Thursday, 7 May 2009

Seven Letters: Part Two

“I really think that it would be a disaster if we stop this passion between us. I am not a man who can live without passion. It’s the nerve of my life, the best we can do. And for this passion I have to do the best that I can to save it.”

~ excerpt from letter one

Hey, why stop our Parisian adventure, right? After all, it was only two in the morning on a weekday night. We didn’t go home after having our drinks on the Champs-Elysées. Oh no, Patrick had a membership at some private club in Paris.

From what I can remember, the car ride was both scintillating…and terrifying. We raced through the streets of Paris, the historical stone façades and pedestrians, a blur. Wherever it was we were going, I remember wanting to make it there alive. Good lord, the way Parisians drove – very similar to crazed taxi drivers in New York – frightened me to death. Seated in the back seat, one hand covered my eyes, the other rested on Jean-Luc’s thigh. The sexual energy was palpable, but besides stroking the top of my hand with his thumb, he hadn’t made his move…yet.

We finally made it to our destination: La Bas.

For 1989, the experience at La Bas went far beyond its time. Bottle service. But it was unlike any other bottle service I’d ever encountered. If you didn’t finish whatever you ordered, a brass nameplate (with the member’s name) was hung around the neck, and then stored for the next time you came back. Très cool. Vodka – that was the drink of choice. With accoutrements. Whatever we wanted. Soda, cranberry, orange, tomato juice, you name it, everything was ours for the taking.

Who were these guys?

Honestly, my heart soared. My head spun. I don’t even remember if other people were in the club. That’s how enraptured I was. Was this really happening? To me? It all felt very dreamlike. It’s not everyday a girl is swept off her feet. So it was a probably a good thing we were sitting down.

Needless to say, Jean-Luc and I were all over each other. White on rice. Crazy glued at the lips. There may have been some dancing involved, but I don’t remember. Or maybe it all started when we were dancing. I don’t know who kissed who first, but once it started, it didn’t stop and I don’t think my hand ever left his. This wasn’t your typical college hook-up, mash, or make out session. It was an intense, complete and utter out of the body experience. (I can’t speak for them, but I think Tracey and Patrick were having a good time themselves).

Hey, I was busy.

Busy. Busy. Busy.

The quintessential gentlemen, Jean-Luc and Patrick escorted Tracey and I back to our youth hostel at seven in the morning, but not before they made plans to skip work so they could show us around Paris a little later that day...



  1. Okay, I am so hooked it's not even funny.

    Hot French guy who can WRITE. *drool*

  2. Sara, a word to the wise. If you ever meet a hot French guy that can write, don't let him slip away.

  3. Sacre bleu!
    Man, I haven't lived. I've never dated a hot french guy. I've never dated a guy not from the U.S. I don't think I've ever dated a guy not from Illinois!

  4. Ok, this is killing me. I am totally and completely hooked. HURRY UP AND POST MORE. NOW. Seriously.