Paris Diaries: Surrender

" the revelation of the unfathomable in moment filled with life." Goethe

So we go to Chinatown. Now I'm expecting that we will get off the metro and head towards a nearby restaurant. But we keep walking and turning and turning and walking and wasn't I doing this to rest my foot and my ankle? But still walking because it is easier to hobble along in pained silence than to explain what is wrong with me.

Interestingly there are some words that are the same in french and english. Cancer, in case you were wondering, is one of them. He notices the limping. It's hard to disguise at this point and this is a testimony to my pain. Most of the time I can at least hide the limp if not the awkwardness of my gait, but today I am full Quasimodo-mode. And thus I do the one thing I would never do in English, in casual conversation I tell him I had cancer. I can't explain the details or anything else. He starts in with something that sounds like all illness is really in the mind and I'm thinking at this point I would be hard pressed to find my way back to the metro, but fuck me if I'm going to this listen to this twaddle even in french. French, English, asshattery in ANY language is not to be tolerated. But as he goes on I realize what he is explaining is that he had a problem with his brain. It would take another few months for me to piece together what happened, because the word stroke is not the same in french and english, but the description of his symptoms was unmistakable.

It's strange what will create a bond between two people. Two people who don't share a common language, continent of origin, or religion will bond over something that they unconsciously recognize within each other, but can't say or explain. Say a near death experience which leads them to take chances that others won't.

And he keeps leading me farther and farther down the rabbit hole. Farther and farther away from the beaten path. Farther from any hope of getting back to a safe place.

I could die here.

Sure it is unlikely, but it is possible and don't think for a moment that I wasn't fully cognizant of the risk I was taking. My mother traumatized me about crossing the street when I moved to NY. Everyone in my class made fun of me. Stood the cross walk tempting the traffic, pulling me by the sleeve, mocking my fear in those high pitched voices. And you know what happened even though I always looked and never crossed without the light? I still got hit by a fucking van. In the words of my geometry teacher sometimes you have to look around and say what the fuck.

We get to the restaurant on the edge of god knows where. This is the first time I see people walking around in ghetto clothes I recognize, with what Tom Wolfe dubbed in Bonfire of the Vanities, "the pimp roll." We sit outside and order. We have to sit outside because there is to be a wedding inside, a chinese wedding. The little girl, Nana, is delighted by the outfits. The women come in dressed in bright colors turquoise, kelly green, canary blue, and sun yellow. The wedding party slowly assembles and eventually proceeds inside as I watch. Nana finds a fellow boy to play with. I can not remember what we talked about but he took the time to take this picture of me before the rain started to pour.

He asked me home for tea. I have committed to this trip. How am I to get back alone now? There is no way. Even if he were to explain I would most likely get lost and now it's late..11 o'clock. The path of least resistance is to travel with him. Farther down the rabbit hole.

We go back to his apartment. He puts his daughter to bed and brings out a large and proper pot of tea with two cups. Again memory fails. How did it start? I can't recall because it was so fast. I thought it would be slow. I thought I would be able to keep it over the clothes, above the waist. But he pulls me onto his lap and my sweater comes off, followed by my shirt, and then my bra.

It's not really sex I enjoy all that much, it's passion. Sit and kiss me with real passion for an hour and I'll be your slave for a lifetime. Kissing well is a talent, kissing with passion is a rarity. Passion is not the same as animal lust although to the untrained it can seem the same. Luckily I have spent most of my life being a scholar of male desire. Animal lust is about the satiation of one's own desire. Passion is about the experience itself, the process.

After a long time kissing him while straddling him my knees began to truly ache and so I had to sit back. Immediately there was concern about my welfare, I assured him my knees simply needed a rest. Now sitting back on the couch he suddenly realized the advantage such a position afforded him. Assured I was OK, he pushed me back and unbuttoned my jeans. Next came my underwear.

As you may remember from my post titled "Sweet and Lowdown" :

I have trouble enjoying oral sex mainly because I always suspect that men hate it and it is impossible to enjoy something when you are concerned that the other person secretly resents you for this pleasure. This suspicion has been confirmed by the number of men who claim that they "love oral sex" only to discover their idea of loving oral sex is to gingerly give me a few laps and then move onto the "main event" or to reveal that they can only perform oral sex during a complex set of conditions ( ie. if you shower immediately before using a combination of 20 mule team borax and hydrochloric acid when Aries is in ascendacy and the full moon shines directly onto the reliquary of the umbilicus of Christ etc etc and by then it doesn't matter because I will have fallen asleep) Not that I can't come from oral sex, I can and I do, but generally I will only be comfortable enjoying oral sex if there is an established relationship.

You may also remember it was quickly followed by:

And I would have told him all this, but you know someone in my four years of French we completely skipped words like "oral sex" (although we did do a whole freakin' section on marine life) and since I could not explain I simply decided to let him go and discover on his own that I didn't respond to oral sex. But in the moment I allowed myself to simply let him wait and discover, I felt a shiver a pleasure go through me and soon I dug my heels into shoulders and instead of waiting for him to stop I was thinking "don't stop, don't stop" which I know how to say in French, but at that moment I was far beyond language, and I was arching myself further against him. He grasped my hand, and I kept thinking "He is going to stop at any time", but no, he kept on until he tasted my orgasm. I remember calling out in that moment, the high falsetto of pleasure, which seems so unnatural considering how deep my voice usually is. I stayed panting in the moment, and then he slowly stood up. He had been kneeling beside the bed and when he stood up I realized he was still completely dressed. He took off his shirt and pants quickly and pushed me back onto the bed. I could taste myself on his lips as he kissed me. And it was then that I realized what this really was. It was FOREPLAY. This was just the beginning of this carnival ride.

He opens my legs and kisses my inner thigh. There is no thought to fighting what he wants or explaining. There is no attempt to translate. In fact, there is no language at all. Not even whispered. Not even breathed. I am too tired. I am too tired of fighting and being brave and strong. And so I completely surrender. I am naked in Paris, without language, without safety, without any idea of how to get back home.

And I am finally happy.

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