Curio (2 page)

“I’ve kissed men, but that’s really all.”

Let me pause here and explain how it felt to admit that. I’m sure plenty of girls lie about how many guys they’ve messed around with when they’re younger, not wanting to seem too easy. Well, there’s another stigma that comes later, as you edge closer to true adulthood, especially if you run with a liberal, artsy crowd. I always pray my friends assume I’m a real freak behind closed doors, just stingy with the details. I think you can get away with being a virgin until you’re, say, twenty-three or so, and still pass it off as choosiness or cautiousness or plain old willfulness. But twenty-nine? That’s when people start to wonder what’s
wrong
with you. Including yourself.

Didier is the first person I’ve actually admitted the extent of my inexperience to, ever. I even lead my gynecologist on. When she asks, “Are you sexually active?” I always reply, “Not at the moment.” If the truth is embarrassingly apparent, she’s kind enough not to tell me so.

And it was in
that
moment in Didier’s living room that I realized, maybe not tonight, but some day not too far off, I could leave this place with that weight lifted from me. I could walk down his street and be like everyone else. I could have a
lover
. This is Paris, after all. Having a lover is like having a pancreas. I was suddenly very ready to quit being a medical anomaly.

All Didier said to my pronouncement was, “That is very interesting.” He paused and squinted in such a way that it seemed he were taking a drag off a psychic cigarette. I worried he was about to tell me he had a policy against deflowering his clients, but instead he went on. “It’s very flattering that you’ve come to me.”

“Oh. Good.”

“Yes. I would be very honored to corrupt you in whatever ways you like.”

I laughed at that, relaxing further. The wine instantly tasted extraordinary, and it dawned that I was actually turned-on. I’d worried that wouldn’t happen and I’d officially get stamped DEFECTIVE and sent back to the factory.

I cleared my throat. “I have no idea what ways I’m looking to be corrupted. I’m usually pretty nervous around men.”

“That’s very normal, for the first date.”

Ooh,
date
. I liked that. I’d happily pretend I’d scored a date with this perfect man.

“There’s no rush, by the way,” he said. “I rarely get to bed before five a.m., so if you want to just sit here and drink and talk all night, you’re not wasting my time or keeping me up in the least.”

“Okay, great.” And necessary. I’m a slow thaw.

“Here.” Didier stood and crossed the room to switch on a radio. I love listening to French talk radio. Even after two years, I struggle to follow the pace of the language but I adore the sound of it. He kept the volume low, and I felt he’d read my mind, meeting some need I hadn’t even realized I had. He filled the silence without making it feel like a pointed seduction or an awkward distraction, and my brain quieted.

The etiquette is odd, when you visit a prostitute. On the one hand, Didier was mine to do with what I wanted. That was my right. But even if I wanted to treat him like a piece of meat, I suspected I wasn’t capable of it. He might be a slice of cake, reserved specially for me, but it felt very strange to actually consider enjoying him. Which of us was I worried about demeaning?

He fetched the wine bottle from the kitchen and set it on the table before us, taking his seat. “So tell me. You’re an attractive woman. You seem successful and clever.”

“Thanks.”

“May I ask what it is about men that’s made you cautious? Do you not like being touched, or you simply haven’t met the right one? Is it a religious decision?”

“No, definitely not religious. And I don’t think I mind being touched, really… It’s hard to explain.” I folded my legs beneath my butt and addressed his hands. “I guess I don’t want to settle for a man who isn’t really, truly attractive to me. But I’m afraid to try to date those guys, because I’m afraid I’ll find out I’m not enough for them. I’m probably just afraid of rejection. It’s always been easier and less scary to just not take the chance.”

“You won’t be rejected here.”

I nodded. “That’s the appeal. Well, and you.” I looked up to meet his eyes. “I’m sure you’ve heard a million times that you’re handsome. You, um… I think you may be the most attractive man I’ve ever seen.”

His smile was warm and humble, and it gathered the skin beneath his eyes into adorable little rolls. “That’s very kind. I hope it pleases you that I’m yours to enjoy.”

“It does. It scares me, too.”

“Of course.”

I drained my glass and Didier refilled it. His mix of matter-of-factness and perfect calm was exceedingly disarming. I’d feared he’d be cocky or sleazy or aggressively flirtatious…I mean, countless women pay to sleep with him. How could that not give a man a gigantic ego? I’d also feared he’d be a sweet-talking, God’s-gift Don Juan and I’d feel as though I were being coerced. But I didn’t. If this was a seduction, it was very covert and exactly my speed.

We chatted some more about the city and when the sky grew dark, Didier lit at least a dozen candles, a mound of them all melted together on an old metal card table behind the couch. Beeswax—that was the pleasant, musty smell I’d noted.

Didier by candlelight is obscenely stunning. At long last, my mind was wandering. I studied the tendons in his neck in the warm glow and recalled the images of his bare chest that I’d seen. He must be used to such scrutiny, as he merely sipped his drink and watched me watching him.

I feel so predictable saying it, but add wine and candles and a Parisian skyline at dusk and this prude is suddenly a hussy.

“I don’t suppose you could, um…” My voice dropped to a mumble. “Take your sweater off?”

Didier nodded and stood, stripping away his top and undershirt in one motion.

As he sat, I gave myself permission to be curious, not bashful. I decided to treat him as what he was to me—living art. His bare skin looked warm in the flickering light, and I understood with true clarity what artists mean by “muse”. He’s magic. A man who poses merely by sitting, a hundred thousand angles waiting to be discovered. I wished I were more artistic so I could capture him, every last shadow and contour.

“You’re beautiful,” I finally said.

“Thank you.”

“It’s okay if I only want to look at you tonight?”

“Of course. I’m yours for whatever you wish to do. Or not do.”

When you’re as inexperienced as I am, there’s a ton to learn from a man before you even touch or kiss him. I considered what I wanted. To see him naked, but not too soon. To watch him bathe. To watch him masturbate, above just about everything else. That’s always turned me on, and I’m sure it’s because I nearly never fantasize about actually being with a man. Even in my own imagination, I fear rejection. My mental porn is almost exclusively comprised of one-man shows, with an occasional faceless woman stepping in as choreography demands.

“Could you take your pants off?” I asked him.

“Of course.”

Before I knew it, he’d stripped to his underwear. And it’s the sexiest underwear I’ve ever seen on a man. Nothing fancy, just briefs, but they must be made of silk or some other fine, explicit fabric, the way they cling. His thighs looked strong, his shorts full. He was an Armani campaign, lounging on his old couch in this moody, elegant apartment, candles flickering. Note to self—find out if clients are allowed to take photographs.

“Is it weird,” I asked, “having people stare at you?”

“No, not really. I modeled for so long, I’m used to it now.”

“And you don’t model anymore?”

He shook his head. “Very rarely. My priorities have shifted.”

“Oh. Well, I guess it’s just weird for me, then, doing the staring.”

“You’re here with permission to do far more than stare,” he reminded me with a smile. “Believe me, I’m not bothered.”

“Would you feel weird if I asked to watch you, later? You know, like watch you…” I couldn’t find the right verb, all of them sounding too clinical or too juvenile.

“Touch myself?”

Oh, that’ll do.

I nodded.

“No, that would not bother me at all.”

I sipped my wine and considered something. Male prostitutes can’t fake it the way female ones can. For a second I was filled with fear that the time would come for Didier to take me and he wouldn’t be up for it, as it were.

“Something is worrying you,” he said.

I smiled dopily, owning my nerves. “Sort of. I was just thinking about how… About what happens when you’re not attracted to your clients.”

“Whether or not I can perform?”

I nodded again.

“Well, I have a few unwritten policies. The first is that no one in this flat does anything they aren’t comfortable with. If I don’t think a woman is absolutely, perfectly ready for me to do what she’s asked of me, I won’t do it.”

“And what about if
you
aren’t into it?”

Another smile, but this time he lowered his gaze to the glass in his hands. “If I’ve managed to make a woman really, truly ready to have me, I’m into it. It’s very seductive to me, a woman who can make demands of my body.”

“Oh. That’s a good answer.”

He met my eyes again. “The truth always is.”

“Have you always known… When did you first realize you’re, you know. Good-looking?”

He made a thoughtful face, just another intriguing flavor of handsome seasoning his features. “I suppose when I was about fourteen, I started to realize, or people started to tell me.”

“Did you always want to model?”

“No, it was very accidental. Photographers kept asking, and I kept being broke. It seemed a natural solution.”

“What about…” I gave a little nod to mean this room, the two of us and what brought me here.

“That was accidental as well. It never struck me as such a great divide, the step between modeling and selling my physical body. And I never had a drug problem or anything so desperate, if you were curious.”

“That hadn’t actually crossed my mind.”

“But I’ve never been modest, and I’ve never felt that sex is something so precious it needs to be reserved for some mysterious ‘one’. That’s a very American way of thinking, isn’t it? This modern obsession with monogamy. Exclusivity.”

“Probably. Did you want to be something else when you were younger?”

He smiled. “I certainly never went around saying, ‘when I’m grown, I want to be a whore’.”

I blushed, unsure if he was offended by my question.

“I wanted to make women happy. That was all I knew.”

“That’s an interesting thing for a boy to realize.”

“You would have had to have my mother to understand. She was a very cold woman. To me, at least. I’m sure a psychiatrist would have plenty to say about that. But I suspect that’s some part of why I’m here, doing what it is I do.”

“Do you enjoy it?”

Didier nodded. “Very much.”

“A friend of mine said your father’s Spanish.”

He shook his head. “Portuguese.”

“Oh, sorry. Does he live in France now?”

“No, he never lived here. I used to visit him in the summers, when I was a child, but not for years and years now. My parents never married. Though I don’t think my mother ever stopped loving him. I think he’s the only man, maybe the only person, she ever loved, aside from her own mother. But I do not think he ever loved her back.”

It was interesting to me, how freely Didier spoke of such things. Then again, surely no part of him is off-limits, not his anatomy or his past, his views on sex and love. I was reminded then how differently Europeans—and in particular the French—view love compared to Americans. When I first moved here I found it bleak, borderline nihilistic, but I can understand now how our version must seem to them—delusional and sloppy and grasping. As I sat staring at Didier’s near-naked body, I ached to learn how to be blasé about the whole affair, how to be
French
about it. I ached to be a woman who, when viciously dumped or informed her boyfriend was cheating, could merely curse and spit at the ground and shake her delicate fist, then move on.

Though if I were really so unaffected, I’d surely have gotten laid long ago. So no, I’m no more fluent in France’s romantic pragmatism than I am its language. Though perhaps in time, with practice.

“I’d like to watch you,” I said quietly.

Didier offered me a subtle, genuine smile. “I would like for you to watch. Where? Right here?”

“Where do you usually…”

“On my bed.”

His bed.
Shiver. “Is that okay?”

“That’s perfectly okay. Come.” He stood and lifted the table from behind the couch, carrying it, lit candles and all, to the far end of the flat. I followed, fear and curiosity tightening my belly, eyes torn between his ass and shoulders and the black threshold of his room.

His bedroom is dark, even more so than the rest of the apartment, its lone window obscured by a curtain. He set the candles by the wall so they illuminated the head of his bed. It’s a fascinating piece of furniture, and I bet it’s been in this flat for decades, too cumbersome to bother removing. Dark wood, with a canopy—curling, carved posts draped with the same red chiffony fabric as the curtain. Sensual without being feminine, antique without stodginess. His bedspread is black and I hope one day to be able to report on the color of his sheets. Beside the bed is a small side table displaying a half-dozen bottles with glass stoppers, massage oil or lube or both, I could only assume.

He waited patiently while I took in the room, as I imagined him fucking on that bed to the noise and flash of a thunderstorm, rain hammering the window. Note—I did not say I imagined him fucking
me
on that bed. I really need to get better at participating in my own fantasies.

“It’s a lovely room,” I told him.

“Thank you.”

“It’s very…relaxing. I was worried before I got here that there was no chance I’d be able to relax.”

He pulled a chair from the corner to the center of the room for me and took a seat on the bed. “You have a lot of worries about all this.”

“I have a lot of worries about most things,” I admitted with a sheepish smile. “Though hardly anything’s ever as bad I let myself expect.”