Day 190: Trusting my Butt

Paris, Day 19. At 8 pm last night, Ms. Burlesque launched forth into what she'd taken to calling the Anal Atelier. Sadly...I was not there.

The evening was scheduled to consist of a 2-hour class (all in French) on the finer aspects of butt plugs and God-knows-what-else followed by a housewarming party as Ms. Burlesque's. Party guests would include a group of people she calls The Queer Family and a famous queer writer from SF called Michelle Tea.

The last time Michelle Tea visited Paris, these folks welcomed her with a spontaneous sex party. "Hi! Welcome to Paris! Please remove your pants."

Although I'm sure they are really nice people and the conversation would have been spectacular, the whole thing freaked me out. In my head, disparate and disconnected details like anal sex workshops, silver sequin pasties and spontaneous sex parties all mushed together and become one gargantuan rabbit hole of weirdness.

Suddenly, I was breathing into a paper bag with images of me huddled in a corner wearing a KY-Jelly-splattered raincoat fending off the fallout of a BYODildo butt-tastic naked queerdo sex-fest and I COULDN'T EFFING DEAL WITH THAT OK?!

I popped a couple of Ativan and called my mommy.

Then I spent the evening with the Parisian equivalent of oil & gas engineers: people who attended business schools and military academies, who make polite conversation over glasses of Alsatian wine, and who wear dress pants and V-neck sweaters (none of which are made of pleather).

The part of my brain that was hungry (nay, ravenous) for a juicy story like a stripper sex-fest gnashed its teeth and wouldn't talk to me all night. But add three shots of herbed Polish vodka to any situation and you've got yourself a soirée, sister.

I used the opportunity to discuss my confusion over how a culture of people who never smile or make eye contact get around to these passionate affairs for which they're famous.

Julien, the host, was happy to enlighten me. "Ah," he said. "Here's how it works: You meet through friends and make conversation. You make a few colloquial jokes, but you never touch each other. Then you go to an exhibition or two, maybe a movie. Then another friend has a party where you get drunk and make out."

Oh.

So much for unbridled passion.

Then, inexplicably and at midnight, someone's mom showed up. She was a very friendly, diminutive redhead and she helped herself to a snack in the kitchen while we all tried not to swear too robustly. Then, she went to bed.

With her son. Julien's roommate and business partner.

Maybe THIS is why Parisian love affairs take so long to get going.

But I had other things on my mind because I'm the kind of girl who, if you're gonna feed her three shots of vodka in relatively rapid succession, you better be prepared to take her dancing.

So, at 12:30, three hours after I would normally be getting my jammies on for beddy-bye, we walked down boul. de Rochechouart to a club called Le Divan Japponais.

We crowded up to the door and had a rather disappointing conversation with the bouncer. Apparently, no one else had shown up either and the bar was cutting its losses for the evening and closing down. We walked across the street to La Fourmi, my writing cafe, which becomes a full-to-overflowing bar at night.

We got a table near the window and I ended up with the sucker's chair – the one sticking way out into the throng of drunk people staggering and crowding against the bar. I was jostled by every passing ass, which judging by how packed the place was, must have been in the hundreds.

All my pent-up vodka-induced dancing energy had no choice but to transform into Immature Shit Disturbing energy. It's simply how I roll and after getting jostled one too many times, I reached out and pinched one of the passing asses.

Well.

Little did I know this kind of behaviour bumps you WAY ahead in the codified System Of French Seduction(TM).

I found myself suddenly betrothed to someone named Guillaume.

I tried to pass the pinch off on Justine. But she was on the other side of the table, so Guillaume was having none of that. He pulled up a chair and sat down. As I gently tried to explain to him that, no, a June wedding would not work for me and that I was terribly sorry but four children was altogether too much given my age and career goals, I flashed HELP ME glances to my friends.

But they were too thoroughly entertained to help me out. I did the only thing I could think to do, a time-honoured method, which was to completely ignore him and strike up a conversation with someone else.

Poor Guillaume took the hint and retreated, heartbroken, to his friends. As far as I know, the wedding's off. Whew.