In His Arms

by Caraway Carter

  I was okayed by the boulangerie to take a couple weeks to recoup, and when I made it back, I found another apartment and discovered more than ten different ways to get home, so as not to risk being followed by P, or others like him.

  That was six months ago; I have made a better life for myself—just me and my bookcase. I experiment with recipes in my home bakery before attempting them at the shop. Late at night, I lie on the floor in the middle of my front room, staring at the ceiling, counting the tongues of peeling paint and wondering if this was the life I thought I’d live.

  The truth is this, dear reader: if I got the chance to live my life over again, I would not change anything I’ve done, especially the weeklong fling I had with H. I only would have spent more time indoors, and wasted it taking the Metro all over the city.

  I am writing this sitting on the bridge, and there are so many more locks here than there were even last year. I can see the scarlet lock that H and I locked together. I touched our names etched in the paint, felt the heft of the metal and loved how long the shank is, because there is one couple who locked theirs in the middle of ours: Renoir & Sadie. We are not in the gay ghetto after all. Reader, I’ve made a decision. I’m not going to rip up this letter, or burn it, or throw the pages in the Seine. I’ve decided to roll it up and leave it in the chain-link, between the shank and above R&S.

  Maybe you are H, dear reader. Maybe you are one of the forlorn, or having an affair. Whatever, if this speaks to you, it will probably speak to another. All I ask is that you either leave it for another set of eyes or take it to someone else who needs, so that they can know there is another soul out there dealing with the loss of a love.

  I vow, here and now, not to come back to this bridge for another year. Then, reader, dear or otherwise, I will be back, and we’ll see how this next year turned out. In the meantime, there is happiness in this city—look at the lovers locking locks here, taste a hot baguette with fresh salted butter or some soft cheese. Enjoy it, savor it, and love it.

  Always the forlorn one,

  Brandon

  4

  Letters Throughout Year Two

  Several copies of the letter left around the city

  Hello…it’s not your fault. Do not take the blame. Seek assistance, seek help from anyone who will give it. You didn’t deserve that hit to the face, in the gut, slap or punch. Your spouse is the one to blame. Leave them. It will hurt, and you will feel shame, but leave now for your sake and the safety of any children in the house.

  You might be a man; I am a man. I thought my lover loved me for me. But I became a punching bag when he didn’t get what he wanted. I am his equal in size and weight, but when he was angry, he became a monster, and I had to leave.

  Some partners are abusers, and sadly, some of us are victims. Stand up in your place and move towards being away from the pain and hurt.

  One who got away,

  Brandon

  Left in a bin of baguettes at the corner market

  Hello, seeker of love. If you are holding onto your lover’s hand, if they are slipping their arm around your shoulder, or you can see them across the crowded store, continue reading this letter. If they have not found you yet, read as well.

  Your lesson from this letter is to buy a baguette.

  May I also suggest a round of Banon Cheese wrapped in chestnut leaves, a bottle of Chenin Blanc, and grapes.

  Slice the baguette and toast it.

  This can be the most sensual time of the night; savor the food, serve each other grapes, listen to the wine slosh in the glass, and enjoy yourselves.

  Kiss each other softly and sweetly upon the chin, the eyelids, and the neck.

  Explore and enjoy.

  With pleasure,

  Brandon

  Left on top of a urinal in a public restroom

  You want it! Take it!

  A moment in a stall is sometimes all one gets. If you are the one doing it, you know there will be no one coming home with you. You are doing it because it’s dangerous, because it’s “no strings attached,” because it’s mysterious. The owner could be a bishop or a politician; they could be a tourist from America, or a trash collector. They could be almost anyone. They could be gay, bisexual, straight or gender fluid, but they are seeking that what you can give.

  If you are the one getting it, you have nothing to be ashamed of, either. You need a release, you deserve a release. You are getting something that your partner can’t give, or you are trawling the dirty, seedy underside of the underground. You are investigating if this is the lifestyle for you. You look at your clothes and wonder if you kneel on this dirty tile, will it show through? So you settle for lowering your zipper instead. Your job prohibits this, or damn it, you just want to see what it feels like. Do not shame the person on the other end. Do not shame yourself. Do it, and move on.

  Please leave this letter for another person in the same situation.

  Brandon

  Left on a seat on the Metro, on Line 2, between the Louvre and Moulin Rouge

  I’m in a mood, dear reader. I’ve just wandered the Louvre, looked at works of art I did not think I would ever see, mesmerized by the colors, the sensuality of the brush on the canvas. I could never imagine the strokes that could culminate in the art on the walls. If only my pastry could be such works. The strokes of butter I drizzle over the croissants and baguettes and tarts that come out of my kitchen are works of delectable art, so exquisite they melt on the tongue. Alas, this is not about my skill at filling your belly; this is about the art hanging before my eyes.

  Do you get those butterflies in your stomach, because you are seduced but the vision in front of you? I had a moment in the museum, where my hands roamed my body. It was the tantalizing sensation of my jeans, like that moment with my fling, oh, so long ago. It was as though I could feel him under my body, my eyes half-closed, my fingers dancing, my breath coming in short staccato dots. I had to find a place to sit.

  And beside me, I sensed another soul lost in the ecstasy of the art. A scene lay before us, a gathering of people, the folds of the fabric, the frolic friends seated and sprawled on the ground. It was called “The Village Fête,” painted by Rubens, a Flemish artist. My companion on the settee was a woman of an older age; her breath came to her in small gasps. I let my hand fall to my side, even as my other covered my crotch.

  This woman, who must have been about the age of my own mother, slid her fingers delicately over mine as we shared this experience. I will admit to this being my only experience with a woman, and it was a shared orgasm. An artistic orgasm. And then her fingers were gone, and we both stood and left in opposite directions.

  I chose to see what the Moulin Rouge was all about, as the only experience I had with it was the movie, and although it was thoroughly enjoyed, I knew it had to be so much more. I paid for my ticket and finished this letter. If you find it, maybe we’ll see a show together, but I’m thinking this might not be read by a gay man, let alone the woman I shared pleasure with earlier.

  Enjoy the beauty around you,

  Brandon

  Left in a café, in the middle of the table

  Dear reader,

  This is a risky maneuver, as this was where I first met my fling from two years ago. This café…

  It’s near the anniversary of our meeting, and I could think of no other place I wanted to spend my early morning. And yet, I have not caught the eye of any other businessmen; no suits have stood next to my table.

  I sat here for a good two hours, sipping a very strong cappuccino, tearing off hunks of baguette, and smearing it with butter and jam. I tried to act like the American tourist I was nearly three years ago. Instead, I had to stop with the jam, and just eat the bread alone in all its beauty.

  Perhaps you are staying at the hotel across the way, because I stayed there. Hotel room paid for two weeks—never slept in the bed that first week. I went home with a man in a business suit who seduced me with eyes as verdant as the stem of a strawber
ry.

  Dear reader, I suggest this to you: if you are alone in this city, take a chance. If a person offers something, take it. Paris is a city of love. It’s a city of lust and desire, too. If you don’t see a body that titillates you, then make love to the food, the wine, and the entertainment. But, take this time in this place as your bed, and enjoy your carnal desires.

  Brandon

  Left in The Ritz lobby

  Reader, are you splurging, or is this your type of hotel?

  It was a splurge for my family three years ago. I only walked across the lobby once, to deposit my luggage in my room. Take the adventure this place gives you. If The Ritz is all you’ve ever known, then please leave this letter for someone who needs to experience the luxuriousness.

  If you had never imagined in a million years being in this lobby, smile and feel the luxury that surrounds you. Wake up and look out the windows in your room. Before going to bed, look at the lights of the city and enjoy slipping under the cotton sheets. Slide up next to your lover, husband, wife, partner or prostitute, and make each night a night you’ll never forget.

  When you understand what I have suggested, leave this letter in another place in the hotel. Hopefully people will be satiated every day for a long while.

  Brandon

  5

  Anniversary Two

  Hello, friend.

  It’s been two years since that lock was placed; more and more locks are here. I’ll never find mine. I do remember it was a scratched-up scarlet-red thing. It made me think of a heart sitting there, holding our love inside its mechanism. One key would release all that love into the world.

  When I told one of my coworkers about the lock and the week that led up to it, he asked if it wasn’t lust we placed inside. In the two years since, I can honestly say… No. Or maybe a little, but what we mostly did that week were the things that young lovers do. We read to each other, discovered each other, and cooked for each other. We spent so much time learning about each other that locking our love away was the smart thing to do.

  So if you’ve read a letter from me before, you might be wondering why I’m still thinking about that man. Well, it’s not like I can forget him. I do see him at least once a year, if not more, depending on family gatherings, or other occasions where I might run into him and his wife. It’s no secret; we are family members now. Everything that led up to his becoming family is only known by the two of us, and, well, all of the readers who have found this letter, I suppose.

  But, I wonder what the chances are that she or my brother-in-law has read any of these missives. After I wrote the big long anniversary letter last year, I got to thinking how good I felt sharing my life with complete strangers. Over the past year, I’ve left letters all over the city: on the Metro, in the parks, on urinals, and in the market. It’s been freeing, leaving little messages. When I was attacked, I left a message to other survivors of abuse. I wrote to let them know: if it feels right when you are apologizing, leave right away, because it is not your fault that you got hurt.

  I’ve never felt I should leave an address on any of these, and I’ve decided only the anniversary letters will be left in the chain-link. I wasn’t surprised that my initial letter was no longer here; it was probably rained on, or stolen, or blown away. I think I had suggested that if the reader knew someone who needed to read the words to take it and pass it on.

  I suppose the same should happen with this letter. Take what you’ve learned about me, what I’ve learned about this city and share it with other expatriates. Whether they are ex-lovers, abused, Americans—whoever needs to learn or needs solace or to have their wounds licked, take and read and share with those around you.

  So, the past year has been a very successful one. I’ve moved on from the initial boulangerie to a large restaurant, where I’ve become the pastry chef, creating delicacies that are ordered long before the reservations are even signed. We have catered fabulous weddings for the elite and high powered of society. The signature pastry contains woven caramelized sugar strings draped over a chocolate bomb, reminiscent of the old days.

  A lover came into my life. We explored long throughout the year. It took me months on end to finally trust having another set of lips caress my body, to have hands hold me and tease me and take me. T takes his time with me; on long cold nights, he holds me in his arms; on hot nights, he glides his tongue over my skin as if it were nectar. Nothing about my body displeases him, and I wonder where he came from.

  The relationship cannot compare to that fling in my first week here, but T is closing in on the one I hold in the highest esteem. I suggested going away for the holidays with him, taking T to America for a good old Christmastime. Introducing him to my parents proved to be too much for him, and he got cold feet.

  He wasn’t a relationship guy; he was a sex when he needed it kind of guy. I went to America alone again. Kissed B&H when I saw them. H and I have gotten used to being in the same room, and we laugh with everyone else. I am honestly interested in his business plans—I jokingly told him my ultimate goal was to open my own boulangerie. He encouraged me and told me to contact him when I finally decide to seek locations. He joked that I couldn’t Americanize the baguette; it would have to remain the same price as everyone else. We had to explain this conundrum with the rest of the house.

  Once, that Christmas, we touched. He and I sat side by side on the sofa, as Dad and J’s boyfriend sat on either side of us. Mom and B were in the love seat and J in the chair. We were shoved together, and we laughed at the closeness. H placed his arm on the back of the sofa, and I felt his fingertips drum a seductive pattern on the back of my neck. My hand slid down to rest where our thighs met. I never looked at him, nor did he turn to me. We cheered when they cheered and hollered when they booed. It was a moment we’d shared.

  B looked annoyed, as she always did, and she confided in me that she was nervous that they hadn’t gotten pregnant yet. She wants a kid so bad she’s got H following an ovulation chart.

  When we got back to France, she took me to lunch and asked about my life, which is unusual. She is so selfish. I eventually got it out of her; she wanted to know if H had ever contacted me.

  I had told her that I wasn’t looking into setting up shop anytime soon, and that I was looking to find a place in the South of France, but I was nowhere near. She interrupted me and blurted out that H was bisexual and she was worried he was having an affair with someone else. She broke down and started crying. I just know if we have a baby, he’ll stay with me forever. I don’t know why he’d want to go off and be with a guy. He said he would be committed to me.

  I asked her what convinced her of the possible affair.

  She told me there wasn’t any concrete evidence. That he just works all the time, and begrudgingly has sex with her.

  I asked her if they wanted kids this soon.

  She said they talked about kids someday, but he felt they should be more financially secure.

  I laughed and hugged her, wiped the tears from her eyes. I told her she didn’t need to worry—that from everything I knew about H, he was committed to her—and continued with the story in the paper. Everyone’s been having money issues lately, he’s in finance, and he’s trying to save his job.

  The lunch continued, and any thought of an affair was wiped from the conversation. We continued as though nothing awkward had happened. I was relieved, because I didn’t have to tell her that I’d been with her husband a week before they were married, but I honestly trust that he’s not seeing anyone else. And would I admit to the finger neck massage? He could have been doing it with the other hand to J’s boyfriend; I was too lost in his delicious fingers to notice.

  Until next year, dear friend, listener, reader. I will be back next year, this same time. Should you read this, share it, leave it, spread the word that love letters will be left all this year.

  I say good-bye for now, new friend,

  Brandon

  6

  in the Third Year
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  Left on Flight 1535 from Paris to New York, in the toilet

  Emails received: five – two from the same flight, two from a flight from New York to Peru, and the fifth from a flight from Peru to England

  Hello, fellow passenger.

  It’s been a long flight already. I can give you a few tips on how to make the flight better…

  1) Masturbate in the bathroom. It’ll help you fall asleep.

  2) Do not attempt the mile-high club with anyone but yourself. Most of us are too big to fit two people in a bathroom this small.

  3) Fantasize about one person on this flight. They could be on the air crew, or that sexy one on the next aisle over.

  4) On your next flight, be sure to buy two books—one a highbrow trade paperback—and download several well-written stories of a sexual nature for your tablet. This way, you can be enticed, and your neighbors will think you are an intellectual by the book on your tray.

  5) The most important thing is to have a wonderful flight.

  Email me if you’ve found the note and leave it for the next person. Or, if it’s in your possession, please deposit on your next flight.

  In pleasure,

  Brandon

  brandonsloveletters@gmail.com

  Left in a Starbucks at Gate 7, in the JFK airport