Naughty Paris

Paris TodayAn Art Studio in the Marais District The Model"You want me to take off my T-shirt?" "Yes, mademoiselle." "Andmy yoga pants? He nods. "Yes, mademoiselle." "Hold on a Paris minute," I protest, glancing over at the old artist with a Gauloise cigarette hanging out of his mouth like a limp penis. He takes a drag without taking his eyes off my wet T-shirt sticking to me like a Post-it. "I ducked in here to get out of the rain,notsign up for strip aerobics." Husky voice, low in the back of my throat.Jeez, is that me?Got to be nerves. I had the same catch in my throat when I swallowed the mint in my mouth after David, my ex-fiancÉ, insisted I give lousy BJs and he couldn't go through with our wedding because he had issues with us. The jerk. As if flunking a postgraduate course in blow jobs is a top-ten reason to send me into therapy and sic my mother on me for the prepaid, nonrefundable honeymoon to Paris. But here I am, wandering around the Right Bank in the rain like Jean Valjean in squishy Nikes. Jilted and miserable. Andwondering how I let silver-tongued Davida guy who knows how to use that tongue to trigger my starter buttontalk me into charging everything onmycredit card. I've worked my ass off climbing the corporate ladder since college, putting my dream of opening my own art gallery on hold. Now I'm not only groomless but I had to dip into my 401-k account to pay for twelve bridesmaids" dresses with matching dyed Jimmy-what's-his-name stilettos, not to mention more than two hundred pounds of prime rib. Rare. After I cut up my maxed-out credit card, I guzzled down the last bottle of champagne then tossed my white satin Vera Wang knock-off into the closest trashcan. The next morning I took off for the birthplace of Godiva chocolates to sweeten the bad taste in my mouth. And I don't mean spending time on my knees sucking on a guy wearing a raspberry-flava condom. I mean something dramatic and wonderful, heartstopping and sizzling with pent-up energy. I want to feelalive,desired. Who am I kidding? I want to be a drop-dead-gorgeous sex goddess. Youth and a fab bod aren't everything, you know. Ha! David thinks so. That's why I'm not all snuggly and warm with him between the sheets in my Paris hotel instead of sneaking through the city like a rat in an underground sewer. You're not young anymore, kiddo, and you are, oh,sonot thin. That's why you lost David to that Aphrodite, an insipid skinny-as-a-toothpick, not-old-enough-to-drink-yet blonde. Your assistant, yet. How could you be so dumb? Dumb? I was stupid, insane, a complete idiot for letting that bitch take David away from me. I got punked. Zap!As if agreeing with me, lightning rips through the long multipaned window, hitting me in the eye like a redlight camera, illuminating the faint light in the studio and diluting the smoky atmos. I blink, then blink again. A B horror film mentality creeps me out, making me shiver. It can't get any worse. Storm clouds hide the afternoon sun. A rush of rain falls outside, banging against the windowpanes shimmering with a wet sheen. Thunder cracks like a boombox bursting with outta control volume. The old building shakes. I cringe. Do Ireallywant to go back outside into that stormy mess? That's why I don't protest when the old artist hustles me toward the platform in the back of the art studio. "Hurry,mademoiselle, we're losing the light." A pungent whiff of burnt tobacco shoots up my nose.Who is this putz?For sure, he's no panting Adonis who can seduce a woman to take off her clothes with a smile. He's short, balding, sporting a little paunch and he smokes too much. "Watch those hands, monsieur.Iknow karate." I'm bluffing, but it works with the geek corporate types I deal with every dBacarr, Jina is the author of 'Naughty Paris ', published 2007 under ISBN 9780373605170 and ISBN 037360517X.