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.