Sex in the City Paris

by Maxim Jakubowski (ed)

  He lived nearby, or at least within a reasonable walk. When they left the little café, she thought about Danielle. A vertical line of a girl, streamlined and frightfully purposeful, she’d told her one day as they sat in the bar during a hiatus in a long Danish swimsuit shoot that it was all a game: the industry, her appearance, people, the world, everything. It was a something you either lost or won. Her way of winning one battle was to make a man beg for her, to put herself on top of every facet– from flirt to kiss to strip to fuck. To make him wait and wait and wait until he’d practically explode, then after he’d had a taste, make him do it all over again.

  Luc’s arm was around her waist, a nervous daring that made her want to laugh loudly again. Playfully, she took his hand away, waving a warning finger at his panicked face. ‘Not too forward,’ she stage-whispered.

  It was a game. Gone from it after she lost by marrying some third-rate director of commercials; Danielle was right, even if she was a poor player. Maybe not a painter or a photographer, but perhaps an agent, director, journalist, designer, or hairdresser. Luc was dangling at the end of her hook; and although she wasn’t going to make him beg, she was enjoying her own version of Danielle’s competition.

  But by the time their walk ended at a heavy oak door in another dark and half-forgotten curl of a Paris street, she had to admit to herself that he was scoring considerably as well. Eyes shimmering with both desire and awe, his touches were equally warm, then heated.

  At the door, they kissed for the first time. Not planned, not strategized, no rook to king, no grand slam, just an occurrence: his key in his lock, a turn to look at her, she moving in, he moving in, then lips to lips.

  Danielle would have been disappointed. Jacqueline wasn’t.

  The game was completely abandoned beyond the very modern and very heavy metal door: a narrow flight of stairs climbing steeply upward, diamond-plate steps and a brass railing completing the industrial ascent.

  On the first few steps, they moved in unison but apart. As the stairs narrowed, it pushed them together– an architectural matchmaker.

  Whose hands first? Hard to say. Maybe at the same time, but definitely different places: her fingers sliding between the buttons of his shirt, tips touching the curls and swirls of his coarse chest hair; his dropping down to the flat of her back and then the rise of her ass. In response to her, he grinned and leaned forward for another kiss. In response to him, she pulled herself closer for another kiss.

  It was hot, it was wet, it was strong, and it travelled from her lips and tongue down her body, ringing her already aching nipples and down between her legs where it released a weight and warmth of readiness.

  As the kiss continued– hotter, wetter, stronger– she felt Luc’s own response pressed up against her, persistent, long, and very hard.

  Before she was even aware, she’d slipped her hand from between those buttons and had dropped it down to, instead, a zipper. A grip told her that her initial reaction hadn’t been exaggerated: indeed very long and very, very hard.

  He moaned into her mouth, breaking the seal between them to give a quick series of pants. His hands went from caresses to fervent squeezing of her ass, which made her even more daring in her fondling of him.

  Somehow during all this, the door to the street had been closed, which she realized was good because she was burning far too much to have cared if they had an audience or not.

  For some reason, what was happening struck her as funny, and she went from hissing between her teeth in her own melody of excitement to giggling into his shoulder.

  ‘Shouldn’t… we get upstairs?’ she whispered into blue denim.

  ‘Oui, oui,’ he said, his own stammer deep and rough.

  Turning away was very difficult; their hands had become powerful magnets not wanting to break from their touchings, holding, strokings, and kneadings.

  Leading the way, she took the steps slowly in her dizziness. Holding the railing tightly– instantly wishing it was his own muscular pole she was gripping– the attraction between them grew too strong again, especially for him, as she almost immediately felt his hands cup and then grip her ass. Stopping, each foot on a different step, she hissed and pushed herself back into him.

  Fine silk sliding. She felt like she was going to pass out. Thankfully did not.

  Knowing what he would be seeing as he slid her dress up made her even hotter, even wetter. She hadn’t selected the lacy thong with the intention of it being seen, had made no plans to show it to anyone, which made it all the more exciting. The thrill of their mutual surprise; she for being revealed, he for seeing.

  A kiss, one on each cheek. A ritual. Holding back for two simple gestures of affection. Then his hands, one also on each cheek, and a gentle parting– and as he did she felt herself further, and almost completely, liquefy. She might have been showing him the silken thread of her panties, but she also knew she was also showing her very plump, very wet lips.

  Knew, as well, because he touched them. Again, slowly, cautiously, almost respectfully: one single finger beginning at the top, then down and going down, then in the barest amount. The contact, that barest touch, was a bolt of lightning. It made her gasp, hiss, and moan from there, her clit, to there, her lips.

  Spreading her legs, giving him permission, demanding his attention, she also pushed back toward him.

  Agreeing with quick fingers, he began. At first she thought he was going to drive her completely insane: he rubbed her swollen lips, played with the muscular ring that introduced her vagina, tickled where quim became anus, and then circled, but here quite touched that pulsing button.

  Just when she was about to scream in frustration, to stop her heavy panting to yell at the top of her lungs, he stopped his teasing. Tap, tap, tap, rub, rub, rub, he went, playing her and in playing her drawing out steady deep-body moans instead of any kind of demand.

  It came– her coming– unexpectedly. Normally, even with the most sophisticated of partners, she had to descend into a fantasy, picture instead of boyish models, anonymous fucks on pulsing dance floors, or sweaty managers in dressing rooms, someone else and somewhere else. Places of refinement and sophistication, fine silks on her back, jewels around her neck, and men rippling with muscles or immaculate hair, but this time, in a stairway off a cheap street in a cheap part of the city, she screamed louder than she ever had before.

  Knees failing, she collapsed onto the stairs– at least partially. She would have collapsed all the way down onto the steel steps, but Luc put his hands under her, supporting her until she could see, breathe, and carefully pull herself up onto her feet.

  Then he took her hand and led her all the way to the top.

  Not really looking, not really seeing, she didn’t perceive the apartment as anything but quick images, tiny details that slipped past her glistening perspiration, fluttering heart, weak legs, panting breaths: huge, very modern kitchen– all polished brass and chrome, streaked marble, and blue tinted glass– full of well-used pots and pans, and plastic bins full of greens and even some browns; huge dining table roughly hewn out of what looked like one huge slab of mahogany, surrounded by mismatched chairs. Low bookcases containing a jumbled chaos of bright covers, then the bed, a great pad of an unmade futon.

  Then, the bed. On it in a tumble of hands and lips and clothes. She licked his fingers, tasting herself. She nibbled his lips, tasting herself there as well, though not as strong.

  A pause, he sprawled, shirt unbuttoned, head between his own huge pillows. Eyes glittering in the low light, looking entranced, hypnotized.

  Hypnotized, by her. She knew that, understood that. It was more exciting to her than any cold tryst with plucked and waxed models, any ham-handed gropes or bathroom blowjobs in clubs, any career moves on her knees in dressing rooms– far better than any gleaming fantasy of yachts and gold and jewels and applause.

  Jacqueline was the woman he’d heard about, read about, seen in magazines, walking the runway on television, and hanging on ga
llery walls as immortalized by a true and spectacular genius. She was the woman in the portrait by Escobar.

  Here and now, just for him, she was the legendary Jacqueline.

  While sitting on rumpled sheets, she strolled into his most intimate of dreams, of fantasies, by reaching down and taking hold of the hem of her fine dress and carefully, almost cruelly pulling it steadily up and up and up and then off, to fall loosely to the floor.

  No bra. Hard nipples. Shimmering sweat between them. His expression said it all: awe, delight, amazement and most of all, total and complete desire.

  Rising slowly up from where he’d been sprawled, he gazed at her with every climbing inch, clearly drinking in her renowned beauty, absorbing every detail of her body, ending up nose to nose, looking deeply into her eyes.

  Locked together, she saw herself reflected in his gaze. Saw herself the way he saw her.

  Perfect.

  Flawless.

  Ideal.

  Beauty.

  Then his clothes were gone, joining her in nothing but skin and sweat. From a corner table, a quick moment of reality, a tiny plastic wrapper tossed to the floor, a condom rolled down the length of his cock.

  While he lay on his back, bobbing with desire, she climbed up, on top of him, positioning herself carefully so that he was just there, at the entrance of herself.

  Down. In. Together. His dream, his fantasy, made real.

  And hers– in being his– as well.

  IV

  During the night, two more times. Twilight hands, twilight bodies, not enough illumination from the street outside to see much beyond the smooth rise of a hip, the halo of uncombed hair, a hand outlined against the soft gloom, the gleam and glimmer of eyes in delight, or teeth in passionate smiles.

  Then sleep, heavy and deep. Warm, wrapped right in thick blankets and satin sheets, it was dreamless and still. No tossing. No turning.

  Sunlight woke her, intense brightness coming through those same windows: a hard day heading straight into her rapidly blinking eyes. Rubbing them, she sat up, a sudden sharp concern with it that she was alone in the bed.

  Eyes clearing finally, she saw him at the far end of the room. Naked, on the phone, he paced back and forth in and out of the kitchen.

  Watching him, she grinned, trying to decide how to draw him back to bed. She never felt more beautiful. More perfect. Agent, director, journalist, designer, hairdresser– whatever he was, she liked being his ideal, his dream come true.

  ‘I’m happy you liked them. I did think they came out especially well,’ he was saying into his tiny silver phone. Seeing her see him, he grinned back and blew her a kiss, his eyes as wide as his broad gesture.

  ‘Sorry I didn’t hang around to check in with the cleanup,’ he continued, stopping to listen to a response. ‘Excellent. I knew Marie would take care of it. She’s wonderful.’ More that only he could hear, then: ‘Jacqueline? Why, yes, we had a wonderful time. Thanks for asking.’ Still more, still only what he could hear. Finally: ‘Well, I’m very pleased that you’re pleased. If you’re having another event, please keep Pomme in mind for all your catering needs.’

  ‘Good morning, beautiful,’ he said, stretching as he walked back toward the bed. Closing the phone, he set it down neatly on the dining room table as he passed it. ‘That was nice. Annette said the party went wonderfully. I’m glad because normally I hang around to make sure, but Marie is very capable and… well, with you on my arm I really couldn’t think about anything else.’

  At the edge of the bed, he sat, arm reaching out to stroke one of her bare legs. ‘She asked about you, by the way. Hope you don’t mind if I said we had a nice night. No details mind you, I do try to be a gentleman in such matters. No gossip, I! You know, if you ever want to quit waitressing, I would be more than willing to take you on, as it were. I always need servers, and, well, my food would taste like the ambrosia of the Gods by just being near such a beautiful and amazing woman… I’m sorry, did I say something wrong?’

  Her feet hurt, but she kept walking. She didn’t know where was going until she turned one corner and recognized the neighbourhood.

  The day was busy, lots of people about: doing this, doing that, on the way from some things, going to other things. Jacqueline knew she must not have looked… her best, with the same dress she’d worn the night before, scuffed heels, smeared make-up, hair frayed and wild, but even though she still cared, she was too lost, too alone amid all the bustle and rush to do anything about it.

  A caterer.

  A police car rushed by, its wailing cutting through any other sound that day. It made her stop on the corner, and with the stop came a few other sensations with the ache in her ears from the gendarme’s siren. Her eyes burned and smarted, swimming in close-to-crying tears; her feet hurt, a pulsing throb from her toes to her ankles and then all the way up her legs; her chest ached, muscles fisting in her rib cage.

  She’d gone home with the caterer.

  Breathing in, breathing out, biting her lip, she fought the battle of her tears. One battle won, her nose pulled a surprise end-run strategy and began to run freely. Tissue, she needed a tissue. Her purse, there was probably one in there. Swinging it around, she popped the clasp and began to dig.

  She’d fucked the caterer.

  Cell phone, sunglasses case, makeup, wallet, keys, miscellaneous slips of paper… tissue, wadded, wrinkled, torn… good enough. Stepping away from the edge of the curb, back close to but not touching the wall of a dry-cleaning establishment, she dabbed, then gingerly blew in what she hoped, prayed, was a dignified, ladylike manner.

  Annette knew.

  The damp tissue went into a nearby trash bin. Taking a deep breath she tried to release some of the tension, to shake it away, to push it out. Fingers through her hair, she tried to tame it, snapping knots carelessly, not caring in her rush for tsk-tsks from hairdressers in the future.

  The neighbourhood was familiar. She was real close. Why not? She might as well stop by. Yes, that was a good idea. Yes… a good idea.

  Across the street, down the avenue. In the near distance, just a few hundred metres or so, the pure white of the façade. Was she presentable? Suspecting she wasn’t, she decided to go ahead anyway.

  A waitress.

  L’Art, that was the name of it– the name of the gallery– the memory bubbling as she walked up to the door. A small place, known for the pomposity of its name and one recent discovery. Four months. Was that how long it had been since she’d been there last?

  Flashing cameras, lenses turned toward her; tart champagne in fine crystal; black beads of fine caviar on fine porcelain; journalists asking questions; beautiful women. Faces dark with jealousy; Escobar looking uncomfortable; his wife looking even more uncomfort-able.

  Four months? It felt like only a few days. Jacqueline wished it really had been four days since the party, the unveiling of that new work, a month later the cover of ArtNews with the same beautiful work gracing its cover.

  The painting. Her portrait by Escobar.

  Seeing it again would be good. No, it would be wonderful. It would make her feel better. Not like a woman who’d fuck a caterer. Who people thought was a waitress. It would make her feel beautiful; make her special.

  Adjusting her dress, trying to sweep off a few of the more noticeable wrinkles, she held off opening the door and going in– like a present where the anticipation was almost as precious as the contents.

  But then she stopped smoothing her silk. L’Art was small, just one large pale-walled space. To one side was a desk, a slab of heavy blue glass; on the other, a narrow ascent of stairs to probably an office.

  It was still early, the gallery clearly just having opened. It was empty aside from the owner, a man whose name she couldn’t remember. Large and slow, yet dressed in a finely tailored suit, he busied himself with papers and documents, wide back to her and the front window.

  One wall was that glass, the other two were for art. On one of them– she looked once, t
hen again and again– were the explosive colours, brilliant sweeps, refined compositions of Escobar.

  But none of them were her. None of them were the painting he’d done of her. It was gone.

  A waitress. He thought he’d spent the night making love to a waitress– a plain, ordinary, waitress.

  Not Jacqueline.

  V

  During her second shower that evening, the phone rang. An expired, tired, past-its-prime tune. Even though it came as hot water was smashing down on her, steam clouding the room, she still quickly twisted off the flow and jumped out of the bathroom to grab it.

  Flipping it open: ‘Allo?’ she said, droplets from her wet hair tapping onto the tops of her bare feet.

  ‘Jacqueline?’ came the voice on the other side, flat Francoise with American accent. ‘It’s Sheri of Le Monde. My editor said you were available for an interview…?’

  ‘Oui, oui!’ she gushed, automatically wishing she were dressed in something fine as opposed to her damp skin. Crooking the phone between ear and shoulder, she rushed back into the still-steaming bathroom, quickly pulled her towel from the bar, began to wrap it around herself. ‘Of course, I remember. How are you?’ she said, a spontaneous stall as she pulled and tugged the towel into place.

  ‘Um… I’m fine. Is this a good time? This won’t take very long. We’re planning on featuring Escobar in an upcoming issue and it would be great if we could get some comments from you as one of his models.’

  Sitting on the edge of her bed, not caring for the moment that she was getting the Miazaki spread wet: ‘I’m so flattered! Thank you for thinking of me.’

  ‘Well, I’m trying to give the piece some depth. I just got finished talking with his wife, Constance.’

  ‘A wonderful woman. Of course, I’ve only met her once or twice. But she’s always struck me as being very… dignified, I guess you could say. I always got the impression she hasn’t been very comfortable with her husband’s– well, his life as it’s become. Maybe even a bit jealous of him and me. I was just saying to Simone– you know Simone, right? I was just saying how this life, the life of art and artists, I mean, can be wonderful but how it can also sometimes bring out the absolute worst in people.’