Ok, by request, I'm posting the piece I was going to originally post on Bored Housewife
, until some else talked me into posting what I did post.
Make sense? No? Oh well. Just read.
Update from Paris...
...And I’m not talking about that Hilton skank.
Our very own Lisa has been having a little fun, as I’m sure you can imagine…
…She’s in a cute little souvenir shop with her mom, who is in a heated debate with the owner over the merits versus price of one tacky Eiffel Tower statue over another, when Lisa’s mind wanders. She glances out the shop window and sees it – a motorcycle next to the curb, all shining chrome and black metal and curves begging to be touched. Not one to bury such an impulse (especially in Paris) Lisa surreptitiously makes her way to the door and sidles up to the bike. She pauses long enough to look around, then reaches out and strokes the handle, runs her hand down the length of it. How would it feel to race through the narrow streets, wind in her hair, absolutely free? Lisa contemplates hopping on the bike just for a second, to see how it feels to straddle a strange motorcycle (I mean, wouldn’t you at least think about it too?) when she feels a hand on her shoulder.
“Aww, crap, I’m busted,” Lisa thinks, and turns her head slowly to face the police officer. In her head she’s shuffling through French phrases for ‘I’m sorry’, ‘there’s been a mistake’ and ‘please don’t arrest me’.
He’s not an officer at all, unless Parisian officers are all about twenty, with long silky manes and black biker jackets. He looks down at Lisa, taking in her startled expression – which is quickly turning into unabashed lust. She watches his eyes lower to her perfect breasts and feels a warm blush rise into her cheeks.
He looks into her eyes and tilts his head toward the bike. Lisa has no choice but to hop on after him and wrap her arms around his hard body. The motorcycle roars to life, and Lisa nearly loses it then and there. The biker – her biker – pulls away from the curb and the bike flies down the street, carrying its riders like a wild horse. This ride puts snowmobiling to shame!
It’s everything Lisa has dreamed; the wind in her hair, the acceleration and vibration of the motorcycle, her arms embracing a young, mysterious stranger, the crazy freedom of it all. She’s thinking in poems, and Paris hears them, rings out its bells in answer. Coffee becomes stronger, perfume sweeter, food richer, all in competition with her joy. She is Paris. She is the city’s pulse speeding through it winding, eternal streets. She is the city’s beauty; classic and timeless. She is the city’s romance; passionate and relentless.
Willowy Parisian women stop on the sidewalk and watch her pass. They are envious. The motorcycle roars down Place de la Madeleine, turns onto narrow rue Vignon and pulls up in front of a little boutique called La Maison du Miel. Before she has time to think, Lisa’s biker jumps off and pulls her after him. He’s almost grinning as he leads her into the shop; a curious place with bee-patterned floor tiles and a counter lined with jars of golden liquid. Lisa is almost overwhelmed by the smell of honey. A woman behind the counter smiles knowingly at the couple and hands the biker a jar. He pockets the jar, throws some euros on the counter, grabs Lisa’s hand and races with her back out the door to the bike. They leap on, Lisa laughs out loud and grips him tighter than she had before.
Lisa has no idea where he’s taken her, and she doesn’t care. The bike is downstairs, waiting like a barely-tamed panther, while upstairs in a beautiful pied-à-terre bodies entwine and fingers caress long, taut muscles, soft places. Sweat and honey mingle, salty and sweet, tongues eagerly lapping them up. He cups her face in his hands and just watches her as they ride toward their pleasure.
When it is over, he wraps Lisa in his jacket and carries her down the stairs. He sets her on the bike and kisses her forehead. Dreamily, she watches Paris fly past her, a colorful blur, and presses her cheek against the biker’s back, feeling him shiver just a little.
Too soon, they park in front of the souvenir shop. Lisa gives her biker one last squeeze before hopping off the motorcycle. Her legs are wobbly, and he smiles at her. She starts to shrug the jacket off her shoulders, but he shakes his head and puts his hand over her heart. Then he’s gone, swallowed up by the city.
Lisa wonders if her mother has called the police yet. She stumbles into the shop and sees her haggling with not one but two shopkeepers now. Lisa walks up behind her mom and puts her hand on her shoulder.
“I see you found something,” she tells Lisa, looking at the jacket. “Not very French though, is it?” Lisa shrugs and laughs. As her mom finally pays for a ticky-tacky Eiffel Tower and a couple of postcards, Lisa turns away to wipe a little tear from her eye.
From the sidewalk they hail a taxi and ride back to their hotel. Forever after, the cab smells faintly of leather and lavender-scented honey…
…or at least, I think that would be an update from Paris, if Lisa sent me one.
Did I mention that I make things up for fun, (and one day for profit, I hope?)