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Early, too early. I was awakened around six by a truck delivering god… - My journal in exile [entries|archive|friends|userinfo]
John Bell

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[Apr. 7th, 1992|08:47 am]
John Bell
Early, too early. I was awakened around six by a truck delivering god knows what to the building next door to the hotel. I feel like shit because I'm hungover. I called Vivianne yesterday. She'd given me her card on the plane so I called her at work.

She was busy at first, so I was on hold for a few minutes. Her office has bad French pop music as their hold music, and if she weren't so cute, I would've hung up. Finally, as one bad song ended and a worse one started, she picked up. "Bonjour, John."

"Hey," I said, being the suave American that I am. Nothing an American says at the start of a conversation has the grace of "bonjour."

"How's it going?" she asked, reverting to an Americanism I'm sure she picked up during her visit to the US.

For a moment, I forgot about the girlfriend bit. "Oh, well, you know. I'm trying to enjoy myself here."

"You've sightseen, non? Has it been okay with your girlfriend?" Then, I remembered.

"Not really. She took it hard," I said.

"Oh, that's too bad."

"You know," I said, cutting to the chase. "We should get together."

"Oh," she said. "Sure, oui. When?"

"How about tonight?" I heard her nod and told me to meet her outside her office building at 5 o'clock. We hung up, and I immediately sat down on a bench and looked up where her office was on a map. It wasn't far from the river, on Avenue George V.

I had no problems getting there, and watched the pigeons audition for the rush hour crowd's crumbs before she came out. It was great to see her again. She was wearing a brown business suit, matching her hair, and her skirt ended well above the knee. Her blouse was the color of cream, and her hair was let loose from what apparently was a tight bun she wore from 9-to-5.

We walked up George V to the George V hotel, which caused me to ask her why there was a hotel in Paris named after an English king. She laughed, and said she couldn't remember her French history classes from school.

In the hotel, which was a lot nicer than the shithole I'm staying in, we went into the bar and had a drink. We shared a bottle of red wine, and made small talk.

When that was done, we were both very flirtatious and started touching each other. She kept touching the back of my hand with her fingertips, which, in tandem with the wine, felt incredible. I returned the favor by stroking the fine silk of her blouse's sleeve. Needless to say, she didn't hesitate to invite me home with her.

I took her hand in mine as we exited the hotel's lobby and we walked back toward the river to the Alma-Marceau Métro station, where we took a train across town to her apartment.

It was still early when we got there. Ridiculously early, actually, about 8. She leaned against me in the elevator ride up to her apartment, and fitted nicely against my body. Inside, we opened another bottle of wine and sat on the sofa. The weather has been very warm for April here, apparently, so she'd set the air conditioning on high when she left for work in the morning. As a result, the apartment was chilly.

Her apartment is small, but modern and nice. Air conditioning is a premium in Paris, she tells me, and it chilled the apartment quickly. Her furniture is all new and looks Scandinavian. We slid onto the sofa together, with her leaning against me again, like we had done in the elevator. My right hand rested on her stomach as my left held the never-empty wineglass.

Her light brown hair smelled wonderful and I felt at peace. Almost too at peace, as I nearly confessed everything to her. About Alicia, about my fake ex-girlfriend, about running away, about killing my father and Susie. Before I could, though, she slipped my hand up onto her chest, and I stroked her breast lightly.

She rubbed in hard against me and then twisted her head back so we could finally kiss. She tasted like the wine and it was the best kiss I'd ever had. She continued twisting around until she was on top of me and we undressed slowly, until we fucked, right then and there on the sofa.

It was slow and urgent at the same time, and with her on top of me, I could just lay back and let everything, including my guilt, slip away from me. She took charge and I didn't mind. I submitted to the moment and, by the time I came, I'd forgotten all my problems. We laid there together for a bit, freezing with the cold air blowing down on our now-sweaty bodies. Finally, she got up and took a shower while I dozed off. After her shower, she woke me up and brought me into her tiny, dark bedroom and laid me down on the bed while she lit some candles.

There, we fucked again, more urgent and forceful, with me on top. This time, we explored more of each other's bodies, and while her breasts are not as big nor as fine as Jennifer's, they offer their own charms. Her body is lean, like a swimmer's, and her fine muscles tightened as I pounded into her until I came, again.

Afterwords, instead of feeling drowsy, I felt antsy and left. She wanted me to spend the night with her, but I couldn't. I didn't belong. I'd remembered what brought me to her and shuddered. Vivianne saw that, and asked if I was okay. I said it was just the cold air.

She laid there in bed, silently and innocently, as I dressed, unable to look upon her pretty face in the candlelight, lest I say something I would regret.

I told her I would call her again and slipped out into the night. It was still warm and I found myself back at the Metro. I took an empty train back to the city, getting off near George V. I walked around for a while before crashing back at my hotel for good at about 2am.

So, here I am on four hours of sleep. It's going to be a long day.
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