Sunday, May 25, 2014

P A R I S - Part 1 - Mathieu

My life is basically a cheesy movie.

I touched down at Chucky de Gaulle airport and hop on the temporary internet to let my friend know that je suis arrivĂ© in motherfucking frogtown. Also to jump on le petit Tinder, chyeah. I open it only long enough for it to locate me and initiate the viral spread of my steez. As an aside, the train ticketing machines are extremely unfriendly to non-euro visitors: they accept neither american credit cards nor euro bills despite the ~10 euro fare—and a change machine only accepts 5 or 10 euro notes. Anyways, once in the metro area I board the train in the wrong direction for my connection. Sweet. I eventually arrive slightly damp and very tired at my friend’s doorstep in the 5th arrondissement. Arrondissement is either French for go-fuck-yourself or neighborhood. Come to think of it, almost everything in French could be understood as “go fuck yourself”. But let’s not get into formal linguistics. 

My friend remembers my style and welcomes me with a generous goblet of wine. My jetlag is noticeable, but I soldier on. We play a little catch up and it quickly becomes a game of my friend talking at me about various inconsequential events and peripheral friends of no importance to me. I nod my head politely, “Yeah? Cool.” I remember Tinder. As ma amie uses me as a backboard for her verbal backhand, I peruse the sexy French bros. Not much in the way of hot bodies, but damn French dudes are handsome and alluring in a novel way.

Most of their photos convey an I don’t give a fuck (n’importe quoi) attitude. Naturally I matched with roughly 100% of the people I "liked". Being fresh meat is chill. Meat should be chilled until eaten. What? Stay focused, I’m telling a story. 

I begin to chat on whatsapp with a number of mecs. One is particularly persistent and particularly cute. I convey to my friend the gist of what I’m doing on tinder and she is open but a little possessive of me and my time in Paris. The next morning I make an excuse and head out to meet Mathieu for breakfast. It’s early and I’m still a bit jetlagged, but I appreciate the scenic walk nonetheless. Paris really would be an excellent place without all the Parisians. We glimpsed each other from a distance and waved to confirm. After a brief exchange consisting of a mix of English, French and Spanish, we took seats side by side on the terrace of a nearly deserted cafe.

He’s cute as fuck, albiet very French looking. His shaggy very fine, brown hair curled a bit and framed his boyish face. His eyes were bright green with spikes of yellow in the center. “What do you want?” he asks looking deep into my eyes and smirking. We ordered some coffees and a kind of toasted bread and cheese thing (as if the French could eat anything else at any meal). The sexual chemistry was immediately apparent as we blundered our way through various second and third languages, conveying more with our eyes and body language than with our words. ”Sure,” I said, reaching over and brushing his leg. After a strong pull from his cigarette he explained that he was an architecture student at Beaux-Arts. If this sounds clichĂ© to you, then you may not be able to handle the rest. 

After our coffees and picking at the food we headed for the river. Yes, I walked by the Seine with a French guy. We had a connection so our level of physical comfort progressed rapidly. We stopped here and there to kiss or mildly grope each other. A bit down the way a bro was playing the saxophone, presumably for practice, as no one was around. We sat by the river dangling our feet over the edge and listened. He grabbed my hand and kissed me. This ridiculously trite romantic scene was then interrupted by a sketchy old dude staring at us. Staring quickly progressed to stalking: as we walked away, he pursued. Mathieu claims he whipped his dick out at one point and was jerking off to us, but I never saw this as I was trying to implement a ignoring-based strategy. Either way: cool. 

I responded to my friends “WTF where did you go?” texts but didn’t say when I’d return. It started to rain so we headed away from the river. We passed a movie theater, and Mathieu suggested we see something. We picked an American movie that was just about to start. We took our seats and immediately got snuggly as hell. The movie was decent but I was very distracted by Mathieu  especially since he was caressing my leg and attending to my raging boner. For a while I thought he was going to try to blow me in the theater, but this did not come to pass. I exchanged more messages with my friend who seemed peeved but not pissed. She said it was no problem and that she’d just meet up with a friend. After a bit more over-the-pants attention I suggested we make the gamble of going back to the apartment, wagering that my friend was gone and that we would be able to get our now very-heightened sexual yayas out.

We paused outside the apartment door and listened. A clutter from inside. I’d guessed wrong—my friend hadn’t left. Oh well. We separated with the agreement that we’d chill before Friday, when Mathieu had to go to London. 

That night I got drunk with my friend and her band of interesting multinational misfits. They were misfits in literal interpretation of the word: they didn’t seem to fit wherever they were from. Even those who were from Paris didn’t seem to fit and seemed more Americanized than anything. Still, we had plenty of fun drinking by the canal and into the night. 

*  *  * 

Mathieu scowled at me. “You’re 30 minutes late!”

Yeah, I’m not as familiar with the transportation system as you are. 

We went into the Gran Palais and he convinced the clerk that I was an art student in the US and to give me the reduced ticket rate. 

We walked around, him grabbing at my hand, and me not hating it. 

“Do you know Robert Mappelthorpe?” he asked, pronouncing the American name in a very French way. 

“Yes.” I had heard the name but had no idea what kind of work he did. 

We entered the exhibit and it was apparent that Robby Mappes was a big ol’ homo who liked to take pictures of naked dudes. 

I felt a little uneasy looking at the photos. Part of it is that I find it a bit awkward looking at soft core pornography masquerading as art in public. Still, I didn’t like the idea that I was maybe ashamed to look at photos of things that were attractive to me so I made sure to look at everything, even the couple pictures of actual dicks that were in a side room. Penises honestly don’t turn me on though. I think I’m weird in that way. In fact, I get the impression that it’s dicks that get the heteroflexible dudes going. I’m attracted to basically every body part and male trait, but the penis probably least of all. Nothing I can explain, just personal preference I guess.

Part 2 soon, y'all. 


  1. If you come back and say you didn't do at least 'some' level of the nasty, I'm gonna be very disappointed.

  2. As much as I hate that I live in a fantasy world, I would love for something as cheesy as this to happen to me. In fact it's one of my dreams. Sounds like you're having fun in Paris. I hope you get to have your kind of fun soon.

  3. You are one lucky fellow.