Paris Women, Redux: I am starting (well, not really starting, but continuing) to find all the women of Paris exquisite torture. Every time I venture out of my apartment I know I will be tantalized, teased and tormented, without mercy. It’s starting to get to me. I might have to start spending more time inside as the weather continues to warm up. Actually I am thinking of giving up on the whole “chercher la femme” stuff. It’s too frustrating.
I saw the perfect bikini model (in French “mannequin”) walking back to my apartment this afternoon. She was crossing in front of me as I made my way into the Boulangerie. She was breathtaking … painfully lovely … about 25, 5’6”, long brown hair, curvy in all the right ways … and she even smiled shyly at me (perhaps she has some odd fetish for shy middle aged men?) … oh my … I tripped on the curb. And then she was gone. I will have to try to find her again.
But why did I let her go? And if I did find her again, what am I supposed to do? Lob her over my shoulder and lug her home like some prehistoric Don Juan? Or more likely, try to start a conversation with her? … “Alors! Oh la la! Vous êtes très jolie. Très … um … er … Vous voulez aller … er … coucher … non non …” and then it would degenerate into grunts and unintentionally crude hand gestures. A bit sad really.
I always thought a well seasoned traveler always comes prepared. Would one travel with a spare bikini model in one’s valise?
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