One Week in Paris

by Roya Carmen

  I wonder how Oscar lived through his grief. I can only imagine what that must have been like for him: the pain, the loss, and the guilt. No one can fully understand someone else’s grief. Every broken heart is unique. It broke my heart to hear his story. I didn’t wonder why he never shared it with me before, because I knew why. Because it hurt too much to share it.

  How horrible it must have been to be so powerless in the face of those bullies, to not be able to help his big brother. I can’t even imagine what it must feel like to be so beaten down, that the only viable option is to end your own life. I didn’t have it easy in high school, but not once, did I ever think of ending it all. When I’d get super depressed, I’d binge watch television and stuff my face with junk food.

  And Oscar was so young when it happened. I’m sure he didn’t quite understand. He must have struggled for years to understand.

  I want to help him, to reach out to him. I want to heal his heart, make it all go away. But I know I can’t. Like the very handsome Keanu Reeves once said… unfortunately, grief is forever.

  “I love you,” I say. The words catch me by surprise. I’ve never really said them before. Yes, there was that time on the plane, when I was half asleep and drowsy from my anti-nausea medicine, but that didn’t really count. He has, but I’ve never had the courage before, always afraid of letting myself be vulnerable, of getting hurt.

  He squeezes me tighter. “I’ve wanted to hear those words for a long time.”

  “I know.”

  “I guess I don’t need to tell you that I love you too. You already know.”

  I smile. “I do.”

  I’m excited at the prospect of going to the Moulin Rouge, one of Paris’ most famous landmarks. I can’t wait to set my eyes on that red windmill and snap a few pics. I pick out a red dress for the occasion, and pair it with some tall chunky heeled red boots. It’s a perfect outfit — comfortable enough for walking, and sexy enough for Moulin Rouge. I wear my hair up in a messy bun, and add the final touch — Mac’s Russian Red lipstick.

  When Oscar catches sight of me, he does a double take. “Holy hell, you look amazing.”

  He practically pounds on me like a mating cheetah. Next thing you know, we’re both stretched out on the bed, and he’s on top of me, a hand slipping under the skirt of my dress.

  And as much as I don’t want to, I swat his hand away. “We have no time, Oscar.”

  He pouts like a five-year-old boy who’s been told he can’t have dessert.

  We take the metro to Montmartre again.

  I stare at the young couple sitting across from us — they’re shamelessly all over each other. “Have you seen the movie, Amélie?” I ask Oscar. “It was filmed in Montmartre.”

  He cocks a brow. “Is that that artsy French movie?”

  “Yeah, I love it.” The couple is still going at it — if his tongue were stuck any deeper down her throat, he’d be able to pull out her lunch.

  “No, I haven’t had the pleasure,” he says with a smirk.

  “We’ll have to watch it when we get back,” I tell him, excited.

  “Um…” he says. “And what do I get for selflessly suffering through two hours of foreign cinema?"

  I wink at him. “You know what you’ll get.”

  He inches closer to me and whispers in my ear. “I know what this guy’s getting. From the looks of it, he’s getting it soon.”

  I laugh. “Well, who are we to judge. It’s the city of love, after all.”

  We hop on the funicular, up the hill to Sacré Coeur Basilica. It’s not that we’re too lazy to go up the stairs, it’s just that we like the funicular. Truth be told, we’re like two giant kids.

  The funicular is jam packed — we’re a tin of sardines. There’s a really dirty man pressed against me and I’m repulsed, but fortunately, I don’t get a pervy vibe from him. I check to see if he’s holding a phone. The last thing I want is to star in one of his crotch videos. Ever since I read that article in Glamour about men secretly shooting pics up women’s skirts on subways, I’ve been paranoid.

  We shake our legs out as we exit the funicular. The day is presently sunny and not too cold. I check my phone, which I’d just been taking photos with, like the shameless tourist that I am. We’ve made really good time. “We have some time to kill. Let’s head to the carousel,” I suggest. “I can’t wait to see it.”

  He takes my hand. “What the lady wants, the lady gets.”

  34

  THE CAROUSEL IS BREATHTAKING, like all the other carousels in Paris. I love carousels — I’m obsessed with them. We take a seat on the bench, and watch the families. My eyes are drawn to the beautiful details of the carousel; the ornate gilding, the pretty colors — it’s like a giant toy, silently begging us to play. This particular carousel is a double decker. The horses at the top appear smaller, possibly reserved for small children.

  My attention is devoted to one particular family. I sigh at the sight of them. They are so stunning, they could very well star in a Gap commercial. The mother is blonde and stylish with a toothpaste commercial smile. The father is equally as attractive but darker. The son is dark like his dad, and the little girl, who appears to be about five or so, has blonde locks just like her mother. The parents are standing next to the children who are seated on matching horses. The woman pulls the girl’s locks back from her face with the delicate touch of a mother, and her daughter smiles up brightly at her. They seem blissfully happy. I wonder what it would feel to have that. I realize that I do want this, but I just don’t think it’s in the cards for me. I have way too much baggage.

  “You should hop on,” Oscar says. “You’re practically salivating at the sight of it. You know you waaannnt to!”

  I laugh. “No, I’m okay sitting right here and enjoying the view. It’s for kids.”

  “Well, you’re a kid. A big kid,” he teases. “I’ll go with you.”

  “You’d probably break the horse,” I point out. “How much do you weigh anyway?”

  He cocks a brow. “Are you body shaming me, girl?”

  I laugh and shake my head.

  He stands and grabs my hand. “You have no choice, Kayla,” he tells me. “Next round, I’m dragging you on. I’ll carry you, kicking and screaming, if I have to.”

  When Oscar sets his mind to something, he usually gets what he wants. Especially when it comes to me. I smile up at him, conceding.

  When the carousel eases to a stop, my pulse speeds up. I get excited at the thought of hopping onto one of those beautiful horses. We follow the children and their parents on, and I’m a little apprehensive.

  “How ‘bout this one?” Oscar says, pointing to a lovely white horse. I nod, and he helps me climb up. I settle my rear in and hold on to the golden pole — it’s surprisingly comfortable. Oscar smiles at me. He’s standing tall next to me, like a devoted father. I feel like a little girl. It feels both weird and wonderful. As the carousel starts to turn, I close my eyes and enjoy the cool breeze on my face. My eyes pop open when I feel Oscar’s lips on my cheek. He smiles at me; a sexy wicked grin. Knowing him, he’s probably thinking about sex again, despite the fact that we’re surrounded by children.

  I love every minute of it. I’m a little winded as we step off the ride. I grab Oscar’s hand. “Thanks for making me go on.”

  “I knew you’d love it.”

  That’s what I love about Oscar. He pulls me out of my comfort zone and encourages me to do things I wouldn’t otherwise do. He makes me believe in myself, makes me believe that I could do anything.

  “How ‘bout I thank you with a coffee. I spotted this coffee cart not far from here. Care for a latte or a mocha, coffee boy?”

  He grins. “You love calling me that, don’t you?”

  “I do.”

  “All right, yoga girl.”

  We head to the coffee cart. It’s operated by a very old man, who looks like he could keel over any minute. His movements are dreadfully slow. Thankfully, we’re his only custo
mers at the moment. Oscar and I stare at each other and stifle smiles. I reach into my purse for my wallet.

  My heart skips a beat when I realize it’s not there. I feverishly dig through my purse — there’s not much in there; a pack of gum, a lipstick, Kleenex, and the keys to our apartment — thankfully, those are still there. “My wallet is missing!”

  “What?!”

  “It’s missing,” I repeat breathlessly. “It was stolen.”

  Oscar’s eyes are round with surprise. “Oh, crap. I’m sorry, Kayla.”

  I stare at the measly contents of my purse, speechless.

  “What did you have in there? Credit cards?”

  I shake my head. “No, I only had about forty bucks. Just cash. Thank God I didn’t have anything else in there.”

  “Yeah, you were lucky.”

  “Well, there’s that, I guess. Sorry, I can’t pay for the coffee.”

  He smiles. “Well, now that you’ve been pickpocketed, you’ve truly had the Paris experience. I’m jealous.”

  I laugh. “Always glass half full, aren’t you?”

  He pulls out his wallet and fishes some money out of it. “That’s why you love me.”

  Thank goodness, his wallet wasn’t stolen — he has the show tickets in there.

  I’m beaming with excitement when we get there. There’s a short line to get in, but we stay back for a while so I can snap a few photos. The red windmill is glowing against the setting sun. The neon lighted sign is loud, calling out to us, Come in. Have the night of your life!

  “Let’s go,” I say to Oscar. “I can’t wait to see inside.”

  I’m excited as the doorman welcomes us in through the tall black doors. I’m awestruck as we step in — it exceeds all my expectations. The mood is dark and sexy, and there’s excitement in the air. The place is much bigger than I’d imagined, chock-full of people, beautifully dressed. The carpets and walls are red. The tables are covered in crisp white linens, dotted with pretty red shaded lamps. Red chairs flank the tables. It’s a moody dark red room, brought to life by the energy of the people in it.

  We are seated at a table for two; red menus, white dishware, a pretty glowing lamp and a vase centerpiece of red and white roses. We’re smack in the middle of the room, first row on the balcony. I finally turn my attention to Oscar. “This is amazing. Thank you.”

  “Well, to be honest, this is all about me,” he jokes. “I mean, half-naked French girls kicking their legs up. What could be better than that?”

  I smirk at him. “How did you score such great seats?”

  He smiles widely. “I got lucky… cancellation.”

  I study him for a long beat. He’s as sexy as always, dressed in black. We fit right in with the dark intense mood. The show hasn’t even started, and I feel charged already. I want Oscar. I want to feel his skin against my own, and his tasty lips pressed on mine.

  I lean in to him. “This place is such a turn-on,” I whisper.

  His smile is wickedly playful. “Uh-huh.” He slides a warm hand slowly over my knee and under the skirt of my dress. I close my eyes and smile. “I can’t wait to have you naked, and under me,” he says softly.

  I don’t say a word — he knows I’m thinking the exact same thing.

  The food is great, and the show is even better. I have the lobster medallions with green beans and salad, and Oscar indulges in the beef tenderloin, ravioli and salad. For dessert, we both enjoy the delicious raspberry tiramisu.

  The food is not fully appreciated because I’m so taken with the show. The synchronicity of the dancers is amazing — they are flawless. The costumes are breathtaking; sequins, feathers, and majestic headpieces. And Oscar appreciates the thong leotards, I’m sure. The dancers are extremely fit and beautiful, but most of all, incredibly flexible. Even as a yoga instructor, I’m in no way in the same league as they are. The music is lively and at times melodic, and the lighting is colorful and energetic. I’ve never seen a cabaret show before, but I’d be willing to bet that this is one of the best ones in the world. There’s even a mesmerizing water show involving a giant snake.

  It feels like we’re lost in an amazing, colorful dream. I take Oscar’s hand in mine and he shoots me a sweet smile. This moment, right here, I will remember on my deathbed.

  When the show is finally over, the performers bow and accept accolades. The patrons stand and clap and holler. The show was a hit.

  Oscar and I are standing too, smiling at each other. I’m just ready to head out with the crowd when Oscar sets a hand on my shoulder and stops me. “Let’s wait a while, until the crowd is out.”

  I sit back down. “Sorry, yeah, I know how you hate crowds. You must have hated it in the funicular.”

  He smiles. “Well, I’m not the one who had her wallet stolen.”

  “Damn thief. That guy did look suspicious. I was keeping an eye on him. I was afraid he would snap pics up my dress.”

  Oscar laughs. “I think he was more preoccupied with your wallet than your pussy. He obviously didn’t know what he was missing.”

  I laugh.

  He bites his lip. “Seriously, what panties are you wearing?”

  I laugh. “Oh, so we’re playing this naughty game, are we?”

  He glances over at the departing crowd. “Hey, why not? We have some time to kill.”

  “Well…” I start off playfully. “I’m wearing the pink and black polka dot undies with the black laced trim and the silk bow.”

  He blows out a breath. “Ooohh... I love those ones.” He pulls his full bottom lip in and holds it captive between his teeth. “Are you wearing the matching bra?”

  I smile and nod. This is fun. The dark red room is almost empty now.

  One of the servers makes her way to us. “Hello. Did you have a nice evening?” she asks in broken English. In other words, she means, Get the fuck out. The show is over and we’re closing.

  “Oh yes,” I tell her. “Lovely show. We were just heading out.” We both stand and gather our jackets, and I fling my purse over my shoulder.

  She smiles as she ushers us out. We walk at a leisurely pace, and I’m thankful that we’ve avoided the go-and-stop that goes along with following the crowd out of a show.

  The night is chilly as we step out. I hug myself to keep warm. Oscar wraps his long arm around my shoulders and pulls me into him. “That was hot.”

  I smile into the soft corduroy fabric of his spring jacket. “Yeah, I loved that.” I can hear his heart beating against my cheek. I revel in the heat of him. He cups my chin in his hand and draws my face to his. He stares down at me for a beat, and presses his hot mouth on mine. We get lost in a kiss, right there in the middle of Boulevard de Clichy. Thankfully the crowd has already dispersed, and there are just a few people milling about in the distance. I’m breathless, wanting more. His erection presses against my belly and I know he wants more too.

  How long until we get home? I do the calculations in my head — not fast enough. He grabs my hand and pulls me along with him, down the street. There’s no one around, and he grabs me and snakes his way down a small dark alley, like a dangerous man abducting a woman in the dark.

  I find myself pressed against the cold bricks of an old building. The night is dark and quiet… not a person in sight. All I’m aware of is Oscar’s warm body pressed against mine, the beating of his heart and mine, and the scent of him; tangy and citrusy, Fierce by Abercrombie & Fitch.

  He slides his hot mouth along the edge of my jaw. “God, all I could think about in there was fucking you. You’re just as sexy as any of those women.”

  “Not quite as flexible,” I joke.

  “Oh, flexible enough.” He nibbles on my earlobe, tickling me. “I’ve had your legs completely bent over, remember?”

  I laugh. “You kinky boy.”

  His mouth travels to mine, and he bites at my bottom lip. “You love it.”

  “I do.”

  His warm hands trail under my jacket and dress and find their way onto th
e flesh of my cold legs. The heat of them feels heavenly, and when he travels up and explores my sweet spot, I completely lose it.

  “God…” he mutters, his words lost against my hot cheek.

  “We can’t…” I say, my words pleading, my sex aching. “Not here.”

  “Fuck, we can,” he whispers. “Fuck, we are.”

  35

  HE PULLS MY LEG UP and slides a long finger into my panties. He presses it into me, deep and hard. And it feels so good. He knows exactly how to make me lose my inhibitions. “You like this, don’t you?” His words are but a faint whisper, his breath ragged.

  “Uh-huh…” I moan, wanting more. So much more. It feels so good, but it’s not enough.

  “You want it like this?” he asks. “Or do you want my cock, baby?”

  “Y-your... cock,” I say in a desperate whimper. I’ve completely forgotten where we are. I’ve forgotten about the world around us. There are just the two of us in this moment.

  “God, these red boots of yours are making me hard.” He tears off my panties, and swiftly slides them down over my knee. I shoot out my leg to help him along.

  The panties hang off my leg, abandoned, as he pulls me closer against him. He feverishly works at his fly and reaches for the condom in his jacket pocket. As soon as I can, I grab his huge hard-on and guide him inside me, under the cover of the flaring skirt of my red dress.

  I hold on to his broad shoulders as he presses up against me, gently at first, pushing slowly inside me. I close my eyes, and enjoy the feel of him and the thrill of the elicit. I can’t believe we’re doing this here, in a dirty dark alley.