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From: Marie Durois <mdurois@yahoo.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} Paris Encounter {FM, true)
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Date: Sun,  5 Mar 2000 17:10:40 -0500
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Paris Encounter(FM, true)
by Marie Durois

[AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is my story, and I would 
appreciate it if my name and my email address were 
always associated with it.  Obviously it has 
sexual content.  Any person who has problems with that
should not read further.]

March 2000

It is my first trip abroad in my entire life. I choose
Paris for my first European vacation, my first big
trip alone in my life.  Why Paris? Because
I've wanted to visit Paris for my entire life. Why not
treat myself to the realization of a dream. Also, I
speak French and want to be able to immerse myself in
the culture. Because there are a million things to
do and see; I don't have to make any plans. Each day
all I need to do is wake up and see what I feel like
doing, then do it.

I have gone alone on this trip for several
reasons--partly because there is no one I want to
travel with, and partly to prove that I can do it. I
can go on a wonderful vacation by myself. I don't need
a male companion, or any companion, for that matter. I
want the freedom to be alone and do what I want, when
I want. I want the freedom to bed a man if I meet one
who appeals to me, who captures my fancy.

I secretly hope I will. I am prepared; I have an
entire box of condoms. I am not audacious enough to
think I will be lucky every day, but there are
enough to cover that possibility. It is July, hot and
humid, the peak of the tourist season. My hotel is
air-conditioned; I choose to indulge myself
in every creature comfort on this vacation, my first
"big trip," including business class seats on the
airplane.

I confess that I worry a little bit about how I will
"play" in Paris.  In my late '40s, I am less confident
of my attractiveness to men. My figure
has softened and become more womanly as I have aged. 
My legs and cleavage are still terrific, but I seldom
wear short skirts or low-cut tops. I
am not built to the American standard of beauty-"slim
and athletic." Botticelli would have chosen me for a
model, with my creamy complexion, large breasts
and round belly. Despite my weight, cameras like me
and I would have enjoyed modeling for a painter in a
different era.

A few months before the trip I am fortunate to meet a
gregarious, charming man who has an apartment in
Paris. He is the retired head of the French
department for a major university in my area. We share
a love of things French and classical music. He
regales me with tales on a long flight
and we exchange emails.  Planning my trip, I pepper
him with questions- Do I need to tip? How much? What
shall I see? And so forth. He assures
me that I will not suffer for lack of male attention
in Paris. He tells me to simply enjoy it. I am
skeptical but determined to be optimistic.

After arriving, I crash for a few hours, then wake and
go walking.  Paris is like a fairyland. Turning each
corner I discover a new church, or park or monument. I
wander where my nose leads me, looking up the name of
every treasure in my guidebook, hungry to embrace this
city as my own. I walk until my feet scream for
relief, developing a blister from
my brand-new walking sandals, then limp back to the
hotel again to crash.  I have fallen in love with the
city.

My hotel is in the first arrondissement, the oldest
part of Paris, just steps from Notre Dame and the
Louvre. It is a tiny hotel, only 40 rooms. I found it
on the Internet, intrigued by the ad that said, "Four
charming hotels in the heart of Paris." It had the
amenities I wanted: breakfast, air conditioning and a
hair dryer. Unlike in the United States, I do not
choose a fancy hotel with a restaurant; I want to
experience Paris and to do so means I must dine out,
even if alone.

There is one cultural difference that is a great
surprise to me-the hotel room key has a giant weight
on it. When you go out, you leave your key. When you
come back, the person at the front desk gives it back
to you. Someone sees your every coming and going. I am
not used to this and it feels like an invasion of
privacy  for me. I am used to large American hotels
with their card key entrances where people come can
and go anonymously, with no questions asked, no
probing eyes. To meet a lover, all you need to do is
give him your room number and he walks unobserved to
the elevator and then to your door. Not so in Paris,
in this little hotel.  I hope this cultural factor
will not prove a hindrance to me on this trip. I do
hope to get laid.

I quickly discover that dinner is the biggest
challenge of the trip.  I am painfully self-conscious
being alone. In the summer all the restaurants
are open, the image of sidewalk cafes in Paris as
portrayed by the media. I feel conspicuous. But I must
eat and I refuse to visit the McDonald's nearby.
I bravely approach a restaurant each night and ask for
a table. I have no problems being served.

The second challenge with dining out is-what to eat?
While my French is adequate I confess I do not know
French cuisine. I recognize the major words:
poulet=chicken, poisson=fish, etc. The problem is 
the adjectives which precede the words like chicken or
fish. I have no idea what the chef has done to the
chicken or the fish Baked? broiled? fried? These
are not words I studied in college French and I am too
self-conscious to spend time looking up culinary words
in a dictionary in a restaurant I choose the "prix
fixe" menu at each restaurant because I have less of a
bewildering selection of foods to choose from but I
cannot order with confidence. I eat
whatever is put in front of me and it is mostly fine,
but I do not recognize any of it, even though I think
it was supposed to be chicken or fish-or maybe salmon?
I think the pink something was vaguely familiar. 

After two nights of not knowing what I have eaten for
dinner, I am inspired with a strategy--eat ethnic!
After all, Paris is a major cosmopolitan city, like
New York or Chicago or LA, with every possible type of
restaurant within a few steps of me. I decide to go to
restaurants whose cuisine I know, whose food I will
recognize even in French. I don't think I am copping
out on experiencing Paris; I am trying to survive.
After all, I speak reasonable French to everyone,
petit dictionnaire with me at all times, and I am
traveling about with the greatest of ease, seeing many
wonderful things.

So, in my pursuit of ethnic food, I begin with
Italian. It is my third night in Paris and I confess
that in addition to being hungry, I am feeling 
a little lonely. No man has leered at me or flirted
with me. The Parisians all appear to be thin and dark
and the men are mostly short. I don't look like them,
plus I'm tall. I hope I will meet someone!

The concierge at the hotel recommends an Italian
restaurant nearby. It is a casual restaurant with an
indoor and outdoor section. The tables have red and
white checked tablecloths. It is well-lit. The guests
there appear relaxed and comfortable. I am ushered to
a table and a waiter brings me a menu. I recognize all
the selections. I am happy.

The waiters are dark-eyed and handsome, of varying
ages, but mostly in their 20s. One of them appears
more like a manager and seems a little older, maybe in
his late 30s. We make eye contact. I admire
his face and his tousled dark hair and blue/green
eyes. I look at him and catch him with my gaze and we
both break into a smile. Chemistry! I am ecstatic and
turn all my energy towards him, drawing him to me
with my eyes and my smile.

Unfortunately I am being served by a different waiter
so it is hard to have a conversation with this man. I
think he is surprised at the intensity of my
attention; who is this woman?

After dinner I linger way longer than necessary and we
carry on snippets of a conversation, half in French
and half in English, as he serves other customers and
generally supervises. He does not always understand me
when I speak French, which puzzles me. I discover he
is Greek, working in an Italian restaurant.  He asks
me to meet him at
12:30 am when he gets off work.  It seems late to me,
but I feel I must seize the opportunity. I finally say
yes. After all, I am only here a few nights; I cannot
be coy. 

So I go back to my hotel room and read, excited and
nervous, then at 12:30 am I go back to the restaurant.
I wait for him at a discreet distance, but where he
can see me. He comes and greets me. We start to walk
and talk, mostly in French. I tell him I have been
lonely in Paris and he has made me smile just by his
attentions so far that evening. He smiles but I am not
sure he understands what I am saying.

We ask each other questions about who each other is.
He tells me his name is Niko. He has lived in Paris
for 11 years. He is divorced and has a son who is 6
years old who lives in Paris with his ex-wife. He is
34. He seems pleased to discover that I am single and
am not in a relationship at present. We have a hard
time discussing any complicated topics, struggling
between languages. I cannot possibly explain my
complicated corporate job working with the Internet.
But he seems to recognize that I am a good person with
no hidden agenda, just an American woman tourist who
is attracted to him. 

We try to talk for awhile and then give up. We walk a
few blocks and then stop on a street and he reaches
for me and takes me in his arms. His lips
touch mine  and his tongue probes my mouth with the
gentlest of exploratory kisses. We are the same
height, about 5'9".  We pull apart for a moment and
smile at each other, breathless. Then he takes my hand
and we walk to another street, which is less busy.

We stop. He again takes me in his arms. Then the
passionate kissing begins in earnest. He is a
powerful, sexy, hungry kisser, who devours me in the
way I want to be devoured. I have the sense of him
eating me alive in an erotic way. But we both want
more. He begins to reach into my blouse and fondle my
breasts, first through the bra, and then finally
unhooking it. He pulls one breast free and strokes and
massages it with his hand.  I pull back a bit, saying,
"My hotel is very nearby-let's go there." 

He says he cannot take me to the hotel because of the
relationship between the owners of the hotel and the
restaurant. We cannot go to his place because he lives
far away, at least 45 minutes, and he has no car; he
takes the Metro. I rearrange myself in my bra and we
begin to walk again, in search of a quiet street with
more privacy.

But there is no quiet street with privacy. Even
deserted streets at 1 a.m. have people walking through
them.  There seems to be no dark place to go.

So we stop again and go back to kissing, tongues
tangling and playing and teasing. Then he frees both
my breasts and kisses them, fondles and sucks them in
turn. I don't care that he smokes and that he needs a
shave-he is warm and sexy and wonderfully male. I feel
his hard cock pressed up against me as he grinds his
hips into me. 

They say Paris is the city of lovers and I would
agree. People pass us on the street as we engage in
this passionate display, his hand reaching
up under my blouse, freeing first one  breast and then
the other, his head going down to suck on my nipple as
I arch my head back with pleasure. It is wild to be
almost taken there on the street, with people passing
by. No one cares. This is
nothing special. This is Paris. The French obsession
with sex plays out wonderfully on the streets, or
anywhere. I am thousands of miles from home and no one
knows me here. I want a man and I have found one. For
tonight I am French.

I am powerfully aroused by his kisses and sucking on
my breasts and am able to do little more than stand
there and enjoy it. I try to stimulate him in return
by kissing and nibbling on  his ear. His quick intake
of breath tells me that he likes it. But as he is
reaching into my pants, attempting to undo them, I
pull back and say stop. I will not bend over and let
him fuck me in the street. I want him to fuck me, but
it must be in the privacy of my hotel room. I want to
lie down with him, to be naked with him, to feel a
man's body in me and around me, the warmth of his skin
against me. I don't just want his cock-I want all of
him.  The experience of a man is much more than just
his cock.

He struggles with this conundrum. I cannot understand
how this can be so serious and he cannot really
explain it.  Has no woman ever picked him up before?
Why can't he simply go to my room with me and pleasure
me?

We are both frustrated and want to fuck. But I am
adamant on this point. Eventually he decides that he
can tell them at the hotel that he's escorting me for
my safety, since it is almost 1:30 am - except that he
really says nothing at all once we're back at the
hotel. I get my key from the man at the front desk and
we go to my room. He says he cannot stay long.

Once in the room, we quickly tear our clothes off and
lay down on the bed.  His body is beautiful to me -
medium build and no gut on him - black hair on his
chest and a small forest of soft hair on his belly. He
wears black, silk bikini briefs, emphasizing his sexy
body. His body reminds me of John Travolta in
"Saturday Night Fever," compact and perfect.

I suck his cock and then he has me put the condom on -
he has never used one before and does not know how. He
slides inside me and begins thrusting-hard and fast.
He comes quickly and it is over. He apologizes and
says in rough English, "It was--short." I say it
doesn't matter and really it doesn't. What matters is
that we were attracted to each other, and he turned me
on. He desired me and he fucked me. I felt this man's
hands and mouth and body all over  mine, skin to skin,
mouth to mouth, breath to breath-- and he buried his
cock in me and reminded me of what it feels like to be
a woman, taken by a man. 

What matters is that I am on vacation -I wanted a man
and I found him. In my favorite dreams and fantasies a
vacation is richly filled with sex. Unfortunately
there is no way to order it in advance like a hotel
reservation. ("I'd like to reserve one hot lover for 9
nights in Paris, please. Only men with strong libidos
need apply. Expert at cunnilingus also desirable. Must
appreciate full-figured women. Please send resume,
recent photo and salary requirements to
mdurois@yahoo.com. French or English-speakers
required.")

He dresses quickly and worries about money for the
taxi. He lives far away and the Metro is no longer
running at this hour. I give him 200FF to make sure he
has enough. He says he will pay it back, but I say it
doesn't matter, and don't really expect to see it
again. I am sure he needs it more than I do.

To help him keep up appearances I also dress again and
walk to the entryway of the hotel with him. As we are
leaving he says, in broken English, "When you
go back to the United States, I hope you find someone
to love."

I return to my room, alone again. For a long time I
sit there on the bed, not wanting to shower, wanting
to smell the smoky maleness of him, the lingering
smell of him on my body.

The End

[AUTHOR'S EMAIL ADDRESS: mdurois@yahoo.com 
Comments are invited.]



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Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
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