There is something extra hot about being kissed by a handsome man in the streets of Paris. Unlike L.A. or Boston, where passers by will give you the stink eye and growl, "Get a room", in Paris you are offered a "get out of jail free" card for PDA. In fact, it is such a pleasure Mick and I lingered by the Fontaine du Chatelet, completely absorbed in one another. The oppressive noise of a busy city at rush hour faded away, and all pedestrian traffic ceased to exist as our lips connected gently, and our eyes searched the others soul. I don't know what he saw in my eyes, but in his I detected a tenderness I found quite appealing. In France, when you meet someone you immediately feel attracted to, they call it a "flash". I was "flashing", and I don't mean the menopausal variety! "Are you hungry?" Mick inquired, coming up for air. (Is that what he detected in the mirror to my soul?) "I am famished" I admitted, "and I can't wait to see what is on the menu tonight!" Mick took my hand in his and we strolled through the lively, Bohemian streets of Chatelet toward one of my favorite bistros, Bar à Mangér. Weaving our way past little shops full of cheap shoes, black and white posters of Le Tour d'Eiffel, and endless terraces full of chain smoking, wine drinking Parisians engaged in deep debate over Sarkozy's latest scheme, we arrived at an unpretentious little place on Rue St. Opportune des Lavandiers. We were welcomed by our hosts, a sympatico partnership of gay men dedicated to offering delicious cuisine, fabulous wine, and a warm ambiance. It is a small space, and as we had not made reservations we were led up a precarious, circular stairwell to the first floor. I hung onto the railing tightly as I ascended the narrow, pie shaped stairs, feeling a light tingle of vertigo as we arrived up top. The tables were lined up against a wall, with a metal railing that offered one a small protection from plunging onto diners below, as well as an unobstructed view of the bar. The ceiling is freakishly low, and I felt a little like Alice in Wonderland, having just had a drink that caused the room to shrink (or me to grow)! I turned to glance at Mick and see how he was faring, he is at least 6'2" (and I am sure the ceiling is no higher than 5'6"). I couldn't help but laugh at his expression of bewilderment as he folded himself in half and made his way to our table. We ordered an aperitif and I wondered aloud how the waiters managed to negotiate that crazy staircase while balancing food and drink. Mick wondered aloud where to put his legs, folded around his neck like a pretzel, or out in the walkway. I suggested the former, the latter being too dangerous for the wait staff and the diners below! Demonstrating impressive flexibility he complied, and managed to look quite debonair as he sipped his port. Now the chef at Bar à Manger is always thoughtful, his cuisine oozing love with every mouthful. But I think he sensed a flash in the air, or perhaps a little bird (s'appelle "Raul") told him to add a dash of aphrodisia to the order from table 11, because the more we ate, the hotter we became. Mick was in ecstasy over a perfectly broiled lamb chop when I playfully slid my toe underneath his trouser leg, lifting it gently toward his knee with my infamous Via Spiga stiletto. His eyes bulged, and I thought I would have to perform the Heimlich maneuver as he choked on his mouton. "Are you alright?" I asked with alarm. He couldn't speak, his face was bright red, and he frantically reached for a glass of water to gag it down. You see, this is the difference between a French guy and an Anglaise; a French guy would say, "So, yoo want to eet my leg? Yoo have not eenuff on zee plat?" A proper Englishman blushes and demurs, all the while sporting an uncontrollable erection (and harboring deep seated feelings of guilt). I smiled like the Cheshire cat, leaned back, and took a long, slow sip of wine. I was enjoying the dance of seduction, my role as femme fatale, and relished with anticipation his eventual annihilation. But first things first - namely chocolate! I never saw a man eat his dessert so quickly. We passed on café, Mick settled the tab, and we set off arm in arm for a digestive stroll through a beautiful evening in Paris. Our destination was not in question, the language of le flash is unspoken. As we continued our dance in privacy, I couldn't help but channel the spirit of Madeline Kahn as the inimitable Lilli Von Schtupp. Only because he would get the joke I purred, "So is it twue what they say about how your people are - gifted?" (Insert zipper sound) "Oh, it's twue, it's twue!"
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