her ankles to one of the metal rails. She was sitting on a plastic chair, sipping her wine, her sandals piled against each other on the mat of the balcony. I took one of her ankles and tied it to the base of a rail. She smiled and sipped. I adjusted her chair, and tied the other ankle, about four feet apart. Four feet is the right distance; a fit woman can sustain a three or four foot spread for quite some time, especially if she has other means of support. Her calf-length skirt had slid up her thighs, but fell back down when I moved behind her and lifted her up by the shoulders, easing her into a position at the railing where she could lean over it or rest her elbows on it. She was wearing a pink – fuchsia – tank top; in the relatively bright light cast by the many lamps and signs down below her nipples were hard, casting their own little dotted shadows. She asked me what my plans were. I lifted the back of her skirt, rolled it around itself at the waist at the back, and took off my belt. I smacked once. She did an excellent job of containing her cry of pain; I hadn’t hit that hard. I continued. Again. Again. I was in the shadow, and she was in varying degrees of half light or more.

I filled her wine glass, and caressed her ass, which had begun to glow. My fingers moved down her cunt, which was streaming. She pinched her own nipples, her eyes half-lidded with the transport of her sensations. Two of my fingers slid up inside her, then out and around her clit, firm and swollen. My wet fingers moved to her ass, and pushed in past her cheeks, one of them sinking into her ass.

I began again to take my belt to her buttocks. Not in a frenzy, but in firm, stinging, irregular strokes. She was starting to writhe against the balcony, half with the stinging pain, half with the pleasure, and if it was possible to have another half, it would have been the thrill of her exhibition. Or her imagined exhibition, since no one really could tell what we was going on, although they might speculate that Chantal was dancing, or putting on some sort of demonstration. When I next stood beside her, and passed her a glass of wine to share with me, my hand on her exposed buttocks detected significant heat. Her cunt had spread its wetness down her thighs; she was also sweating. My fingers slid into her cunt, and played with her clit till she came. I enjoyed her orgasm immensely, not because it signaled the end of our activities, but because it was one of her quirks that her first orgasm was really just a tease, even though it seemed powerful. After cumming once, she was almost always overtaken with a more intense need to cum again.

I untied her ankles, and she trembled to keep her balance, holding firmly onto the railing. I sat back on the chair in the shadow of balcony, she knelt between my legs, and took out my hard cock. I slid my bare foot between her legs, rubbing her cunt with the top of my foot while she sucked. I told her to use her hand to hold my foot in place, so that she fucked my foot while she sucked. I love the feeling of my cock in her mouth when she cums; it nearly always triggers my own orgasm. This is what happened tonight. She was sipping down my precum, and sucking more and more feverishly as she approached her second, and favorite orgasm. Even when she had three or four orgasms in a night, there was no question her second one was the most intense and most sustained. Half way through her orgasm I shot my cum into her mouth. She was moaning, whimpering with her own orgasm, taking my cock deep. I jerked into her. When we were finished she gasped for breath, on all fours, her back heaving. In the light, the half-light, half-shadow, she looked primal and primitive, gleaming and breathing. Something out of myth.

Bull ring

Dry, hot, no humidity, a breeze. All along this part of the Mediterranean down to the Spanish border and beyond, this was the weather, every day. The beach, where we had spent several hours earlier, was now 20 minutes away.

Our tickets were designated ombre, or shade, to distinguish them from seats designated soleil, or sun. It was a custom left over from the days of bullfights, which they rarely had now – except during the feria, the festival when they revived the Catalan past. The upper crust used to guard their rights to these seats jealously; the bullfights were a major occasion in the town, when women wore their finery, and asserted their standing. No longer. Today was evidence of the democratization of our time. Chantal was wearing one of her pretty sundresses, a halter top with a skirt that billowed, gypsy-like. Other women were similarly dressed, many in skirts or dresses. The only obvious distinction between those in the soleil and those in the ombre is that there were many more females in the shade. A subtle remnant of chivalry, I suppose; women enjoyed being spoiled a little, and men enjoyed spoiling them.

Under the word ombre on the ticket, was the designation vomitoire 11. I pointed this out, laughing, to Chantal, and we shared images of ladies watching the spectacle of the bullfights and losing their lunch on the stone floor. In reality, though, the vomitoire referred to the wide arches through which the crowd exited – vomited – at the end of the bullfight. It was simply an easy way of indicating which archway we were to pass through to find our seats.

During the delay before the matches we had plenty of time to take in the ambience: the benches that were really simply curved rows of stone. Some people, in the know, had brought cushions. Finally the tennis started. These were former tour players, who now made their money putting on exhibitions like this, joking with the crowd, and displaying skills that were still impressive, and occasionally quite flawed. We weren’t going to stay for the concert afterward, although it was a good idea; some entrepreneur had figured that a tennis exhibition followed by a rock concert would be a big draw. Unfortunately, it didn’t work out that way, but the tennis, at least, suited us.

The drive back to our villa was easy, much less traffic than the drive in. The last bit was along a scenic part of the basin that flowed into the Mediterranean. In the fading last light of the day we pulled off the road and onto the wide gravel path that ran along the edge of the basin for the entire 20 mile circumference. It was quiet. A few gulls were straying into the sky; the rest had retired for the night. A cyclist pedaled at a leisurely pace toward us, then past us. A few minutes later another came along. A somewhat severe-looking older woman walked at a forced pace with her little terrier on its leash. Apart from these brief intrusions, the scene could well have been entirely ours.

Just off the gravel path the sand began that eased down to the water. High clumps of pointy grasses like sawgrass were spaced up and down the basin. The sand was soft; Chantal found it easy and comfortable to kneel, her dress pulled up past her knees. When she took my cock out of my pants and into her mouth, my responses were a battle of serene calm and high arousal. The warm breeze curled around my face, around my cock and balls. She loved doing this; she felt proud of herself when she sucked my cock. Some distant past ago she had perfected the action of opening her throat and pushing my cock past that tight opening. Every time she took me in, I awaited that sensation of the head of my cock squeezing into her throat. Her inner muscles had the habit of contracting at that moment, a well-suppressed gag reflex I suppose, that felt like small warm fingers squeezed my shaft. After a short while she gasped for air, and stroked my cock in her strong, small fingers, licking the head. The breeze actually felt cool, even though it was hot out, still. She had learned a rhythm, once my cock was fully inside her, of bouncing on the base of my cock, fucking it back and forth about an inch, before needing eventually to come up for breath. This was what aroused me most.

When I came I had to place my hands on her head for balance as I arched over, and thrust my cock into her mouth, down her throat with abandon. Cum spurted down her throat, into her mouth, over her lips, onto her chin as she licked and sucked and bobbed furiously.

She licked me clean. I caught my breath. She stood up, smiling, her face shiny, a glint in her eyes and in her smile. So pleased with herself. On the rest of the drive back, she sat in the passenger seat, her skirt pulled, up, fingering herself in the dark. The sound of her cumming was music over the sound of the car’s engine. Afterward she just sat back, her skirt still pulled up, so that the light in the yard shone down on her glistening thighs as I parked. We sat for a few seconds, and I laid my fingers on her cunt, feeling the wetness, feeling her little twitch as I sensitively touched her aching clit. I licked her flavour from my fingers, kissed her on the mouth. Our bed beckoned us.

Catherine is a dancer

Catherine is a dancer. She also works in a framing shop in the 15th District, but that is just temporary, until her dancing career takes off. She has been working in the framing shop for three years, and is now the assistant manager, second in charge after the owner. She looks after the place when the manager goes away, which occurs for a few days every three weeks or so.

I support her notion that she is a dancer. Her training is deep and long, and she has been on the stage in various musical entertainments that seem to be more common in Paris than other cities. But that is happening less now. The last time she danced was a short run in a cabaret where the story was something about Napoleon III. Just an excuse for girls to kick their legs and pose while the patrons drank and slobbered. We didn’t talk about it afterward, but I know Catherine was thinking that this was far from the ideal she originally sought, looking distant and beautiful on stage and perpetuating the thoughts that Keats writes about on his grecian urn – art perfecting something and making it endure.

So she goes to the framing shop, and fulfills her responsibilities with diligence and without irony, without letting anyone think that she views this job as temporary.

We met at the framing shop, actually. Some old prints had come into the bookstore – they were old art deco posters, originals, girls in diaphanous clothes posing on three-wheeled bicycles, that sort of thing - and the owner wanted them framed. I don’t know what it is about the chemistry between people, but you just sort of feel when someone is at loose ends, and wants you to make the first move, start a conversation outside the rigid form that your immediate business dictates. She looked self-possessed, and almost deliberately dressed and coiffed to appear less pretty than she actually is. Classically slim, with a fine face, fine cheeks and nose and brow and lips. So tidy.

By now my French had improved, despite the fact that nearly everyone who came into the English bookstore spoke English. Outside that bookstore, Parisians don’t accept English.

As our evening moved from a coffee, to a drink, to the suggestion that we have dinner together, I became very aware of her curiosity, which was hungry. Her eyes were unrelenting, her conversation softly probing. Once the decision had been made to have dinner, she insisted on going home and changing, which more or less forced me to do the same. We met over the bridge to the Latin quarter, which added a bit of a frisson to the evening, bustling amid all that energy.

Going to bed, having sex, was so natural and automatic. After dinner, she simply smiled confidently and said, “So, you are going to show me your place?” Her place was a bit further away, inconvenient, in a way.

I should do the scene justice, and describe it elaborately - the undressing, the scents and little nuances of our fucking, but I will save that for another time, when I can beautify it.

Her body was so alive, and she was dramatically pretty, with modest breasts whose nipples were very sensitive. In fact her entire body was sensitive. Her first orgasm happened about a minute after I slid my fingers along her cunt; as soon as I touched her clit I could feel her urgency and hunger. I think she must have cum about fifteen times that night, which to my mind was a sort of paradise, something you imagine happening in the Koran’s afterlife - coupling with an endlessly sexual woman. We fucked so many different ways, licking each other, sucking, I came in her mouth, her cunt and over her ass. Anal sex would come later.

She was only slightly moody. She was good-natured. Once after a period of desultory and unsatisfying liaisons a friend had asked me what I looked for in a woman. It was clear, to me: “an intelligent, attractive, good-natured sex maniac.” Catherine was her.

About Chantal, now...

I don’t want to give the impression that Chantal was consumed with cock-sucking.

She was a complete girl, as all girls are, of course. She had some of those gamine qualities that are particularly and even commonly French- sort of self-consciously cute, stagily mischievous, but in Chantal’s case it was in a totally disarming, harmless way. Whatever: I found it charming, and never found it tiresome, as it can get with some girls who try on the act because it is charming, and then use it as a crutch. With Chantal, it seemed genuinely part of her.


She loved oral sex – not just the giving, but the getting. The first time she sucked my cock and then she fingered herself till she came she seemed to be almost a self-contained sexual girl, or self-sufficient. If she had a cock to suck, she could get herself off, that sort of thing. In some ways, I am as fixated on giving a girl oral sex as Chantal was the opposite. I love all the textures and currents that run through a girl’s cunt, outside and in. I love to discover where to touch and lick, how to suck her clit into my mouth and thrum it just so, how to slide my fingers into her cunt and find her soft tender inside spot under her clit if she has one, to intensify her orgasm. If I were a gardener, I would grow only orchids, because of their resemblance to women’s cunts.

Chantal loved to be licked. One particularly celebratory night, she crawled up on my bed, spread her knees and stuck her ass up in the air. I knelt on the floor, licking her cunt while she buried her head in the sheets. Lost in the sheets. I licked all the way up to her ass, teasing her tight pucker. This elicited tiny repeated squeals, as if she was some breed of terrier or Pomeranian, little yelps of delight as I teased and tickled her ass, then licked down to her cunt again. I took her hand and placed it against her clit and cunt so she could finger herself while I licked. With her face buried in the blankets she fucked her cunt while I licked. Her grunting was muffled, into the mattress. Her head and its sounds were a little detached. As soon as I stuck two fingers in her cunt and started fucking her with them, she came, bouncing and lunging. Collapsing forward when she was finished.

I lay down beside her after, my cock at her mouth. She lazily stroked and licked it, so delightfully, without intensity, that when I came it was in fact intense. Surprising.

But Chantal was about more than oral sex.

Chantal

Before Catherine, there were several others, the first of whom was Chantal. Conversing wasn’t that good then, because I had just arrived in Paris, and my French was poor. But I was eager, and Chantal was so willing. I think she thought I was exotic, a Canadian in Paris. The first night we were together we stumbled through a flirty conversation that was a shambles, but she worked so hard at making it all work. Her cheeks got lovely and red as she drank, first red vermouth on the rocks, and then red wine. Her hair was red, too. Wiry red.

She was addicted to sucking my cock throughout our relationship. It started that first night. She treated it almost as if it were a job interview, showing me how competent she was. She used bright red lipstick, of a variety that didn’t smudge. I had never seen that before. It didn’t even come off on my cock as she sucked and licked. To be fair, she was an artiste. At least in my experience. Her mouth was volcanic. Fiery hot. Flowing. Sucking, almost breathing my cock in. At first she had difficulty taking it all the way in, I could tell, and gagged, till she got the angle. I had only ever had two girls who could take a cock deep into their throats. God I came hard. My cum shot into her throat (it seemed to, anyway) but then poured back out her mouth, down her chin, and she kept sucking and slurping… swallowing what she could. Afterwards, she just lay back (she was still dressed in her stretch top and jeans) and unzipped her jeans, fucking herself without taking her pants off, so I could see her fingers moving along her cunt and clit. It was simple and pretty. When she came she shuddered, as I expected, but it was oddly private. Hard to explain.

I had met girls who loved to suck cock before, but not like her; it seemed to be her mission. I will write a bit more about Chantal, because her love of sucking my cock was a sort of addiction, a fetish, something she wanted to do even when I wanted to fuck differently.

Mediterranean breeze... more...

When the breeze is from the south, a difference. Undefinable smells, perhaps from Spain, or the Pyrenees, I don't know. But an inmistakable humidity, a warmth in the air that foreshadows a perfect evening.

When the breeze is from the north, something else. Freshness, almost of stone and dry trees. If sand had a smell, this would be it. But the breeze rarely blows from the north.

And when the breeze doesn't blow? Ah, but there is always a breeze. This perfect breeze, bringing reminders and sensations and messages from other corners. the softest tongue of air, this breeze, lapping at the face, lapping at the bare shoulders of handsome women, tickling the indifferent legs of contented men.

Mediterranean

When the breeze is from the east, off the Mediterranean, the scent of salt, and that indefinable complex odour of boats in harbours. Somewhere a boat was going out for a cruise, or returning from a dawn fishing trip: a whiff of exhaust.

When the breeze is from the west, just the smells of the square rising up, because the balcony is protected from this breeze. Therefore: an invisible cloud of garlic cooking in oil as a chef in one of the restaurants down below prepares a dish. Humid wafting of a bucket of washing water as one of the young women cleaning tables below throws her pail of water on the hot brick of the square. A motorcycle weaves slowly across the empty expanse: exhaust. An early meal of fish cooking: dorade, thon, rouget, sole - peppery, traces of basil. At stiller moments, an elusive gust of lavender from the large planter outside the café below.

lisa (4)

My first thought when I woke up: Lisa's lips on Catherine’s toes. The flushed pink of Catherine's cheeks. I showered, made coffee and toast, and waited for Catherine to wake up in the apartment’s small bedroom.

Very shortly Catherine came out, wearing one of my t-shirts. She sipped the coffee and closed her eyes gratefully.

“So... you enjoyed having the visit with Lisa? Here is her number. Give her a call and ask her to go shopping with us this morning. She’s expecting it, remember.”

Catherine’s cheeks coloured.

I handed her the phone. “Call her,” I said.

Catherine dialled. We were so close in the small kitchen that I could hear Lisa’s voice.

When she was finished Catherine smiled and lifted her eyebrows. “What shall I shop for? What shall I wear?”

I said nothing, just walked back into the bedroom. She got dressed in the clothes she had worn over last night, just jeans and a loose white blouse. She left her red vinyl dress hanging over the back of the chair, her red patent shoes in the corner of the closet where she had thrown them.

She stopped by once she had gone back to her own place, to show me her outfit, a leather skirt and tight black top. Her nipples were visible; she rarely wore a bra. I looked at them, and Catherine blushed..

“Well, that’s just the way they are.” Then she picked up her bag and left.

lisa (3)

Yes: “What now?”

Catherine’s cheeks were red, her upper chest flushed. She looked down at the floor.

But: it was time for Lisa to go home. As Catherine just sat there in her deshabille, the straps of her dress still down around her elbows, her breasts exposed, nipples puckered, easily half an inch long, I got Lisa’s coat and led her to the door.

When I came back I slid my fingers between Catherine’s legs, feeling her wetness. “You wanted her to touch you, didn’t you?”

She lowered her eyes and giggled defensively. “Yes. I was so afraid of not being honest.” She quivered as my fingers slid over her wet clit again and again.

“Well,” I said. “there’s always tomorrow.”

Then she shuddered, screamed and stuck her hands out as she came, humping spasmodically on my fingers, till she collapsed against the chair.

lisa (2)

A short while later.

Catherine’s red patent shoes were on their sides on the floor.

Lisa smiled, looking along Catherine’s pretty leg. Catherine could see that as Lisa lifted her foot, her legs were spreading, and the younger girl could probably see her bare, smooth pussy. Catherine tried to close her legs, but Lisa kept her foot out, and Catherine didn’t try harder, because she was concerned I would think she was being silly.
Then she felt the other girl’s mouth on her toes. I could see Catherine’s eyes flutter and her lips purse. Her cheeks flamed.

“Now the other foot,” I said.

Lisa switched her attention to Catherine’s other foot. Catherine shivered visibly as the other girl kissed and licked her toes. Catherine bit her lip as Lisa’s hands held her calf, then her eyes widened as Lisa kissed up her calf, to her knee, then higher. Catherine whimpered, frightened. Her chest was heaving. Even through her vinyl dress I could see the points of her hard nipples, a very predictable reaction. Catherine had pronounced nipples when they hardened.

Catherine had told me to keep going even if she looked scared. “Would you like her to continue, Catherine?” I said.

She blushed, then looked back down at Lisa.

Lisa had strong, smooth hands, nails painted a dark red. She opened Catherine’s thighs wider. Catherine froze for a few seconds, placing her hands almost firmly on the hem of her red dress, pushing it between her legs to hide her crotch. Lisa gently moved Catherine’s hands away. Then she put one finger over one of Catherine’s eyes, then the same finger over the other eye, closing them. Next Lisa pulled down one strap of the red dress down her right arm, then the left, exposing Catherine’s breasts. Catherine’s head lolled back, to one side then the other as she felt Lisa’s mouth on her shoulders, her chest, the rise of her breasts, her neck. Her chest was moving in a pronounced rise and fall.

“That’s enough for now,” I said.

Lisa was smiling, inches from Catherine’s closed eyes, and then she kissed Catherine’s mouth just at the edge of her red lips. Catherine’s eyes fluttered open and she moved her head slightly toward Lisa’s lips, brushing them. Her hands briefly crossed over her exposed breasts, then slowly moved away, showing the hard extended brown nipples. She visibly relaxed her legs, letting them widen slightly, showing the shadows of her smooth slit.

Lisa sat back down, composed, and sipped her wine. “What now?”

lisa (1)

Lisa was a girl we had met, who had served us drinks the night before at the small bistro. It was an instant connection. She said she liked Catherine’s leather, and one thing led to another. Lisa had agreed to come for a drink at my apartment.

Lisa showed up in a tight, red top and short black skirt. Catherine had on a red vinyl dress. Red lipstick. Red fishnet stockings with a wide lace band that showed when she bent and sat. Red patent leather platform shoes.

Catherine looked at Lisa then looked at her nails nervously. Lisa was a few years younger than Catherine, maybe 30, slim and athletic, with short dark reddish brown hair. Her nipples showed through her red top.

I had told Catherine that Lisa would be nervous, but she wasn’t. The younger woman’s eyes looked up and down Catherine’s body as she stood there, her feet together. Then she spoke. “Very pretty. Very sexy. Very sexy, Catherine.”

Catherine blushed.

I motioned to a chair for Lisa to sit in. I nodded to the glasses of wine I had poured, for Catherine to take the tray and pass them around. She walked between us in her short flared vinyl red dress, aware that she looked garish and cheap, enjoying it. Her legs looked perfect. Once she had passed the wine I told her to come and stand between my chair and Lisa’s. “So Lisa, do you like Catherine's dress?”

Lisa looked at it. She extended her fingers and took the hem, rubbing it between her fingers. “Yes, it is so sexy. Do you feel sexy in it, Catherine?”

I pointed to Catherine’s shoes, red patent leather, and they went through the same ritual. “They are so sexy,” Lisa said, “Do you feel sexy in them, Catherine?” Then her stockings. Then her lipstick. Then her toenails. Catherine had to show each feature off as Lisa asked the same questions and made the same comments over and over.

Catherine then got us another glass of wine, and I asked her to sit down.

south

I drove south, in my rented Peugeot, out of the murk that can be any city in the winter... Many hours later in a small, warmer town, south past Montpellier, on the large lagoon there. A retreat for the weekend, on the sea, in different air, different cuisine, among a warmer and friendlier populace than Paris provides... Nothing like a quiet weekend, a couple of books, coffee and croissants in a warm and not too busy (the time of year) cafe... A quiet and delicious dinner by the water, a carafe of the local dark red wine, robust and not very subtle.

A good time to pass the images of old friends before my memory's eye...

galleries

Rain, rain and more rain. But sometimes you need a day like this. The Louvre will be more or less deserted today. He thinks of similarly deserted galleries he has visited on such days, galleries which have favorite pictures - Chicago Art Institute, MOMA in New York, Boston Museum of Fine Arts, all those little galleries in downtown San Francisco, the National Gallery, the Tate. These are places not for the snotty viewing of pictures, but for letting the soul rest a bit, and then start to edge out toward some new discoveries. So the Louvre it is.

January 1

January 1

The first day of the new year, and Paris isn't so much hung over as tired... after all, one only has so much energy for all this celebrating, and then one has to get back to the chase, for money, things, and erotic moments.

I walk along (of course) the Left Bank, Notre Dame on my right... I am feeling good. The small apartment I am renting suits my purposes for now, and my new friend Catherine likes it. I am feeling good, I realize, because last night we looked out from my darkened bedroom; she was on her hands and knees, and I entered her from behind, entering her ass that I had wetted with her own juices. She was so quietly and intensely aroused. She is like that, her juices streaming while her only sounds are the most muffled but intense whimpers. Her fingers were on her clit and I could feel her cumming as I was inside her ass. Afterward she just collapsed forward onto the bed, her head hanging over the edge, her hair tumbling down in a long reddish brown fall. The light glowed in from the city. That's why I am feeling so good today.

Tonight, a glass of Calvados. A bit of a celebration, a private, quiet one, inhaling the smoke of a patron who went outside to smoke his Gauloise, leaving his date inside to sip her wine. How perfectly imperfect, to compromise like that, and still not compromise at the same time - to be out together, but not share a bad habit. Resume the conversation when the smoke is done.

My Calvados is lovely. Burning and strong. Just right.

day after Christmas

December 26

the day after Christmas... a quiet evening, most of the storefronts dark... stopping in to a cafe, somewhat busy...

The Latin quarter tonight, not Montmartre, actually... but a rich evening nonetheless...

decides against the Pernod... opting for a simple glass of white...

something to sip on while watching occasional cars drift by wetly on the street... skirts hurrying by under umbrellas... a cigarette tossed aside into the gutter..

Thinking of an old friend, who is no doubt busy forgetting this quiet and sensual corner... where my delicious dark rose would sometimes stop in, with a girlfriend or two...

nostalgic

December 4

and again... feeling nostalgic...

... 2 a.m, and if you walk enough in Montmartre, perhaps beyond the quartier itself, you can find a brasserie... a few patrons... brightly lit... selling casse-croutes and beer and cheap wine. Expensive wine if you want it. Paris in the middle of the night is quiet, except in certain quarters...

Leaving a little cairn for a couple of old friends, and my unique rose.

a la prochaine...

for old time's sake

November 23

another post for old time's sake.

...finds himself on this characteristic street, an unpretentious one, as streets in Montmartre are wont to be... just busy with its regular life... people coming in and out of several bakeries with their baguettes, news stores with their papers, or walking with their empty or full shopping bags along the sidewalk, women wearing that (again) characteristic Parisian knee length skirt or dress... far from haute couture.

revisiting

October 21

Drops by the old quarter, such a long absence, and sees that his old friends have not been by for... over a year...

Also dropped by the market, reviving some fond memories... justarose... all those petal-dappled souvenirs...

a post for old time's sake.