With a heavy sigh, I slump down on a park bench, catching a glimpse of the last bits of sunset before the stars completely take over. These last few days have just been so incredibly disillusioning, it's crazy. All this time, I've had the media, movies and such, all build up Paris as this picturesque, romantic city that you just have to see to believe, and I, like a dumbass, just believed them without a second thought. So of course, when it came to picking out a destination for my mental reset vacation, I'd pick Paris, it'd be great! Yeah, that turned out to be a big miss. Turns out that it's just like other cities, just more foreign. Similar annoying traffic, similar crowds, just a couple different landmarks. Honestly, I don't even know what I was expecting. Some beautiful local showing up like a prince in a fairytale, sweeping me off my feet and taking me out on an adventure that leaves me as happy as I'll ever be in my life? Yeah, right.
I suppose it doesn't help that my reason for coming here wouldn't be out of place in a trashy dime romance novel: a young, inexperienced man is struck by new and scary feelings inside of him—in my case, homosexuality slowly bubbling to the surface and all the insecurities that come with that—travels to a foreign country in search of answers about himself, hoping to find them in the arms of a local with a heart of gold, any language barriers overcome by the power of love. I'm retching just thinking about it, it's so saccharine. It's a nice thought, at least. "Confused, closeted gay guy takes vacation, comes home just as confused as he was before with an extra dose of disillusionment" wouldn't exactly fly off the shelves, either.
"Are you perhaps lost, mon ami?"
The voice tears me out of my thoughts. Looking to my side, a young man has sat down next to me on the bench, a light, airy smile on his face. Now that he's got my attention, he cocks his head to the side, silently restating his question. I force a smile as well, replying, "...yeah, I suppose I am. I'm looking for the Paris of my fantasies, the Paris of reality doesn't seem to match up."
My answer causes the young man to chuckle softly. "You have a poetic soul, mon ami," he replies, and I take note of his English being quite good. There's just a little bit of an accent, his sprinkled-in French terms perhaps more of a playful spice than him genuinely not knowing the English terms. "You are a tourist, then, non?"
I give him a nod. "Yeah, came over here from America. But, like, you're not here to hear my life story, are you?" I ask, feeling a bit self-conscious about just up and unloading on a stranger. And yet, he makes no move to leave or anything like that, just sits there, that smile on his face, listening. And so, sufficiently encouraged, I start telling him of my experiences, all the disappointment this city brought me. Before long, it's been nearly fifteen minutes of me just talking to him, and I again become self-conscious as to just how much I am taking up this guy's time.
However, he doesn't seem to care in the slightest about how long I've spent gabbing, and he ever so gently takes his hand in mine, a movement so smooth I barely notice it. "Oh, mon ami, you have not seen Paris! You are not to blame—we keep to ourselves here in this city. All the foreigners, the tourists, they are not allowed, you see. The side streets, the small, hidden away bars and restaurants, that is where Paris is! And if you would allow me, I would love to show you..." he says, trailing off with a look in his eye that speaks volumes. There's a spark in there that tells me something very important: he's taken a liking to me.
Forcing myself to break eye contact, I can feel a blush rising to my cheeks. There is no way he can know the effect he's having on me, my confused feelings tumbling all over inside of me at the thought of this pretty young man liking me. "Y-You just s-say that to all t-the tourists..." I mutter, and I can't believe just how flustered I'm getting.
For a moment, I don't hear a response from him, but then, suddenly, I feel a soft peck upon my cheek. He kissed me! "Only the cute ones, mon cher..." he then says, and God, I don't know a lot of French, but I know damn well what that change in terms means... he's coming on to me. And the hell of it is, I think I like it. "I'm Jules. May I ask your name?"
"R-Rory..." I reply, the blush surely turning my face downright fiery at this point.
"What a pretty name. Well, Rory, shall we take to see the real Paris? You know, they call it 'gay Paris' for a reason..." he says, punctuating that with a wink. Oh God, there is no way he doesn't know I'm falling for him, and he's playing into it hard. He gets up from the park bench, and for the first time, I get a really good look at him as he stands there. A long, flowing mane of blonde hair reaching all the way down to his hips sways gently in the breeze, his shirt undone, giving me tantalizing glimpses of his bare, soft, hairless looking chest. An expensive necklace hangs from his neck, adding a touch of class. Whoever this guy is, he's got money, he knows he's pretty, and he likes to party. And so, as if drawn by a magnet, I get up from the park bench and take his hand. "The night is still young, mon cher, let us make the most of it," he proclaims, and we are off.
It doesn't take long for us to leave the busy main streets behind, the sounds of heavy nightlife traffic fading away. Jules seems to know exactly where he's going, and after a few minutes, we find ourselves in front of a homey, picturesque little