by Rozsa Gaston
This time, they weren’t calling to me at all, lined up like overdressed courtiers at Louis XIV’s palace. I looked at them indifferently and realized I’d changed. Some sort of quiet revolution had taken place inside me over the past ten years, since I’d first come to France. Finally, I was beginning to think like a Frenchwoman.
“Let’s skip the cakes and have that Chavignol cheese for dessert. Maybe with some fruit,” I heard myself say. Change had come. I was surprising even myself on the threshold of my thirtieth year.
“Avec des figues. With figs then,” he agreed, paying for our purchases then heading out the door.
Figs and goat cheese had replaced chocolate cream and mille feuilles-layered, buttery pastries in my heart. I’d entered then exited a French bakery without losing self-control. My elation knew no bounds. Change, even transformation, was indeed possible. I had arrived.
Next, we visited the fromagerie, where rows of small rounds of Crottin de Chavignol were laid out. They were sold by age, the older cheeses dotted with blue mold – the kind an American would return to the store for a full refund but a Frenchman would pay extra for. I laughed, explaining what an American reaction might be to the mold-covered cheeses.
“À chacun son goût, to each his own taste,” Arnaud replied diplomatically, echoing Jean-Michel’s words almost a decade earlier. He might have said, “What do Americans know?” but didn’t. Bravo.
He picked out two rounds, one aged and covered in blue bumps, the other young. “Une femme jeune, une femme mûre,” he whispered to me as the clerk wrapped them up.
“What did you say?” I asked once we were out on the sidewalk.
“I said ‘a young woman and a ripe one’.”
“What’s a ripe one?” I asked.
“Une femme d’un certain âge, a woman of a certain age, maybe forty-five, fifty, who is still beautiful and likes to make love,” he explained.
“And which is better?” I was slightly jolted to hear how smoothly he’d explained himself. I could just see him on assignment, holed up in a hotel bar with a beautiful local woman. Whatever her age, his suave lines would cover all bases.
“À chacun son goût, to each his own taste,” he repeated.
“And what is yours?” I pressed.
“Ça depend, Minou.” The French endearment was a variation of minouche, Jean-Michel’s nickname for me. It meant little cat. Like a caress, it landed on my ears pleasingly. “It depends on the moment. Whichever one is in front of me I suppose.”
It wasn’t the answer I wanted to hear, but it was one worthy of a Frenchman, not to mention a foreign correspondent. I would have to take the good with the bad. There was no way I was going to meet a man here with the style of a Frenchman combined with the character of John-Boy Walton from my favorite TV show of the 1970s. John-Boy, played by Richard Thomas, had been my kind of all-American male – sensitive and seemingly forever faithful. Frenchmen and forever faithful didn’t seem to go together. I didn’t want to typecast, but a complaint I heard often from women I met in Paris was that French men cheated. It was well known. They had different tastes for different occasions in all sorts of categories – cheeses, wines, before-dinner drinks, after-dinner drinks, desserts – why not women as well?
We picked up some paper thin slices of veal at the butcher, two bottles of red wine at the supermarket, as well as water, yogurt, capers, and a few household items. On our way back to the car, we stopped at a café where we sipped espressos and watched stylish, relaxed people watch us – a French national pastime. Despite only two hundred inhabitants, Chavignol enjoyed a considerable tourist presence in mid-July, so there were plenty of passersby to observe. Finally, we stopped at a fruit stand, where we bought a box of fresh figs and a melon, then headed to the car.
We took the long way back. Arnaud drove to Sancerre at the top of the hill at which Chavignol lay at the base. Famous for its wines, we stopped in at a winery and enjoyed a glass of crisp, light Sancerre le Chene Lucien Crochet, as we watched the sun begin its descent behind the Chateau de Sancerre, which Arnaud explained was a medieval castle rebuilt in 1874 in the style of Louis XII.
A re-enactment of medieval castle life took place daily just before sunset. We watched as three couples in period costume joined in a courtly dance. A mock jousting match for the men followed. Then it was the ladies’ turn. Dancing a scarf dance, the women laughed and flirted with the audience with coquettish skill, apparently honed by the lack of much else to do for the well-born denizens of medieval court life.
Arnaud watched intently as the oldest of the three ladies pulled a green scarf slowly across the lower half of her face, hiding her mouth. Her eyes danced as they slithered across Arnaud’s face. Quietly, I noted his reaction. As if hypnotized, he stood like a stone, returning her stare.
Trouble. Apparently, I wasn’t the only female capable of hypnotizing the man next to me. I shifted uncomfortably, quelling my American desire to be the only woman in Arnaud’s viewfinder.
In another minute, the performance ended, the actors disappeared, and all eyes turned to the sun setting behind the castle ramparts.
At the moment the sun slid below the horizon, we kissed – the woman with the green scarf forgotten. The evening at Arnaud’s country house awaited us. We zipped home, past goat herders returning with their flocks, bells attached to the goats’ necks. The tinkling sound they made urged us on to the day’s denouement.
In thirty minutes, we were back. Here’s where once again a French date departs ways from an American one. An American man takes a woman out to dinner on a date. A French man prepares dinner for her. Vive la différence.
As Arnaud cooked, I wandered around the gardens of the low, stone farmhouse, snipping flowers for the table. In a while, heavenly smells informed me that he was sautéeing the delicate veal slices we’d bought.
“Ça y est, here we are,” he announced stepping outside, bottle of wine in hand, as I finished arranging our peony centerpiece. His hands gripped the tire-bouchon or corkscrew, the sound of the cork coming out of the bottle as satisfying as the moment of watching the sun dip below the horizon or hearing him say ça y est. It was a short, succinct French expression phrase that expressed satisfaction at the completion of something – in our case the first chapter of our acquaintance. The second, more formidable one was about to begin.
“Ça y est,” I echoed, accepting the wine glass he offered. We toasted silently and drank, eyeing each other over the rim of our glasses. The image of the woman in the photo on the living room wall came into my head, but I flicked it away, like a summer insect. It was enough to be here, now. Nothing more mattered.
“Shall we eat outside?” he asked.
“Perfect.”
Dinner was succulent. A simple salad followed paper-thin veal slices sauteed in lemon, white wine, and capers. When it was over, we fed each other figs, interspersed with bites of Chavignol’s nutty goat cheese. Soon, kisses took the place of every other bite. Done, we stood up, clinging to each other. Together, we cleared the table. As I washed the dishes at the kitchen sink, Arnaud embraced me from behind, his arms encircling my waist.
When I finished, I dried my hands slowly, then turned to face him.
Taking my arm, he led me to the bedroom, extinguishing lights as we went.
At the side of the large, four-poster bed, he lit the two candles that he’d brought from the kitchen, placing them on the night stand. Then, he put his hand on my throat, precisely where I’d touched myself in the car on the way down. Delicately, but firmly, he pushed.
I fell backward onto the bed. As I lifted my legs to kick off my shoes, I caught sight of my shadow on the wall over the head post. Shapely calves and feet danced in the flickering candlelight.
“Look at the wall,” I told him.
“I see,” he said admiringly. Then, his eyes returned to mine, green like a tiger sighting its prey.
“Don’t look at me. Only the wall,” I ordered. The ceiling was at least nine f
eet high, giving us a sizeable stage on which to shadow dance. Ornate moldings adorned its perimeters, continuing down each corner. Slowly, I moved my arms and hands above our heads, enjoying the black images dancing on the wall.
Arnaud studied the effect, then began to move his own arms in tandem with mine. We were like children at play.
“Close your eyes,” he finally said.
I shut my eyes, feeling the soft night breeze from the windows play over my hair and skin.
Shuffling sounds ensued, something on the bedside table was moved, and then the fey, otherworldly sounds of the Cocteau Twins wafted over us.
Arnaud bent toward me, kissing my left temple. Next, my forehead. Slowly, his lips moved down the side of my nose, to my mouth.
I returned his kiss. Now, he was on both knees beside me. I sat up, putting my arms around his neck.
We fell back on the bed, his steely taut thigh resting over mine. Instantly, I understood the reason parents didn’t want teenage couples in reclining positions with each other. Nothing could have prepared me for the total surrender of my will in response to Arnaud’s thigh on mine. I tried to take command of my actions, but another more feminine part of my brain suggested I give in. I complied.
Arnaud moved downward, over my throat, finding the tops of my breasts with his tongue. My sundress was silky, loose. With two fingers, he moved the vee of its neckline to expose my pink lace bra. Then, his tongue traced its border, in a minute, finding my nipple.
I sighed, my back flexing upward. Then, I reached up to unbutton his thin, white cotton shirt. One – two – three buttons undone. My fingers slipped inside to find a mass of luxuriant silky brown hair covering his chest.
Sucking in my breath, I pulled his shirt out of his jeans, undoing the rest of the buttons. The hair-trapped scent of him was musky and fragrant, undoing whatever reason I had left.
In a minute, Arnaud flipped me over. Now, he was underneath, pulling my sundress off over my head, quickly unfastening my bra. He pulled me down onto him. I shuddered with pleasure at the feel of my breasts against the forested floor of his chest. His hands came round the back of my waist and quickly moved down over my haunches.
He breathed in sharply.
In less than a minute, we were skin to skin, the hardness of him pressing against the top of my thigh. Instinctively, I thrust my hips up against him. There would be time for subtle exploration later. At that moment, there was nothing I wanted more than to feel the driving force of him inside me. I thrust again, twisting my hips and taking him off guard. The second he released me, I moved away. It was entirely tactical. The point was for him to come after me.
He did, ferociously. His hand dove between my thighs, parting them. Then, he lifted himself above me, a black hawk above his prey. I lay still, transfixed.
There was nothing subtle about his entry. He drove into me, fierce and unrelenting. I cried out in surprise, scrambling to get away.
His hands dug into my hips, holding me in a vise, as he drove into me again. The length of him surprised me, the tip of his penis hitting a back wall deep inside each time he thrust. The sensation was exquisite, engorging, and enflaming me, until we were like two succubi devouring each other.
His moans drowned out mine. The moment was his, and I was his ardent audience, the provoker and provider of his unbearable pleasure. Like a gargoyle high in the rafters of Notre Dame, his face contorted and contracted in the dance of the candlelight. It looked chiseled and hard, a visage like a falcon, his nose long and ever-so-slightly curved, his jaw line sharp and his blue-green eyes hard as diamonds. The utter, fierce masculinity of him took my breath away.
After a long moment, when time seemed to stand still, he gave an enormous groan, as if he were giving up the ghost. Then, he released his life forces into me in one, final push that lit a fire at the back of my womb.
I would be the star of Act Two of this performance but Act One belonged entirely to the maestro above me. I silently applauded his tour de force as he collapsed onto me, seemingly one step removed from death.
Beneath his spent form, I relaxed into the complete stillness of the night and marveled at the power of the performance I had just elicited from him. I wouldn’t try to understand what it was about him that excited me so. Better to let the mystery be. As soon as he came to, Act Two would begin and he would find out about my own mystery. Whoever Arnaud de Saint Cyr had begun this day as, he would wake up a changed man on the morrow. Thanks to me.
In another minute, I was ready to fly heavenward. I gently rolled him off and to one side of me. It was not yet midnight, and our explorations had only just begun.
“Hello,” I whispered with a low laugh, looking into his face.
His eyes were softer now, less hard and glittering than usual. If Delilah was going to cut off his hair, this was the moment.
“Hello,” he murmured. “How are you?”
It was the moment of decision. I was ready to come. He needed to know that.
“Je suis excitée. I’m excited.” This time, I meant it in the French sense of the word.
His eyes lit up.
“What do you want me to do?” His question was apt. The most appropriate question a man could ask at that moment. One a boy might not think of asking.
Taking his hand, I guided it to my clitoris. He moved it farther down. I moved it back into position, my body convulsing when he found the right spot. Immediately, he focused on the task at hand. Raising himself on one elbow, he slid his body down mine, putting one hand on my belly to prevent me from moving away. With his other hand, he covered my pleasure spot, his index finger flicking over it, back and forth.
I slowed down his motion, then pushed his hand away.
“Wait,” I ordered.
He looked at me, puzzled. Then, I put his hand back where it had been. With an upward thrust of my chin I motioned him to recommence. He did.
Soon, he had taken charge of command central. He understood my directions, clear and monosyllabic.
In another moment my breathing turned jagged and harsh.
“Don’t stop,” I commanded, my body doing its utmost to jerk away from him.
His left hand like a vise on my hipbone, he threw his right thigh over mine, pinning me to the mattress. I couldn’t move.
He got it. Instinctively, he knew to synthesize my conflicting behavior.
“Stop,” I cried out even louder.
He smiled, pausing for a moment, then resumed. This time, he pressed more firmly, stroking faster.
I couldn’t stand it any longer.
“Stop,” I pleaded. But I was no longer in charge. My tormentor was.
He applied his tongue.
I arched backward, practically knocking his teeth out.
“Ahhh,” I screamed out, splitting the silence of the night into crystal shards. At the end of the longest tightrope I’d ever walked, I fell into an abyss. It took me several minutes before I could open my eyes again, my lips parted in sheer bliss. Arnaud’s eyes on mine looked intrigued. Perhaps shocked.
It was the moment to show sheer bravado. My mouth curled into a savage smile, teeth showing. I could feel the sheen of sweat on my face. It would not do to worry about embarrassment now. He might think I was an absolute maniac, but he would be impressed. Women could be falcons, too. If he hadn’t known before, he did now.
“Are you okay?” he finally asked.
I nodded.
“You looked like the girl in The Exorcist when you were coming.”
“The one whose head turns all the way around?”
“Right.”
“Thanks.” A matched response would come in handy. “You looked like a monster getting blown away by the Terminator,” I countered.
“Sans aucune doute. Without a doubt,” he agreed unashamedly.
“The best things in life aren’t always pretty,” I pointed out.
“The best things in life are the smelliest,” he countered.
“Spoken like
a true Frenchman,” I teased.
“Do you agree?”
Good question. Back in the States I would have said, “Yuck, no.” But this was France. I wasn’t two-faced or a hypocrite. I knew what I liked, and I knew I didn’t like strong smells on a man or from a cheese in the States, but I did like them here. I was discovering what suited me in one place wasn’t necessarily the same as what suited me in another.
“There are strong smells that I don’t like. Then there are others that excite me,” I whispered, putting my fingers in his chest hair and twisting.
“Ow,” he protested. He reached for my head, grasping it then pulled my hair back hard.
“Ouch,” I echoed.
“You like that,” he observed.
“So do you,” I replied.
Over the next twenty minutes, he showed me how much he did.
There was something subversive about Arnaud de Saint Cyr that appealed to my own carefully concealed subversiveness. He elicited a high octane sex drive within me I hadn’t known I possessed. Together we formed a turbo-charged team. It was almost too good to be true.
The drive back to Paris, the following day, was peaceful. I chose Erik Satie’s Gymnopedie to play as Arnaud drove – an elegant, minimalist accompaniment that perfectly contrasted with the explosiveness of the night before as well as that morning. Arnaud was relatively quiet, showing a calm, thoughtful side that may have been the result of spending time in the countryside, but more likely caused by the four orgasms he’d experienced over the past twelve hours. Either way, it was pleasant. Wrapped up in blissful thoughts, I was happy to take a break from our usual verbal badinage.
At half past eight in the evening, we pulled up in front of Henri and Marceline’s flat. Arnaud turned to me, his face remote, pensive.
“Why so serious, mon cher?” I asked, the endearment slipping out naturally. Did I have a right to use it? Yes, my heart sang.
He sighed. “I have to go to work tomorrow.”
“But, that’s normal isn’t it?” What was the problem? Most people had to go to work Monday morning. Not everyone was a musician like me. Thank God, not my boyfriend, if that was what I could call the man now clasping my hand in his.