*”I Saw You Too”
or, “The Whirlwind Erotic Romance of a French Fashion Student Enjoying Her Last Few Days in the States”*
“(This story has a long set-up. If you like your characters drawn out in less than a paragraph, you’ll probably want to move on to something else. This story also contains a few French words and phrases, references to American pop-punk music, and European films. If these topics leave you in the dark, again, you may want to try something else. Everyone else: Happy reading!!)”
*
May 29, 2006.
9:32am, Philadelphia, USA.
“Oh Shit!! Ce n’est pas possible!”
I slap the newspaper down on the kitchen table and grab my reading glasses from the counter above. I lean down close enough to inspect what I think I’ve just read but cannot truly be there. It couldn’t be real. Could it? But there it is, in black and white right before my eyes:
“I saw you checking me out at Vox Metro, Monday, Lunch. You: Yellow stripped running jacket, cargo pants. Me: Jeans, sneakers and blazer, dirty blonde, brown eyes. I don’t know your name, but you are gorgeous. I loved your wavy hair and almost died when I heard that French accent. You sounded like Brigitte Bardot in that Bonnie & Clyde Song. Don’t be shy–I was checking you out too. Call me at x5973 or meet me, same place, 8pm, Thursday.”
My oh my–Ce pourrait être vrai? A guy–A VERY CUTE GUY–who I bumped into at the coffee shop two days ago, has just made a personal ad for me… Pour moi!!!.
It is called an “I SAW YOU” and it is right there in the “chick” section of the local Philadelphia Art Paper. I have been reading these I SAW YOU’s devotedly every week since I moved to this city almost one year ago today. Basically, what I’m talking about is a Personals feature of the newspaper where people leave a message and try to hook up with someone they may have met out in public but never got their number.
Maybe I am a “ham,” but I find these I SAW YOU’s just oh-so romantic. I know for a fact that I am not the first woman to wonder whether I would see a note here from a cute guy whose eye I may have caught on the street. But of course, it has never happened. Once or twice I admit, I have even been tempted to place an ad myself. Always though–how do you American’s say it?– I “chicken out.” Call me a shy little girl, or call me a voyeur. It’s true that I’ve already been called both many times.
But finally, here it is. Tacit evidence that there is a HOT guy out there who is now trying to reach me through the romantic medium of an American newspaper personal ad!! Maybe this is a bit too “cheesy” for you dear reader? I am sorry for that, but bear with me a moment, as now–all of a sudden–I too could care less about the rest of the dribble here on this page. All those other stupid people with their stupid little romances! I might have drooled over you a few minutes ago, but now I don’t need your stories anymore. Everything but my ad seems so juvenile now. Really.
I read over the paragraph–my paragraph–again and again. At least a dozen or more times. Could this really be true? But it is. And as I read over and over the words, I can’t seem to say anything but “alors” over and again to no one but myself.
OK, dear reader, maybe I should be giving you some background about now:
My name is Lisette Pirelle. I am a French fashion student at the end of my one year scholarship at the Academy of Design in Philadelphia, a large city in eastern North America. I have just presented a line of clothes for petite women like myself to my American professors. I received high honors for the project, and one of my advisors has even put me in contact with a buyer at a large retailer here in this city!! Typically, they see my collection more along the lines of teenagers and not small adult women, but honestly, I don’t care. All I care is that THEY ARE INTERESTED!
I’m probably getting out-front of myself, but if it actually comes through, I hope to fabricate an entire line under the name “Lisette Jones.” I thought this name up as a sort of French-American girl equivalent of the Lucy character from the old Peanuts comic strip. I used to love that sassy Lucy when I was just a jeune fille. And I think the name plays well off the fun, “youth-y” look of my collection.
Oh, I’m so excited, I think I going to go manic here!
Ok, I’ve settled down now! It’s funny I think, how this little piece of luck seems just like everything else that is good in one’s life: it’s coming at me in such a big hurry. You see, my student VISA expires in three days, and no matter that I have a buyer interested in my collection, or that now suddenly a mysterious, cute boy likes me, I will have to fly home to spend my final semester at the Ecole Fashion, before I can graduate.
And now that I have a potentially interested buyer I could almost care less about my classes!!! All of a sudden, all I really want to do is put together the whole line and get rich! Ok, Ok don’t worry, I am an excellent student and of course I would not waste the potential of a prestigious Ecole Fashion degree. I know my degree will open doors for me many times over. I must be honest though when I say that I am even more excited about my potential buyer. VERY, Very excited you should say!! I am a creative girl you know, and now that I have someone interested in my work, I just want to “make it happen”!
And now a cute boy too??!!!
“Quand il pleut il verse!!” This is the French way of saying, “when it rains it pours!” Let me explain.
My year here at the American Design school has been great, but outside of good marks and my professors liking my work, I haven’t met many friends or had much of a life outside of school. I don’t think I am a bitch, but the other girls at school are really very caddy to me. There’s one or two serious students who I like and I think they like me. But like me we’re all too busy to really become friends!!
Also, I must be honest and admit that I haven’t really fallen in love with this city. To start with, my first choice for my year abroad was the Rhodes Institute in New York, but they offered me only a tuition waver, whereas the Academy of Design paid my fees plus a $10,000 stipend for living expenses. I couldn’t afford to live in Manhattan without a stipend, so I had to choose “Philly.”
And to make matters worse, since I arrived in Philadelphia I have had zero luck with men. I know every girl says this–but in my case it has been too painfully true: it seems like every man that I meet and that I like is either married, attached or gay. I’m no prude mind you, but even the married ones I flirted with (just one or two) haven’t made any moves. I’m not trying to ruin anyone’s home life, but you’d think that just because you are married it doesn’t mean that you can’t flirt back. Give a young lady some respect. And after all, being married has never stopped a Frenchmen from flirting.
I think that I am a good-looking enough woman. Some say I look like Jennifer Connolly and other’s say I look a bit like the rock-singer, Liz Phair. I love Jennifer Connolly as an actress, but honestly, she seems like she is much taller and maybe more glamorous than I am. I think it is a truism that many of us fashion designers are really just shorter, less glamorous versions of the models we design clothes for. I think our creativity comes from an envy of wanting to be the actual models ourselves.
Anyway, Liz Phair seems closer to the mark as we both have that secret-naughty girl look that men like (or at least I thought so until I came here!). Like her, I am very short in height, only 5′2”. By the way, I am a big fan of American rock music, and I have loved her music for many years since I was a teenager. That is one of two things that I really like about America–the music is so much better than our French bands. We French are your master in art and fashion, but musically I would say, we are the children to you. I love a lot of American alternative music, like the Killers and the White Stripes especially. The other thing that I think you Americans do better than we French is men.
“Wow” you say?! Did she really just say that?! La France, je suis désolé–but it is true for me.
How can I explain this without sounding stuck-up? Well, first off, let me explain that it is somewhat an overstated cliche that the French think all Americans–especially men–are brutes. There are actually a number of French women–myself included–who are quite attracted to the cowboy / Yankee American stereotype. I don’t know exactly why, but about Frenchman there is a derisive expression that some women say (and I am one). It goes, “Les hommes francais parlent beaucoup mais ils n’agissent jamais!” Basically this translates as “French men are all talk and no action.” I’m sorry if this sounds horrible, it’s just that I have come to know what I like, and I like a man of action and most French are idlers. Great artists and philosophers no doubt, but if the world waited for a Frenchman to invent the wheel, I’m afraid we’d all still be traveling by canoe. Please France, don’t hate me for saying that!!
But please, my gentle reader, at the risk of further slighting my countrymen, let us hasten back to the topic of this GORGEOUS boy I have met here in Philadelphia. My sexy, American mystery stalker from the coffee shop.
How shall I describe him to you? Well, he is about average height here in the states, probably 5′ 10” (a little taller than the typical 172cm Frenchman I might add). He has kind of “tousled” brownish hair. And as he said in his ad, he has the most delicious, warm, chocolate brown eyes I have ever seen. Wait, did he say that?! No I guess it was me that added those details!!
He has a bit of a hipster, art-student look, but I would say that he is handsomer and better-formed than your typical twiggy male art student. When I bumped into him (he was actually behind me in line at the cafe when I turned around without looking and I almost poured my cup on him) he was wearing running shoes, jeans, and a blazer.
This look is what I–as a young fashion modeliste myself–have dubbed the “cute-cool” look and it is not very far from what you might see in a J. Crew catalog. Not too daring it’s true, but with the right accent, quite nice. I should say that the thing I like best about this look is that usually guys who wear it are actually good-looking. They aren’t the vain, effeminate, types who are always prancing around trying to embellish themselves with all their overdone vintage clothes.
Anyway, with his looks, my American boy carried off “cute-cool” in spades!! Also, I’d say he had a certain “joie de vie” that kept it all from looking too, how do you say…”of the shelf.”
Oh, he was Yummmmy!!! After I bumped him, I think I blushed. I was so embarrassed that I ran to hide in the corner of the cafe, but kept sneaking glances over as he waited for his order. I should also tell you that he had a gorgeous ass. Almost like a Roman sculpture, and I was looking right at it when he turned around to leave. That must’ve been how he caught me looking!! Zut Alors!!
OK, dear reader, I think I’m going manic again.
I am going to need a few minutes to take a breath and to think this over. I mean, after all, what does an attractive young girl do when her beau so brazenly advertises for her in a public newspaper? I don’t have the slightest idea as we don’t do I SAW YOU’s in France!! And since I have no real friends here, I think I should really go call my best friend Camille at home. M’excuser s’il vous plaît…
May 30, 2006.
7:45 pm, Philadelphia, USA.
I am getting ready to go meet my cute American. I am extremely nervous and am wondering if this seems desperate of me to actually go. Camille said I should call him first, but as I said, I’m a bit chicken and anyway, I was afraid that I might have blown it over the phone. Sometimes the French-American translation thing goes wrong over the phone–especially when I’m nervous.
And anyway, now, I figure that I’m at least getting out a bit–even if it’s on my second to last night in the USA! I feel confident that my social life here is just the tinniest bit less pathetic now with the potential for some man-meat of my own. I’m also not so pissed now as I was a few days ago when not one of my caddy little peers (ces chiennes) invited me to their graduation parties. I’ve seen all of their caca little boyfriends before and to be frank, not one could hold a candle to my sweet little stalker man.
I go over to the wall mirror and give myself the once-over one last time before I head out the door. I hope this doesn’t sound conceited, but I have to be honest that for once, I really like what I see.
I’m wearing one of my own outfits mostly. It’s kind of a low-cut parachute-pants / skirt / beaded pink top number with the word “BREAK IT DOWN” appliqued in silver on the chest. Since it’s kind of an homage to 80’s pop and break dancing, I’m also wearing a kangol hat and a pair of vintage adidas just like RunDMC! OK, I admit, it’s a bit on the nose, but it’s still HOT on me. I’m still young and fit–what the black girls around my block might call, “tight.” So there.
As I walk down the block to the cafe, I can’t help but ruminate over my two failed romances here. I’m not sure why I should be thinking of these little trysts right now but I am. Maybe it’s a sort of mental preparation or a cleansing in the hopes that tonight will go A LOT better.
The first guy I slept with here was named Dan. Could you get more plain vanilla a name than that? Nom de pleume?…more like nome de gross. Maybe I should stop right there, but oh dear, he was sooooo boring. The only thing I can say for him is that he made the first move. Since I am usually so shy that way, I guess that was necessary to get things rolling.
Only after that first move, he had almost nothing to say. He was just very, very quiet. In a way he was sweet, but in a bigger way, he was kind of desperate too. It seemed like he had so little to actually talk to me about that he tried to fill up our dates with movies or with his friends on group dates. Of course, as you might guess, I kept finding myself more attracted to his friends than I was to him. Also he was kind of twiggy, and as I told you, I like my men a little larger and more in charge.
It’s not usually my style, but this tryst went so badly I actually broke it off with him after only a few weeks. Since he’s also a student at the Academy I was careful. Since I don’t want a bad reputation, I decided not to try to “trade up” on any of his friends. Most of them were attached anyway. But there was one guy named Zeek (his nickname) who I kept lusting after. After Dan would leave after our dates, I must have masturbated to him 20 times or so. Unfortunately, after I broke it off with Dan, I never got to see him again. C’est la vie!
The other guy I hooked up with was named Rodrigo and he was the Polar opposite of Dan. It lasted less than two weeks, and he was all confidence and slick talk, this one. And fast. Rapidement. Avec ce qu’expédie (with what speed)–he had me upstairs and out of my panties only a few hours into our first date. Problem was, that’s where it all went bad. He was tall, dark, Spanish. An exchange student like me. And good-looking too. And as I said, he was very confident in himself. Maybe that was the problem–he was too confident. By the end or our first date and the months without a real man, I was just so ready to fuck someone. Anyone. My thighs were actually wet when he got me upstairs and undressed.
But then it happened–or should I say, it DIDN’T happen. He was just terrible with his hands, a total oaf-balourd who somehow, was even worse with his mouth. I won’t even mention what he tried to do with his dick. He was supposed to have been a sculptor, and if I’d seen his work first, I might have guessed before it was too late that he didn’t know a thing about the female anatomy. Enough said?!
I let out a sigh as I near the cafe. As they say in American baseball, I’m “0 for 2.” And I think it is also accurate to say that with only one more night here after tonight, I’m in my “ninth inning.” It’s a few minutes after 8 oclock and (mixing metaphors) as Elvis said, “it’s now or never.”
A few shop fronts from the cafe I turn and look at my reflection in the window. I have my hair pulled up in a pony-tail under my white kangol hat. I hardly ever wear makeup, but tonight I have on some of that glossy bubble-gum pink that you used to see R&B singers like “Lisa, Lisa” wear back in the eighties. I figure that the whole, hip-breakdance-look is hot on a white girl, especially a French girl, right? But deep down inside I have a secret fear that the only thing wrong is attitude. My models always get that pushed-up aggressive thing spot-on with this look, but for me that’s a stretch. The make-up goes a long way, but as I look in the mirror, I wonder if I can pull it off–even in my own clothes?!
For a moment, I start to panic. But then, strangely, I feel a steady, peaceful assurance come over me. I look around myself at the rest of the people in the street. It’s a cool spring night, and there are cute young hipsters everywhere. Everybody is having a good time, and damn, I notice, everyone is looking good. I muse quietly that I couldn’t have dressed them any better myself.
It’s kind of magical I guess, almost like a real-life nighttime scene from a video or a cool commercial for Axe deodorant or something. As the moment crystallizes, I realize that tonight, right now, this is my scene. It doesn’t matter that I’m a shy, foreign girl, out-of-sorts in a strange city. Dammit, I made this hot outfit I’m now wearing from scratch and someday soon, it might actually be selling in a retail store just down the street.
When I look back at my reflection in the mirror there’s something new staring back at me. Something bold and unfamiliar. And it feels…incroyable.
Five minutes later…
His name is Nate or Nathaniel, and he’s at least as sexy as I remember him to be.
I’m not sure if it’s Nate, Nathan, or Nathaniel as it was kind of loud when he introduced himself, and I’m kind of nervous and overwhelmed. He’s up at a sort of concession area where they’re serving wine, and I’m seated at one of a few tables left in the cafe that’s steadily crowding with people.. Most of the tables that are normally in the lounge area have been removed, and there’s a stage up front with a few amplifiers and some guitars. It looks like there’s going to be some music tonight. Funny, I didn’t even know that they played music here! But then again, most of my nights are spent at the studio cutting fabric, so how would I know anyway? Either way, I’m glad he got here in time to get us a table.
Smiling back at me from across the crowd, Nathaniel (I like that one since it sounds like the sexy lead character in Last of the Mohicans) crosses the room with four glasses of wine. He’s trying the sport’s blazer-over-polo look tonight. Again, not a big departure from the J. Crew catalogue, but I’m not in an overly critical mood. And anyway, I must say he wears it quite well. He’s even got the salt to turn his collar up!! I don’t think I have seen that move since Kirk Cameron on TV when I was like 5 years old.
“I think it’s gonna get pretty crowded, so I got us each a second glass before they ran out.”
As he offers me a glass from the four he carted over, he smiles shyly, revealing two dimples that look like they were plucked right off an angel’s cheek,
“Red, white, or….both?”
Normally I’m strictly vin blanc, but tonight is supposed to be different, so I smile and take both reds.
“Thank you, Nathaniel.”
He smiles back, and this time I swear I see a blush, “Uhm. I hope you don’t think it’s too forward. But do you think you could say what you just said again in French? I know it sounds corny, but it’s been a long time since I’ve heard a beautiful woman speak it.”
He is a charmer I see. I remember his comment from the paper and try to oblige. In my best, smoky Bardot accent, I answer, “Bien sûr. Merci beaucoup, j’essaierai le rouge, s’il vous plaît.” Then I smile back and ask, “How was that?”
He nods his head appreciatively and we clink glasses.
“I wasn’t kidding about Brigitte Bardot. That scene in The Vixen where Claude Pairot presses her up against the door while his wife and family are in the next room? I think that was burned into my mind from some time when I was like 7 or 8 years old. My mom had a lot of videocassettes of French movies from the 50’s, and I remember looking up the word “vixen” in the dictionary before I watched it.”
“Hmmnn sounds like some little boy had a crush.”
He chuckles and nods, “Yeah probably. Well it’s all way before my time, but as I said, my mom kept a lot of old movies and European film posters around the house. I’d forgotten about it all for years, but then, a few weeks ago, I saw an old video for the Bonnie and Clyde song that I mentioned to you in the I SAW YOU. I love that song, but I didn’t even know there was a video for it. Honestly, I didn’t think they made them back then, but they sure did….Have you ever seen it?”
I’m enjoying watching Nathaniel’s little obsession unfold, but as I haven’t ever seen this video, I shake my head, “no.” He kind of just watches me then for a moment, gauging my reaction with a game look. I’m really turned on by his bold attention, and quite flattered by his association between myself and one of the sexiest Frenchwomen ever.
“Anyway, there’s a scene in there where Brigitte Bardot is playing Bonnie Parker. She has a tommy gun resting across her lap and she’s, well…adjusting her garter belt. Anyway, let’s just say that REALLY brought all the childhood stuff back for me. And then when I saw you, Monday, and I heard your accent, well, I couldn’t help thinking making some kind of connection.”
With that, he mimes a little cupid shooting an arrow, and I smile at his coyness.
Just at that point, a guy comes over and taps Nathaniel on the shoulder. Nathan apologizes for being interrupted, then leans his ear down so he can hear the guy over the crowd behind him. The guy has the air of a promoter and I guess that he’s the one putting on the show tonight. I wonder if he’s asking Nathaniel to move the table or something. But as the man speaks, Nate just slowly nods his head like there’s more to it than that. The guy, straightens up then, and pats him again on the shoulder. He extends his wrist in front of Nate and indicates “two,” before he makes to leave. Nathaniel grabs his arm though and steers him back to the table. He looks across the table, then, and speaks,
“Frank, this is my date Lisette. Lisette, Frank. She is a French exchange student, and I met her here a few days ago.”
Frank extends his hand to me, and smiles like a man who’s just been let in on a secret.
“So you’re the one he’s been obsessing on all week. Well, I can see why now.”
We shake and then he politely withdraws.
As he turns, he repeats the “two” to Nathaniel. I look a bit bemused by all of this, I’m sure. Suddenly Nathaniel pushes his chair back and leans across the table. It seems to have gotten terribly loud all of a sudden. He leans across and touches me softly on the back of my neck as he speaks in my ear,
“I’m sorry, I don’t have as much time to explain as I thought. I’m opening a show here tonight for my friend’s band, Naked Lunch. I wouldn’t normally invite a stranger to a show, but to be honest, I’m pretty much infatuated with you and I was afraid you wouldn’t call me, so I decided to suggest we meet instead. After you didn’t call, I didn’t think you’d show either. I was really bummed, but I figured ‘nothing ventured, nothing gained’ and all that.”
He leans back and looks me in the eye before he continues. My feelings are kind of in a jumble. Is he really about to leave me here alone after we just met? But instead of reacting against him, I feel a strange sense of peace and comfort with the situation. Strange as it is. And frankly, I can’t deny how incredibly attracted I am to him at this moment. He is very close to me as he continues,
“When I saw you come in just now, I was stunned. Absolutely fucking stunned. You can’t feel it, but my heart is pounding like a wild animal in my chest. It’s not because I’m about to play 10 songs in front of a group of strangers. It’s because you’re here, and you’re looking so incredible and now, I really am kind of nervous about playing. My band isn’t here, but the bass player is showing up for two songs in the middle. I’m not sure what else to say but that since I saw you on Monday, I haven’t had a thought in my head about Brigitte Bardot. Please don’t judge me to much on that childhood obsession. Don’t take this as too sudden Lisette, but I think I’ve got you got under my skin. If you’re still here when I’m done, I promise we can go somewhere else more quiet.”
And with that, he leans in and kisses me on both cheeks. Just as he would if we were in France.
*****
Nathaniel is up on stage. He has played almost all of his ten songs. Most were covers of 80’s pop punk bands like Violent Femmes and the Dead Milkmen who I believe are from this city.
During two songs, a stunning girl with bright red pigtails came on and played bass while he played electric guitar. Being in the fashion business, I know a hot girl when I see one and she was smoking! She was wearing a white tank top, and long pants. Between the heat in the room and the fact that she was obviously not wearing a bra, no one could help but stare at her perfect, b-cup breasts and her large pink nipples that you could see right through the thin top.
She was just the brassy, oozing-sex-kind-of-girl that a shy girl always secretly envies and exactly the type of girl I wanted to be tonight. I was extremely jealous and honestly was getting up to leave until, when they ended the song, Nathaniel introduced her to the crowd as his sister. As the crowd erupted approval, he snuck me a glance and winked. They had just finished a very sexy version of “Add It Up” by the Violent Femmes. At one point, with her back to him, she straddled his thigh and they both did a solo as he twanged “add it up, add it up, why can’t I get, just one fuck…” Even though I was fuming with jealousy, it was hard to take my eyes off of that.
Anyway, “Melanie,” Nathaniel’s sister, was now packing up her bass as he switched to an acoustic. He explained that she was only in town for the night and that she had a date. At that, the crowd again erupted. Nathaniel leaned into the mike then and smiled as he continued, “…and it’s with a girl!!.”
Well, pandemonium ensued for a few minutes as Melanie tried to leave the stage and thread her way out to the door. Sister or no, I can’t say I was sad to see her go. She was just too hot.
The next couple of songs were like the first in that they were revved-up punk acoustics. Except these were Nathan’s originals. They were witty songs with a hectic beat that actually had a few people in the crowd pogoing. Nathaniel was a master on stage. He had no rhthym section now, so the beat was pretty much just his strumming hand and what he could pound out with his one foot–which he did to amazing affect. A couple of times, he’d lock eyes with me as he sang some naughty bit about a character in his song. The effect on me was visceral. My own heart was pounding now, and as my soul turned to warm butter, I couldn’t mistake the palpable air of hatred that was being directed at me by several cute young stage whores in the room. As he sang song after song directly to me, I could just feel their eyes burning into my flesh. I just smiled like a cat. What else could I do? For the first time in my life I even felt what you say in English, as “cocky.” In my new outfit and with the best-looking guy in the room singing songs right to me, how could I feel any different?
Anyway, after about 40 minutes, Nathaniel announced it was time for his last song. Even though that meant we could now get back together, a part of me would have like to hear a few more of his songs.
“OK, thanks for the warm welcome. I know a lot of you from playing out, and I thank you for your patience with the whole singer-songwriter schtick. As you might guess, this is a lot easier with a full band. Anyway, I’ve got one more song I’d like to play. It’s a slow one, so if you have someone to dance with and you can find any room feel free to grab them tight…”
With that, he strapped on his electric again and continued, “…this is one of my all time favorite songs by one of my all time favorite artists. I’ve gotta warn you though, it’s a bit of a heart breaker…”
And with that, he stepped on his echo pedal and played the most beautifully sad version of Lucinda Williams’ “Blue,” that I have ever heard. I cannot well describe to you the effect of his voice, which on this song sounded like a cross between Randy Travis and, believe it or not, Stephen Tyler. Either way it hit me with the deep-longing of a forgotten childhood lullabye.
He was right that it was a heart breaker. I was so moved that for the 5 minutes or so as he played, almost all I could see were the fingers of his right hand picking out the melody of the tune. But mostly I just closed my eyes and let his music come to me.
Later…
I am pressed up against the wall in an alley down the street from my apartment. Nathan and I have just taken a cab back to my block, but we are so hot for each other that we can’t even seem to get up the stairs and inside. We have been like two wild puppies for each other.
I think we were at the door a few minutes ago and I think I’m still holding my keys. I know that we had some drinks and that we talked a lot about our respective lives and families, but honestly, all I can think about is how incredible Nathan’s fingers feel inside my soaked panties and his gorgeous soft lips on my neck. I’ve been out of my pants and just in my skirt for the last hour or two. I am so drunk with lust that I can’t honestly remember where I took my pants off!!
It’s been like this for every minute of every hour since we left his show at the cafe. First on the cab ride to a bar where a friend of his owed him some drinks, then in a booth at the back of that bar where I was straddled in his lap, practically fucking him in front of a small group of late night diners. Then into the bathroom where I actually did fuck him on top of a filthy toilet seat for what felt like hours as my hands smeared and clawed at the grimey walls of the stall. It was like one continuous orgasm for me the entire time. I kept moaning, yes! yes! yessss!!! in my dirtiest french whore accent. And I felt every bit just that-Nathan’s little French whore.
When he finally came inside me, I didn’t even think about pulling away. I just milked his wonderful cock for every drop it was worth. Flexing the walls of my pussy tight around his cock and milking his seed deep into my womb.
After that, I let him fuck me any way he wanted, which was basically hard against the wall again and again. I remember thinking that I’m not going to be able to walk for days, but somehow that just didn’t seem to matter. At that moment, I’d probably have given up my ability to walk just so that I could fuck him forever–as long as his amazing dick never went limp.
On the cab ride back, I took his cock out and again coaxed him to life so that I could ride him all the way across town. I could feel the eyes of the cabbie, a black guy who stared at me with a cool approving look that seemed to suggest that he’d seen it all–but was still up for seeing it again. And for a few minutes, I did let him watch as I faced away from Nathaniel. When Nathaniel saw that I was putting on a show, he calmly whispered in my ear, “Do you like to be watched?” For those few minutes, it had been like a three way conversation with the cab driver seeing and hearing everything. But then, as I leaned back into Nathan’s chest, I returned my attention completely to him. I leaned backwards and kissed him hard. I hot and all twisted around, but I couldn’t stop fucking his cock into my wet, swollen pussy.
“…I like being watched when I’m fucking you.”
Finally now, we are in the hallway of my apartment building. It’s sometime after 3 and I’m guessing that my neighbors are all asleep. I give Nathaniel a long lusty stare as we stand there holding hands and swaying in a slow, almost drunken dance together, our eyes drinking each other in. Not even the gritty yellow light of the florescents makes him look any less beautiful to me at this moment. He is my drug and my god and I am going to worship him like no other before. There is no one in my life that has ever compared to him, and if he has someone, even a hundred little groupies, I am about to erase them forever from his memory.
With my hands against his chest, I press him up against the wall and look into his warm, exhausted eyes. I worry that I’ve warn him out, but then, as I slide my hand down and lower the fly on his pants I feel my hopes rise for like the tenth time this night. He lets out a long, pained groan, but I put my finger to his lips to shush him. I’m hearing none of it. I lean up into his ear and lay on the accent,
“One more encore, baby, please. It’s been so long, and I’ve traveled all the way from Paris to see you tonight. I love all your dirty little songs and I can’t take another night with just my finger and all my naughty thoughts of you. Please, I need that fantastic American cock of yours in me just one more time, please.”
He smiles and leans back against the wall. Something about his posture signals a kind of surrender. And for the first time in my life, I feel something totally new and exhilarating–complete control of my lover’s body.
By the time I lower down to my knees before him, his cock has betrayed him. He is swollen up and arched like a thick jug handle. I smile up at him with my sluttiest look as I kiss the length of his cock, from the hairy base out to the beautiful, huge mushroom head. He tastes like pure animal sex. My pussy, his come, my come–our sweat soaked into the soft, tightly stretched skin of his dick.
I wet him down with my spit and then slowly suck him hard again. I try to be as gentle as possible, since now, secretly, my own body is waking up again, and I know that very soon what I will really want is to fuck that thick cock one last time before we both go upstairs and collapse in my bed.
But I also want to suck him, and I’m torn between that–wanting to take him all in my mouth and throat right here, and an itch for the pleasures that could be just a few moments later. It seems like he is mine for the bidding…how you say…”putty in my hands.” Should I just suck him off, or should I strip out of my useless panties one last time?
After a minute of what must be the best head I have given in my life, I feel his fingers on the top of my hat, then I feel him take it off and toss it onto the pile of mail by the door. I don’t miss a beat in my slow worshipful sucking of his thick pole, even as I feel his fingers loosen the berette and my hair falls down, all around my face. I normally hate my hair in my face when I’m giving head, but it is obviously what he wants and that’s all that matters to me right now.
Once I’ve got his cock standing straight up at attention, I lean back and stare up into those beautiful, milk chocolate eyes. He nods “yes” when I ask him, “Do you like how I worship your cock?”. I slap it against my open mouth and ask, “…And do you want come in my throat again?” This time he shakes his head, “no.”
Oh….He is being such a good boy for me now. But is he really doing it for me, or do we both just want the same things now? Either way, there’s nothing wrong with few more moments of teasing is there? I smile and reward him by taking him almost completely into my throat. Then, as I suck up again to the head, I look up longingly–waiting for his signal as to what he wants next. The entire time I deep throat him, his palm rests on my cheek, stroking me gently as he fucks his cock into and out of my willing mouth.
And of course, the whole time, my pussy is getting that slick, warm burn that tells me it wants to be fed. As I kneel there before him, my head bobbing up and down on his pole, I feel how wet and loose I’ve become down there between my thighs. For the moment, the pain of being fucked for hours on end has magically drifted away, and thankfully, as I look up into Nathan’s dreamy eyes, he agrees to my silent request.
Upstairs, in the perfect comfort of my bedroom, I straddle him one last time. His cock feels perfect inside my pussy. Perfect size, perfect curve. His head nudging against that up-inside spot that has me starting the long steady roller coaster of orgasm once again. It’s just like that–a roller coaster when you’re reaching the top of the long ascent and just as you start to roll down into the first turn. The huge, powerful pull of force that sends me down hard on top of him, then up, then plunging down again and again. He is my man. He is my dream. I am his woman and everything is perfect and incredible. I wonder, somewhere in the back of my mind, if I will ever stop coming?