by Freya North
It is the evening of the next day. Fun was had by all. Marcus loved the Louvre and was late to meet the group. Géricault and Delacroix had become his new heroes. Climbing the Eiffel Tower seemed dull in comparison to entering a painting and becoming a fighter for Liberté, Egalité and Fraternité. He spent most of his money on a book on nineteenth-century French art. It was in French but the pictures were fabulous, and anyway, Madame Pelisou promised she would help him translate.
Now it is the evening. The children are packing. Cleo and Sally are chatting. Sally asks Cleo if she would like to go for a stroll, for a drink? She knows that she will decline. Cleo declines. She will keep watch on the third floor, should the young proletariat build barricades or find imaginary Bastilles to storm.
‘Well, I think I’ll go for a walk. I don’t know when next I’ll be in Paris.’
‘Have a good time, Sally. When the children are asleep, I shall tuck down for an early night. I’ll see you at breakfast, eight-thirty.’
‘À demain!’
Sally strolled to the Boulevard St Germain. There was the Café de Flore and it was heaving. Will he be there? Is this a good idea? She weaved to the bar and ordered a Kir. She looked about, trying hard not to look like she was looking for someone.
He’s there.
Sally spied J-C talking animatedly with two friends.
Catch my eye, catch it! I’m over here. Over here, J-C.
Jean-Claude looked up and saw Sally. She smiled, he looked momentarily blank, then registered and swiftly tilted his head up. Sally jumped at the response and made her way over. The jostle of people knocked her sideways, her wine spilled over the sleeve of her shirt but she recovered her poise by the time she reached her target. Her smile flashed sheepish for a second.
‘Hello, Jean-Claude.’
‘Hello, Susan.’
‘Sally!’
‘Sally. Hello, Sally.’ If it is possible for an embarrassing silence to pervade in a noisy and frantic bar, then the café reverberated with it.
‘These are my friends, Michel and Luigi.’
‘Hello, hello! Luigi, are you Italian?’
‘They speak no English. Luigi is French also.’
‘Oh.’
Sally felt awkward and Sally felt shy. Suddenly she wished she had never come. She wanted to go.
Go, Sal. Just up and leave. You’ll never see him again. No one knows you are here.
She was tempted but two words crept through her brain, across her eyes and down her body.
Zipless Fuck.
So Sally stays and is heartened when J-C replenishes her drink. She tells him what she’s been doing. She asks him about his job, about living in Paris. Has he been to London? Yes. Did he like it? Yes. Will he come again? Maybe. In between one-word answers, Jean-Claude natters to his friends. They laugh a lot, raucous and guttural. Sally cannot join in. She shifts uncomfortably from foot to foot and runs her finger over the rim of her glass again and again, trying to keep a sassy smile in place. Once more she feels she ought to go. Yet again, Jean-Claude buys her another Kir so she stays. She is not having fun. It is trying and it is tiring.
But I must pursue the Z.F. I have to. And anyway, I’ll never see him again. No one who knows me knows that I am here.
Sally feels a pearl of sweat trickle down her back. She knows her cheeks are flushed and she feels slightly self-conscious. How long has she been here? She takes a furtive look at her watch. Two hours. They’re talking in French and they’re talking fast. Sally takes a good look at J-C. Dishy is the most appropriate adjective. He is tall. Taller than Richard? Yes, a little. His hair is dark, glossy and straight, cut into a classic bob. He has broad shoulders and slender hands. Beautiful fingers, long and elegant with well-shaped nails. There is hair on the sides of his hands and just above each knuckle. Richard’s hands are smooth. He is wearing a pink shirt unbuttoned at the neck, dark blue jeans, penny loafer slip-on shoes and a navy jacket fashionably crumpled. She glances at his face and notes deep-set and dark brown eyes, a longish but aristocratic nose, a strong jaw line and an attractive smattering of stubble.
I like what I see. He’ll do. He’ll do nicely, thank you very much. ‘Sally and the Zipless Fuck’; where are Ms Collins, Ms Jong? A book depends on this. Follow me!
And what does Jean-Claude see? A pretty enough English girl. Not really his type, not quite chic enough. Her dress sense could be greatly improved, the skirt is terrible, the length is all wrong. If she wants it short, then it must be knickers-skimming; just above the knee is so passé. But she’s keen. She’ll do. Beatrice is away in Lyons and Michel and Luigi have been goading him on. She’ll do. For the night. Anyway, he’ll never see her again. And it’s been ages since he slept with an English girl. And Luigi says rumour has it that English Roses are tigers in bed. We’ll see. She’ll do.
Sally feels more relaxed. Luigi and Michel have gone. They said something to Jean-Claude and she understood it to be along the lines of ‘give her one from me’, ‘and me’.
Bloody cheek! It’s me that’s calling the shots tonight.
Jean-Claude has switched on the charm that he gushed the day before and Sally has allowed herself to be swept along with it. He claims that he was talking business with the other two. Would Sally like a Gauloise? And another drink? Sally sucks the cigarette and is overcome by its strength, she lurches for her wine and gulps twice before she has exhaled. Yuk! And a head-rush too. Suddenly, everything seems terribly loud and she feels slightly dizzy.
Fool! Don’t you remember, smoking doesn’t suit you? Just make the cigarette last two more drags. And easy on the wine, that’s the fourth. No, fifth. Damn.
Unaware, Jean-Claude saves her.
‘Let’s take a walk.’
Outside it has been raining and the pavement is dressed in glistening pools cast gold under the street lights. They don’t walk, they saunter. The pavement cafés are emptier now, just the die-hard bar-proppers sipping Pernod and philosophizing. Jean-Claude suggests they head for the Luxembourg Gardens but when they arrive all the benches are wet; it has started to drizzle and Sally feels chilled. Her head has cleared and she has sobered up. She and Jean-Claude do not really have that much to talk about. They both know what they want to happen. And they both know that it will happen. And they both know that the other is willing and waiting.
Sally cannot really be bothered to play out a whole seduction scene. Just a means to an end. An abbreviation will suffice. She wants her Z.F., and she just wants her Z.F., that’s all. She and J-C are walking heads down against the rain, hands in pockets to keep warm; silent. Sally’s footfalls provide her with thinking time. She remembers back to the party where she met Richard. She recalls with a smile the flirting and the eye contact and the euphoric energy she felt. She remembers the teasing mini-kiss she planted on his lips before spinning on her heels to mix and mingle. And she sees again the erotic kissing that they launched into uncontrollably once the front door of the party had closed behind them. ‘Come to Highgate,’ she had suggested. Progress had been slow, with every red light an excuse to grope and kiss each other greedily. ‘Pull over! Pull over!’ Sally had cried when they were but a mile from base. Richard had swerved recklessly to the side of the road; Hampstead Heath, silent and conspiring, flanking them. Sally had dived for him. Richard, in ecstatic disbelief, remained defenceless while she sucked and licked her way down to his groin into which she buried her head for a tantalizing and all too short moment. For both, it was a taste of what was to come. And come.
Sally remembers the desperation to shed clothes as soon as her front door shut. Initially, they had tried to undress each other but it had proven cumbersome and too time-consuming. So, while they kissed, they wriggled and ripped their way out of their clothes. Burning naked, they made it to Sally’s bed, the kiss which had started on the doorstep never stopped and Richard was forced to walk backwards, eyes shut, body raw, as Sally grappled and guided him into her bedroom. There, they melted into the bed and fell
fast and deep into the pleasures and needs of scorching flesh.
Sally has no inclination to seduce Jean-Claude. There’s no thrill to this chase. She doesn’t care if he is bowled over by what a sassy vamp she is. She just wants to see what pure sex is like, no emotions attached. After all, she will never see him again. They walk and make small talk. The drizzle has stopped and a brisk wind taken its place.
‘I live quite close to where we are now. Would you like to come up? For coffee?’
Coffee, etchings! Here we go!
‘Yes, I’ll come.’
TWENTY
Sally was sorely disappointed by Jean-Claude’s apartment. As soon as she set foot inside, warning bells rang out but she chose to remain deaf to them. In her fantasy on the way to Montmartre the day before, he had taken her to an old tenement building where the high-ceilinged rooms breathed faded grandeur. She had envisaged tall windows with billowing muslin, mismatched colour-washed cupboards in a tiny kitchenette, and a balcony with a seen-in-a-dream view. And, of course, a bidet in the bathroom. She had imagined his bed as old and high, enclosed by sinuous brass bedsteads and banked with white linen; crumpled and voluminous. She had imagined herself sinking into it while he deftly undressed her. No fumbling. No zips.
But reality usually lets a day-dream down and the details of Sally’s were deflated in an instant. J-C’s flat turned out to be on the fourth floor of a modern block. The lift was out of order so they traipsed up the stairs and wandered down a faceless corridor. On entering the apartment, the first thing that Sally thought was: The man has no taste. He is a designer and yet he has no taste.
Each item of furniture was obviously expensive but nothing went with anything. Each piece was merely and clearly some status symbol. Sally’s prime dismay, however, occurred in the bathroom.
Yuk, look at the state of that bath! And where’s the bidet? There is no bidet. Woe.
Toothpaste oozed, solid and dry, from a topless tube; razor clippings scummed the sink. Sally recalled Jean-Claude’s attractive stubble and calculated that he could not have shaved for at least two days.
Sally, if he has a grungy bathroom and no bidet for you, why are you staying? Why not go? It’s not too late. You need never see him again. Think of Richard’s bathroom; tasteful majolica, spick and span.
Sally refuses to think of Richard. But he’s there, oh, he’s there all right. Unwittingly, he’s the very reason for Sally being in this sorry bathroom. She glances at herself in the mirror and is taken aback by the puzzled expression that meets her gaze. Defiantly, she smiles back. Obstinately, she won’t let go of the Z.F. concept. She has to try it. No one will know but she. Looking at and not into the mirror, she absent-mindedly cups her hands over her breasts.
‘Sally, you are okay?’ the husky French voice enquires.
How very considerate.
‘Yes, I’m fine. Give me a minute.’ A minute later she emerges and Jean-Claude is hovering outside the door. He approaches and she allows herself to be kissed.
Mmm, he’s a good kisser. Yes, this is fine. A good idea. I’m going to have fun.
No you’re not.
Jean-Claude pulls Sally closer towards him. He grabs her arm with one hand and grabs her breast with the other. He is taller than Richard, her aching neck confirms it.
Ow, my arm.
Sally tries to free herself but it serves only to excite him and he grips tighter and kisses harder. He pulls away and, with a chuck of his head, he motions to a room Sally has not yet seen but presumes to be his bedroom.
The bed is unmade, the linen is striped brown and beige. J-C is undressing himself. Sally’s hands are behind her back, finding the zip of her skirt which snags and catches as she pulls it down. It affords an ogling J-C a good look at her breasts doing their famous jut and he lunges for them.
He is naked while she is merely skirtless and he lounges on the bed, his erection arrogantly leering at her. Sally doesn’t take her eyes off Jean-Claude; he keeps his eyes on her body, soaking up what every shed piece of clothing reveals. Sally lies down next to him and rests her arms on his chest, her legs folded around his. They kiss and she looks at him; his eyes are closed and she hears him give a throaty murmur under his breath. She smiles.
It’s working.
Now his hands are everywhere, at least they’re everywhere he wants them to be but they’re not quite where Sally would like. She tries to guide his hand to her secret erogenous zones but he takes them away too soon. Sally wouldn’t say that her breasts were being fondled; mauled rather. He’s found her clitoris but is hardly sensitive to its sensitivity. He has no idea. She flinches but he reads it as pleasure and increases the pressure. Firmly, she pulls his hand. He looks up, puzzled.
‘Not like that, comme ci,’ she guides. He looks sulky but obeys. Sally is enjoying the sensation, she is close, she is very close. But though her breathing quickens and her body writhes, he stops.
‘Don’t stop.’
‘I just find Mister Condom.’
Already?
Jean-Claude seems to think so.
She strokes his back while he rolls and snaps the condom into place and as he turns towards her, she reaches to kiss him. Jean-Claude can’t be bothered with that just now, there’s work to be done. He spreads her legs very wide and then puts his arms under the base of her back and hauls her up high. He barges into her. Sally moans. It feels good though. They hump and grind and Sally feels her neck being bitten. It hurts, but it feels exciting. He is thrusting harder and faster and Sally uses both hands to pull his head up and into line with hers. It’s heavy, but she has his eyes. They kiss.
He’s devouring me.
Sally wants to go on top. She tries to shift him but he’s a leaden lump of pumping flesh.
‘Jean-Claude, wait. Stop for a minute.’
‘Why, what’s wrong?’
‘Nothing’s wrong! Just stop so I can go on top.’
‘Okay, okay.’ That’s better. Sally feels she has more control. She sets a slower pace and rotates her pelvis in the way she enjoys, the way that drove Richard wild. But Jean-Claude has stopped moving. She looks at him, he is looking at the ceiling. She stops too.
‘Enough?’ he delicately enquires.
‘No!’ Sally retorts.
‘Later,’ he suggests as he flips her on to her stomach.
As he takes her from behind she feels a surge of excitement in her abdomen. But it disappears once he’s settled himself into his own pattern of bumps. It does nothing for Sally but she reasons that it is his ‘go’ so that’s okay. He lifts her on to her knees and after a moment’s thrill for Sally, he finds his favoured pace again. He grabs her breasts and just keeps them grabbed. Sally decides it is time for a change but she cannot shift him. He is hurling himself into her, her arms are aching, her knees are getting chafed and her breasts hurt under his grip. She arches her back in an effort to free herself but his arms clasp her around her stomach and he squeezes her as he thrusts into her. Her breathing is distorted, it is not comfortable, it is not sexy at all. She imagines they must look like dogs mating.
This is not my mate.
She feels sore. She gives up. Faster he goes.
Come on, J-C, you must be close. Come on. Come.
She is bashed and she is bumped against. His pace is frenetic and he starts to moan.
Bébé, bébé. Mon Dieu, mon Dieu. Monde.
She can feel every spurt and every surge.
Mon Dieu.
He’s finished.
Thank God.
Staring at the hideous linen, Sally bemoans that hors d’oeuvres was fundamentally ordinaire, that she had been deprived main course and there had been no suggestion of pudding. Now he flops down on top of her and her sore knees grate against the sheets. Her face is smothered by pillow and sweaty brute of a man. She wants to go.
‘You want to stay?’
‘No.’
So, Sally Lomax, you’ve had your Zipless Fuck. And how do you feel? You’re walki
ng back, through deserted Paris streets, it is almost two in the morning. How do you feel! Was it worth it? Was it as you expected? Did you like it? Do you want more? Has it made you feel good – in your body, your self? Are you happy now?
Was that it? What have I done? And why have I done it? So that was a Zipless Fuck. Erica J., you’ve got it all wrong. It can’t have been. No, no, but it was. It wasn’t like in the books, it was not like in the films. It’s me – I’ve let Ms Jong down. I’ve let myself down. I feel down. I’m alone in Paris. And I feel lonely, full stop. I’m sore. Where am I? Oh, yes, first left then right.
What did I do that for? It wasn’t like Ms Jong made out. I’m obviously not heroine material for her books. Richar … no, no, no, what am I saying? I don’t want him. Jean-Claude, J-C, vous êtes un grand cochon. But if he’s a pig, then I can only be a dog. I don’t know what I’ll think of myself in the morning, in the clear light of day. Well, I’ll never see him again. I’ll never do this again. But where do I go from here? Put it down to experience? It’s an experience I wish I’d never had. There’s the pension. I’m home and dry.
But it’s not home and I’m soaking wet.
Sally crept up the stairs and into her room. She had a scorching shower and did not finish off with a blast of cold. Hot water felt more cleansing and she felt filthy. She scrubbed and rubbed and soaped her fingers, cleaning as far up as she could reach. Condom or no condom, she could feel and smell him still. He did not smell like Richard yet she was neither comforted nor pleased by this. She dried herself, pulling the towel over her body harshly. She looked at her knees, they were red. She looked at her neck and was reviled by the dark raspberry blotch she saw. A love bite was a contradiction in terms, this was a selfish lust suck and she wished it was not there.