Hungry Woman in Paris (13 page)

“Have you ever had sex in an alley?” Henry asked me.

“Yeah,” I lied. Technically, I didn’t lie; I just didn’t want to explain how I’d tried. At first the idea is pretty erotic,
but doing it is another thing. When I realized that my butt could freeze in the cold, it completely spoiled the mood. Even
on a hot summer night, the wind blowing up my butt is not erotic.

Henry looked into a bar and in seconds he knew he didn’t like it, so we didn’t bother walking in. Down the block an attractive
mixed-race couple entered a different bar, and we decided to follow them in. A man dressed in black looking like Zorro, minus
the mask, stopped us at the door and told us we had to have membership. We were about to walk away when he stared at me and
called me
“jolie”
and said something in French to Henry, as if complimenting him on his choice of woman. Henry translated and told me it was
a libertine club—a swingers’ club. The man in black invited us in. I looked at Henry, who was waiting for me to say yes. All
eyes were on me and my heart skipped a beat. Could I really do this? Yeah, I could talk dirty and tough, but could I really
go through with this?

“Do you want to go in?” I stared back at Henry, hoping he would say no.

He cleverly threw it back at me: “Do
you
want to go in?”

I paused to consider what this decision meant, and I thought about all the times I had said no to my sexuality because I wanted
to meet a deadline and how each time I did that I’d deadened my senses. I’m in Paris to revive, I realized.

“Yes. Let’s go in,” I told Henry. Henry looked to Zorro and he opened the door and said
“Bienvenu.”

We went into the dark club with barely a sign on the front.

The smell of cigarettes welcomed us. The night was still early and there were only a few faces hiding in the dark.

“What do you want to drink?” Henry asked.

“Do you think they make margaritas here?”

“I can ask. What else would you like if they don’t make them?”

“Anything… fruity,” I responded.

Henry left for only a few minutes, but I was anxious for him to get back. He stopped to talk to Zorro and they conversed privately
in French.

“What were you asking him?” I asked Henry, trying to stay close to him to avoid making eye contact with anyone.

“He explained a few rules. Basically, women have carte blanche and the men just have to sit around like chumps waiting to
be picked. It’s up to you to initiate things, dear.” Henry handed me a margarita. I took a sip; the tequila was pretty strong.

“I got you a double shot just to inspire you to get started,” Henry explained.

“I just want to watch. Can’t we just watch?” I asked, intimidated by the whole thing.

“Don’t tell me you have never done this before?” he asked in disbelief.

“This is my first time in a place like this,” I confessed and took another sip.

“You’re a virgin again!” Henry got excited. “Maybe you need me to coach you a bit so we can get something juicy started,”
he suggested.

“I don’t know if I can do this, Henry. Maybe we should go.” I started chickening out.

“Canela, you are the hottest thing at this club. We’re all counting on you to get the party started. ”

“I didn’t agree to be the party hostess. I just want to watch,” I interjected.

“So you’re going to play journalist and let life pass you by like it already has.”

“What do you mean pass me by?”

“Canela, if not now, when? This is Paris—it doesn’t get better than this, darling.”

Henry was right. I had been living my life as though someday I was going to live it. “Okay… You’re right… I just
don’t know if I can do this…” I sheepishly apologized. “I can’t do this; I didn’t bring any condoms.” I came up with
an excuse and headed for the door. Henry stopped me.

“No worries, I have plenty,” he reassured me. He saw the worried look on my face and put his arm around me and said, “Sweetie,
look around… If there is no one here that catches your attention, then we’ll go to my apartment and do the nasty. But
look around first,” he advised.

I didn’t dare look at first. I tried burying myself in Henry’s eyes so he would notice that I wanted only him. When I saw
his wandering eyes surveying the salon I didn’t continue fooling myself into thinking Henry cared about me. This was just
sex, I told myself. After I said that I felt liberated. This
was
just sex. How many times had I wanted to have sex but didn’t have the ovaries to just go for it? Yeah, I wanted to experience
sex with a stranger, and the tequila in my veins was finally letting me admit it to myself. So many years of being a good
girl and a good little reporter, but now I wanted to be a bad little girl. Maybe Henry would spank me at the end of the night.

I tried downing the rest of my margarita without getting brain freeze. Halfway into my drink a man’s face from across the
room caught my attention. I wondered if he was part of the couple who’d watched Henry fondling me at the erotic museum. Had
they followed us into this club?

“Don’t they look like that couple we saw earlier?” I asked Henry, but he was too busy checking out the few women in attendance.

“Hey, the woman he’s with has nice boobies,” he said. “Do you like him? You want to go talk to him? Maybe she’ll reciprocate
and come… talk to me.”

I took a final swig and finished my margarita. This is what it must feel like to be a man who has to initiate things and try
out his luck; except the odds of getting laid are pretty good here.

I walked across the room and said,
“Bonjour.”
I don’t think language is ever a barrier when you are trying to get sex from a man. Both the African-French man and the Frenchwoman
said
“Bonjour”
a little too anxiously, and I got all intimidated again. I just wanted to get his attention, so I walked close to him and
said boldly in my best French,
“Voulez-vouz danser avec moi?”
Would you like to dance with me? I know you thought I was going to say,
“Voulez-vous coucher avec moi ce soir?”
—Would you like to sleep with me tonight—but even I am not so bold. I extended my hand to him to invite him to the dance floor.
He gave his lover a flirtatious look before taking my hand. He quickly grabbed my waist and we slow-danced on the dance floor.
I couldn’t believe I was initiating sex with a total stranger; then again, in some way this was a man I’d known and lusted
after for many years.

Yes, a black man. Call it jungle fever or a
Mandingo
fantasy, but I remembered that after I’d accepted Armando’s proposal for marriage I’d thought that my one regret I would
take to the altar would be never having had sex with a black man. I knew I was going to get punished for stereotyping—he probably
has a small penis, I thought—but this was my politically incorrect sexual fantasy and I loved it. He talked to me in French
and I tried not to say anything because I didn’t want to ruin the fantasy with my bad conjugations. He just thought I was
being mysterious. He moved his chin to indicate his belt. I got the hint and slipped his belt from his pants. I put the belt
around him and pulled him close to me. I lifted my blouse and exposed my breasts to him. He buried his face in them and I
leaned back holding on to his belt. He licked my nipples and we slowly made it down to the floor.

Now we had an audience. We undressed each other and my nipples got even harder when I saw Henry dancing with the man’s lover
close to us. He looked at me and then licked the woman’s nipples. I stared at Henry until he looked over to me and I buried
my face in my dance partner’s humongous penis. Henry danced her to the floor and now we were all putting on a show. My partner
plunged his tongue into my mouth and we slobbered each other with our wet tongues. His tongue made its way back to my erect
nipples, then down to my pubic hair. He brushed his mouth on my pubic hair and stuck his tongue in my vagina. He wiggled his
tongue inside me and then outlined my vagina with his vibrating tongue. Time stood still and I saw myself running in a field
of daisies, like in those douche commercials I hate. This was the most pleasure I had ever felt. I was about to come and I
opened my eyes. Henry was licking one nipple and the black man was licking my other nipple, like two babies breast-feeding.
I looked down to my vagina and there she was, licking me like a man on a deserted island who had just found a tiny spring
and was having water for the first time. It made her so happy to do it that I was about to say something, but the guilt of
ruining their fun made me keep quiet.

Then I couldn’t just lie back and take it. It was too much. I pulled away as she licked her lips and I shook my head. I threw
my clothes on and walked out of the club. I could hear Henry staying behind to apologize for my bad manners. I walked to the
metro, straightening out my clothes, and I bumped into a woman wearing too much makeup who was making a living on the streets.
She gave me a dirty look, but I kept walking. I couldn’t believe how distressed I was. What bothered me so much? It wasn’t
that a woman was giving me sexual pleasure… What bothered me was that there were so many people giving me pleasure. I
couldn’t receive it. I felt I didn’t deserve it. Oh, my God, my low self-esteem even shows up at a time like this!

Y
ou either get fish or you get meat. There is always one easy one and one difficult one for the practical exam.” Janeira claimed
that’s what her friend who had already graduated with her
Grand Diplôme
in cuisine had told her.

Françoise passed out the written exams and said that although the written exam was worth only ten percent of our grade, it
was very important that we do our best. We were told to sit apart from one another so we wouldn’t be tempted to copy.

“I heard just a year ago there were no written tests. This is bogus giving us a written test,” said Rick to anyone who would
listen.

I quickly started my test and was immediately stumped when it came to describing the steps to make a soufflé. Nor could I
explain all the precise steps to making the stocks. I felt like an idiot—how could I not know all this stuff? I did know that
the secret to keeping green vegetables green when you boil them is to take them out and place them in ice water for a few
minutes to hold the chlorophyll. At least that was something. I was one of the first students to turn in my test. Everyone
assumed I’d aced it since I’d finished it so quickly.

“No, I just knew I didn’t know most of the answers so I quickly guessed rather than torture myself trying to figure them out,”
I confessed to Rick and Bassie.

Later that day, in practical, Chef Chocon chastised me for running into him. He got in my face and said that I must never
do that again. He warned me that it was dangerous. His icy blue eyes pierced my wide pupils as he said in French, “If I were
to be holding a pot of hot water and you were to run into me we would both have been scalded.” I apologized and slowly walked
away from him, back to my station, where my green beans were already too dark to call “green.”

The day of the final, the Basic students waited in the courtyard. We sharpened our knives and studied the ten recipes we’d
been told to have committed to memory. The chef would choose two recipes from the list and we would be assigned to make them
without help from anyone. We would also have to clean two salmon and filet them to demonstrate our technique. Chef Tulipe
called us up to the second floor, to the smallest practical room. We waited in the stairway for the assistants to finish distributing
the ingredients. When the chef left the room I looked in and Becky, who was the assistant, whispered to me the two recipes
we were getting.

I rushed over to my classmates and told them the recipes were
blanquette de veau
and
filets de daurade
, veal stew and fish fillets. I was so anxious with too much adrenaline that I blanked out and could not remember
blanquette de veau
and Bassie quickly went through the steps with me. I prayed to get the fish; that was the “easy” dish.

Chef Tulipe entered the hallway and explained that our recipe would be left to chance. He held up two poker chips; the red
chip represented the fish and the blue chip represented the veal. He then called us into the practical room one by one and
we each stuck our hand into a pot to select a chip. Chef Tulipe mispronounced my name, but I rushed in before he had a chance
to correct himself. I closed my eyes, stuck my hand in, and picked out the blue chip. I instantly yelled and lowered my head,
knowing I was doomed. Chef Tulipe thought I was crazy and pointed me to my station, where a sheet of paper with only the ingredients
and quantities waited for me.

I put down my knives and immediately filled my pot with water and put it on to boil. Then, grabbing my fish scaler, I got
my salmon and cleaned them up. I gutted the fish and tried not to look at their eyes as I did it. I was trying to be perfect,
but then I remembered that the veal would take an hour to cook, so I quickly removed the filets and stuck them in the cooler.
I stared at my ingredient list.