I’m in Paris for a study abroad. Correction: I am single in Paris on a study abroad. Watch as I crumble under the weight of 50 movies all telling me that I must, as a matter of course, have an affair whilst here. That, and eat many baguettes. Although I’ve managed the latter, the former is proving problematic. It turns out, I’m far too reliant on language for connection, and not the body kind.
So when I found myself, on Gay Pride no less, lumbering through a Parisian alley densely packed with more lesbians than I’ve seen since a Melissa Etheridge show, I wasn’t sure what to do. Oh sure, there was wanton eye contact and whatnot, but I seriously can’t keep a straight face with that sort of thing in that sort of context. I’m cute, not sexy. I own this in the States, not here. In France, cute is kitsch; cute is the ridiculous Pompidou; cute is mispronouncing the word for pepper. I do THAT very well.
No, I need to talk about Foucault to get my flirt on. Wait, he’s French, bad example, but seriously I can’t even manage to ask for moutard on my fucking sandwich, much less engage in verbal nerdy foreplay. Some women I know would find the bright side in this and revert to a more primitive sexuality. Perhaps I’m too cerebral?
Regardless, I did get my dance on with some friends last night at a straight club (damn the majority). Truth be told, I love dancing with men or women; I just like to dance. However, my dancing partner (who has a lovely boyfriend back home) is the kind of beautiful that makes the earth turn more slowly. You’d think this would be a plus, yet much of our night was devoted to brushing aggressive Frenchmen off of her as nicely as possible. We both have that absurd “please like me even though I don’t like you” gene. The French sense this weakness. For instance, while desperately searching for a cab, walking arm over shoulders, a man asked us, in French, if we were lesbians. In unison, we said, “Oui.” He then said in English, “I’m gay, too.” <beat> “I’ll go home with you.” Au revoir, mon idiot.
Sadly, I found myself thinking about my last date in New York with a skinny Cuban bottle blonde. Let’s just say you didn’t need a dry ice machine around us on the dance floor. Plus, she went to Cornell. Superficial of me? Guilty as charged. Some people like T&A, while I usually go for the TA. Looks like I might be the fluer de wall here.
I spit my coffee out at the “TA” line. You are a fleur
Mon amie, you are hilarious. Now get your “cul” up here for some wine and male (or female) bashing. S’il vous plait.