Originally published in Philosophy, Pussycats, & Porn

I got to see Jessa, an old friend from Philadelphia who I hadn’t spoken with since 2009. We’d lost touch during one of my stints living in LA. She’d moved to Europe shortly after. We exchanged a flurry of emails before I arrived, and arranged to meet at a cafe. Squeals, hugs, and catching up all ensued. She’s a beautiful tattooist now, by which I mean she is still beautiful and also does beautiful work.

Mature women peeked out of the doorways in the neighborhood I stayed in, wearing lace lingerie with contrasting embroidery, stockings, and covered by dark fur coats. They wore large brimmed hats and red, red lips. I was told that they were street-based sex workers. Many had a spare, genuine smile for me.

On what was supposed to be my last morning, a handsome man brought me pastries and espresso in bed. I’d wanted to run my fingers through his hair for (hyperbolic) ages, and had discussed with my old friend the difficulty I was having discerning whether he was flirting or just French.

He was flirting.

He was also fantastic to kiss with, starting with soft pressing of lips to lips, taking time to find my rhythm and meet me halfway. When he moved his mouth to my neck and his fingers to my cunt I came and came and came, or maybe I just didn’t stop coming. Either way it was wonderful. Then, with his fingers inside me and his mouth between my legs, I had the most cliched small death of an orgasm I’ve ever experienced.

When I pulled his pants down I found unwrinkled testicles and a gorgeously proportioned cock. My tongue left a trail of saliva on his shaft, which I wrapped my hand around and stroked until his semen hit the back of my throat.

Paris is delicious.

A woman on the metro spoke against racism to an audience held captive between stops. My minuscule grasp of the language turned her words into a song of justified, controlled anger.

My flight was cancelled because of the snowstorm. I was on forced vacation then, with a dead laptop battery, no charger, and spotty Internet access on my phone. But who among the gluten-tolerant can really consider themselves stuck in France?

I woke up menstruating and hurried through the streets looking for a pharmacy.

Jessa tattooed me; “Negative Impact on Public Health,” quoted from the 9th circuit’s decision to uphold Measure B. The catalyst for both my politics and my writing, under my skin.

I think that’s important to remember—how I felt reading that ruling, that to parts of the world I and all sex workers will always be reduced to inhuman vectors of disease and societal ill.

The tattoo pinched a bit, only really registering as painful towards the center of my chest. The sun-burnt feeling in the hours afterwards hurt more. Then I gave her a little pixel-cat on her lower leg.

On what would turn out to actually be my last morning, I walked through Pigalle. There’s a solitude I love about red-light districts before they open for business. Different from what I love about them at night.

An impromptu visit to the Dorcel office was interrupted by a call saying I needed to get to the airport for a flight that had suddenly become available.

Back at the apartment, I threw my belongings into my bag. The handsome man came back to say goodbye while I waited for the taxi. As soon as he was across the threshold of the apartment his arms were around me and his tongue was in my mouth. I kicked the door shut without breaking the kiss.

There’s that cinematic cliche again.

We threw ourselves onto the bed. With one hand on each of my ass-cheeks he ground my pelvis into his until I came, screaming into his ear. I bemoaned the blood. No time to deal with clean-up meant there was no time to fuck.

I made it through border control and security just in time to eat lunch before boarding.

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