Sex in the City Paris

by Maxim Jakubowski (ed)

  Clean lines carefully maintained and perfected, everything in its place: an ideal form. The apartment as well as her.

  But in the shower they were just breasts that felt good to touch; an ass that was thrilling to caress, and between her thighs… that was the best place of all to touch or caress.

  In the shower, she could. Once, after the apartment had been finished, she’d tried, sprawling out on the vast black, silk-sheeted bed but couldn’t. It was only in frustration that she’d taken a shower to relax that she realized, away from the cold lines and precise corners, for the first time she was actually comfortable.

  Hot water. Lather, rinse, repeat. Under the pounding spray, Jacqueline put everything aside– except her hands and her body.

  Cupped, then squeezed, then kneaded, then thumb and forefinger to nipple, then pull, then pinch, then squeezed hard, the right then the left then together, putting her face into the stream of water, opening her mouth to let the jet pound her tongue– her breasts.

  Caressed, then slapped, then spanked, then gripped hard, then walked apart, then hand down between the right and the left, touching the back of her lips and running a finger from where they were swelling up fat and plump past the wrinkle of her anus and then up to where they blended into her back– the cheeks of her ass.

  Slicked, then relished, then stroked, then spread wide, then finger seeking the tiny hard point among slippery hot folds, a dance, a tinkle, a stroke, a rub, a circling, then to make it last longer, away from it to explore the much hotter, much wetter depths of herself.

  From one to another then back again, one hand on a breast, another between her legs, to one hand on a breast and another fondling herself from behind, to both hands on her breasts pulling and rubbing her nipples, to both hands exploring the molten heat and throbbing clit of her quim, to both hands rubbing and squeezing the muscles of her ass.

  Which fantasy? They bubbled and roared in her head: bent over the railing of a yacht bobbing on a too-blue Aegean Sea? On a beach in St Tropez at midnight, priceless skirt hitched up around her hips, alone except for the rock star kneeling between her legs? Masturbating in the changing room of a boutique while a famous photographer snapped shot after shot of her performance? Naked, maybe, on the runway, the applause of the crowd like a million hands on her tight and fine body?

  Knees buckling, breath wheezing, eyes closing, hands out to catch an-almost-collapsing fall, she moaned in thundering release, an orgasm that brought stars to her eyes and quivers and quakes to her legs.

  Sitting in the bottom of the black well of the shower, she panted for a few minutes, letting the body rush fade to a general bliss. Then, strength returning to her legs she got up, soaped and lathered again, and stepped out of the shower. Taking dozens of controlling, calming breaths, she looked in the mirror, frowning at her wet disarray.

  Hair, facial, makeup– so much to do if she was going to be presentable for the party.

  Without a smile on her face, she set to work.

  The cab knew the way, so the trip was quick and efficient; merging elegantly with the city traffic, gliding up to and then away from lights, never getting too close or too far from the cars in front of them, and not a single tap of the horn.

  Getting out of the taxi as carefully as he’d driven– stepping gracefully out and away, stylishly turning back, carefully opening her little purse– she passed him a neat fold of bills: the fare and a handsome tip for his eyes surreptitiously watching her in the rear view mirror and for never once calling her madame.

  Annette lived away from things, on a barely lit street in a nearly forgotten corner of the city, that only a few years ago would have been dead to everything but the rumbling and quaking of late night trucks hauling this or that to or fro. The avenue was still mostly dark, but with a mischievous hope of life: music faintly played and scurried, bouncing between the heavily shuttered warehouses, as stretched shadows danced on their plastered walls.

  Walking up to the party, the tune got louder, identifiable as a techno beat, and the shadows shrank to a handful of men and women who’d spilled out of Annette’s brightly lit doorway, smoking and chatting and drinking and laughing.

  ‘Darling!’ came a chiming laugh as Jacqueline walked up. The royalty’s here, Jacqueline thought as arms wrapped around her and a pair of lips landed in a flighty kiss on her cheek. Kings as well as queens. ‘Now all the pretty people are here!’

  Letting Daniel lead her inside, she laughed and smiled and kissed and hugged her way through the pressing crowd that was either leaving early or arriving fashionably late.

  ‘So glad you made it.’ Annette was elegant and simple, a nymph wrapped in Audrey Hepburn purple, with a blast of Monroe lipstick. ‘It wouldn’t have been a good party without you.’

  ‘I was just telling her the very same thing,’ the dresser said, uncoiling himself from around her arm. ‘Now you two chat or something fashionable while I go mingle– and get me some of those wonderful canapés before some fat cow eats them all.’

  Air kisses and he was gone, sliding between a photographer and a junior set designer from the opera. ‘So how have you been, Jackie? Bet things have been crazy since that posing.’

  ‘Oh, you know how it is,’ Jacqueline said, who hated to be called anything but her full name. Annette, she knew, didn’t know how it was as she was new to the profession. ‘Phone ringing all the time, one job after another.’

  ‘I can imagine,’ the other woman said, waving past Jacqueline’s shoulder at someone moving through the crowd. ‘But being busy has got to be better than not having anything going on, right? Wanted rather than not and all that.’

  ‘I guess. But to be honest things have been so crazy lately, not having something would be a nice little vacation.’

  ‘Well, I hope you get a break. Don’t want you to be working too hard.’

  ‘In fact, just today I got a call from Henri– he always seems to be calling me for one thing or another– with a new assignment. A new photographer. Jorge, I think his name was.’

  ‘Oh, I know, Jorge! Such a sweet man, and very talented. I saw him… two weeks ago, I think? Did a lovely set with him. In fact he said he wanted me to come back and see him, and maybe not just to pose again, if you know what I mean.’

  Jacqueline did, but didn’t say. ‘That’s very nice, Annie,’ she did say, knowing the other woman also didn’t like to have her name trimmed down. ‘I’m so glad for you. I hope Jorge and I will have just as nice a time when I see him.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure you will, Jackie. I’m sure you will. He even told me he was looking to work with someone… more unique.’

  Face flush, face hot. She knew what she meant, but still didn’t say. But she did say: ‘Well, they say being unique is far better than being common, Annie.’

  Then, before the other woman could say something, Jacqueline pretended to see someone behind her. ‘Oh, look,’ she forcefully gushed and chirped. ‘Isn’t that Depaulo? I must say hello to him. See you later, Annie.’

  Stepping around her and away into the crowd, she turned to look behind her, catching Annette’s eye and, with a royal wave of her hand, Jacqueline said. ‘Thank you for inviting me, by the way. It looks to be quite a lovely party,’ before a curtain of men with drinks and women laughing like musical instruments came between them.

  Toasted fresh shrimp set in a bed of tapenade, on a tiny wedge of dark rye; some kind of rich pate on a light cracker; carefully manicured cones of fragrant cheese, summer pears dusted with cinnamon and sugar.

  She’d drifted somehow, or was moved by the unconscious Brownian motion of the party, from the front room to the hall and eventually back to the kitchen. Kisses and hugs had preceded her retreat– or exile, but she didn’t think about that– through the low-ceilinged space. Compliments were fluttered and gossip was acidly whispered to her as she shuffled from one area of the apartment to the other, bubbles of amusement between the two. Escobar’s name came up often, as did the possibility of his po
rtrait of her hanging in the Louvre, but all the flattery couldn’t melt the frozen smile on her face.

  Inexplicably tired, she rocked back and forth in her heels, stretching one foot and then the other, trying not to let the spikes of either catch in the tiles that floored Annette’s kitchen. Unlike Jacqueline’s clean and cold lines, the other woman’s apartment was tight and cluttered. Wrought iron shelves up against thick plaster walls, curls and coils of sometimes fake brass and veined blue glass, and sometimes real vines; plates painted with scenes of pastoral simplicity. It looked more like the rooms of a dowager artist than a runway walker.

  The food looked tempting but even though she ached to do something, anything, other than just stand there, she resisted. It was one thing to be someone who’d drifted from the living room to the kitchen, an added shame to be the one there stuffing her face.

  ‘Pardon! God, I’m sorry– I didn’t mean to stare.’

  Not having noticed him come in, she started, catching her heel-teetering before it turned into an embarrassing stumble. ‘N-no, it’s alright,’ she said, shooting her smile toward what she thought was a warmer and more sincere one.

  ‘Nothing looking appetizing?’ he replied, stepping all the way into the tight kitchen.

  ‘Oh, no. It all looks fantastic. I’m just not all that hungry.’

  ‘At least let me get you a glass of wine.’

  Did she really want some? Older than she was by what looked to be five, maybe even seven, years, he moved well, like he knew at all times where his elbows and knees were. Salt and pepper beard, salt and pepper hair, but with a face that said the spices were premature. A ready and bright smile, blue eyes that flashed with light humour. He was dressed down, in just a pair of jeans and a similarly blue denim shirt, which could have meant a lot of things, but what she took to suggest the kind of comfortable that came with success. ‘That’d be nice.’

  ‘An impertinent little vintage,’ he said, choosing an unopened bottle from the white linen catering table and filling two glasses. ‘Cheers!’

  The chime of their toast was loud in the tiny kitchen.

  ‘Merci,’ she said, trying to figure out exactly where he fitted in, casting him in quickly flickering roles of agent, director, photographer, journalist, painter, designer, hairdresser… but rejecting her casting as he was too nice, too polite, too sloppy, not sloppy enough, too smart, too charming. ‘Very nice,’ she said, after having a sip.

  ‘You know, I actually had to fight to urge to say, “not as nice as you”. Beauty,’ he said with a sigh, ‘always makes me a fool.’

  Laughing, she swirled the contents of her glass. ‘But you did say it!’

  ‘Merde. So I did. A fool. A complete and total one at that. See what I mean?’

  ‘I’ve met worse.’

  ‘I could say “I bet”, but that would imply that you’re surrounded by legions of fools. But what I would have meant, if I had said that, is that you’re so handsome that you must reduce other men to being that way. Fools, I mean.’

  Banter, not nerves. Had it been the latter, she probably would have put the cold smile back on, maybe even pretended that she had to be somewhere else. But it wasn’t– at least not completely– so she didn’t. Instead, she said: ‘We’re all allowed to be fools sometimes. Even the best of us.’

  ‘That I find very hard to believe,’ he said with staged solemnity. ‘I’m afraid you’ve reduced to me other clichés. I know I’ve seen you somewhere. You have to be part of the business.’

  ‘Very possibly,’ she said. ‘I am.’

  ‘I knew it! But you are far too beautiful for that, unless you’re legendary and I am simply too much of a fool to be aware of it. A fact we have already established.’

  Banter, not smarm. Had it been the latter she absolutely would have put the frozen grin back on, definitely pretended she had to be somewhere else, fast. But it wasn’t– it didn’t feel that way at all– so she didn’t. Instead, she said: ‘I’d hardly call you a fool.’

  ‘Normally I wouldn’t either. But tonight, mademoiselle, I am a complete and utter one.’ Sipping his own glass, he seemed to take a deep breath at the same time. ‘Believe it or not, this isn’t easy.’

  Raising a perfectly executed eyebrow– one that Rodriguez had called, pausing in the middle of a barrage of machine-gun rapid strobe shooting, “the best in the business”– she said, ‘And why is that?’

  Slowly, almost solemnly: ‘You’re unearthly. Almost too beautiful. The first time I saw you I really didn’t know what to think. If I were a painter, I know I wouldn’t be good enough to paint you. Same if I was a photographer: I’d never be able to do you justice.’

  The banter had been fun, a circling little game. This was… different, but she still didn’t feel the need to retreat. If not painter or photographer, then maybe an agent, director, journalist, designer, hairdresser? ‘You are too kind. I’m really just a woman.’

  ‘I would never call you just anything. But then by now you must be getting tired of these asinine compliments.’

  Flushed, she laughed to cover it, swallowed a bit more wine to cover it even more. ‘I wouldn’t call them that. You’re very sweet.’

  Salt and pepper rose at the corners, his grin wide and animated. ‘It’s my pleasure,’ breaking off from looking into her eyes, he glanced to the left, out of the room. ‘Things seem to be dying down a bit. All and all I think it was a success, but you usually can’t know about such things until the morning after.’

  ‘Well, I had a good time. If that helps.’

  ‘It’s the only thing that matters,’ he said, taking a bow. ‘I should make a quick check, I guess. Shake some hands, kiss some cheeks. It’s been a true pleasure. Honestly.’

  Extending his hand, she saw elegant fingers, clean nails. No rings. ‘Luc,’ he said. ‘Luc Bressian.’

  His grip was light but present. Lips to the back of her hand, dry, firm, and elegantly and respectfully quick. ‘It’s been a pleasure,’ she echoed, meaning it. Feeling the need to say something else, she added: ‘Jacqueline Montelle,’ even though she suspected he already knew it.

  Hands parting, he looked up at her, catching but this time holding her sight. ‘Jacqueline Montelle,’ he said, saying her name with careful weight. ‘I will hate myself more for not asking this than for saying so, but would you like to have a drink with me?’

  Choices… visualized and dismissed again and again with cinematic speed: home, staying at the party, dinner alone. Puzzled, then: what was he if not painter or photographer or agent, director, journalist, designer, or hairdresser?

  Whichever, he glowed and smiled being around her, which did the same to her. ‘Oui,’ she said, putting out her arm so that he could lead her out.

  III

  The wine bar at the end of the still-dark street was swollen with similar refugees from Annette’s party, to get in and get glasses would have meant sliding shoulders across shoulders and mumbling too many ‘pardons,’ so by unspoken mutual consent they moved toward the distant traffic flashes of a major Parisian artery.

  As they walked, he occasionally made a quick witty remark about the party, to which she responded with a short pulse of laughter. His arm, still linked in hers, was warm and strong.

  Even though they hadn’t had that drink, and she’d only had two small glasses at Annette’s, Jacqueline floated, drifted, bobbed along at his side. Had it been that long since she’d been wobbly on the arm of a man? It hadn’t. Not really. Nameless gropes and sometimes more at other thundering and pulsing parties, hands on her body, between her legs, cupping her breasts as techno vibrated her bones. A long afternoon only a month or so ago, sliding between the sheets at a moderate Roman hotel with Bertoli, a smooth-chested and muscled pretty boy. But that had been nothing but a sticky and slick release; the stress of them both parading for the editors of a new Italian fashion magazine, let go in cocktails in the bar then growling and scratching in his room.

  Afterward, they had returned to th
e gliding steps and haughty demeanour of their professions, weighing the value of each other’s company on what could be gained, or harmed, by their association. Bertoli hadn’t called afterward, but she hadn’t called him either.

  Traffic, the roar of cheap cars and the purr of expensive ones, and she looked up from where she’d been looking into herself to see they were at the Avenue. A few metres toward the rushing traffic was another café, this one with only a few couples bent over tables. More than enough room for one more evening pairing.

  ‘How about here?’ Luc said, with a nod toward the door.

  ‘It looks nice. Let’s,’ she said, with a smile toward him.

  At a table, a bottle and two glasses soon brought, they chatted with short, grinning bursts about nothing– or nothing she remembered. Looking at him, at his honest black and white hair and beard, at his sincere laughter, she tried to place him yet again, to figure out what he was.

  But despite her confusion about his role, she still didn’t ask.

  ‘This is quite amazing,’ he said, eyes twinkling at her over the rim of his glass.

  ‘Actually I think it’s more than a bit average,’ she said, thinking he meant the vintage.

  Shock and disappointment were there on his face, a lowering of peppered eyebrows, a turning down of the corners of his mouth.

  Before he could say anything, a laugh came up and out of her with loud sincerity that made the few other late night sippers and chatters turn toward them. ‘The wine, I mean. Not you.’

  ‘Merci,’ he said, relief evident on his face. ‘Had me worried there for a second.’

  It continued from there: chatter, chuckles, smiles, then a surreptitious touching of his hand on hers, hers not moving away; she pouring for him, he pouring for her.

  If not painter or photographer or an agent, director, journalist, designer, hairdresser then what? It was important to her, but, that night, his opinion of her as the most beautiful woman in the world was all that mattered.