Esclave

I wouldn't be running with the bulls. I made that promise to my mom before getting on the plane. It was a reasonable concern. "The Sun Also Rises" inspired my post college trip to Pamplona, Spain, and I had intentionally timed my arrival to coincide with the festival of San Fermín. A herd of furious bulls would be chasing idiots through narrow streets, but I intended to stay safe drinking, smoking, and whoring about in the bars.

Pamplona was in an uproar without the beast raging in the streets. Instead it was throngs of tourists and endless rows of porta potties and vendor stands. The big events leading up to the bullfights were a few days away, but there were people sleeping in the train station and it was clear that the popularity of this holiday was much more commercial and unfamiliar than what I had envisioned. The hostel I had lined up dropped my reservation when they found they could get double what I was willing to pay. It was all very miserable. Given that this was 1984, there was no Yelp for me to share my frustration.

I felt like I couldn't breathe. People were everywhere and I needed to get out of there. It was two hours after my arrival and I was once again in front of that huge train station marquee with it's multitude of clapping panels for all the trains coming and going at the RENFE station. I had the money I planned on spending on wine and hash in my pocket, so I didn't hesitate when queuing up for the next train. Paris.

Paris was everything I thought it would be. Old, huge, elegant, and romantic. As crowded as Spain turned out to be, I now walked the streets of Paris in search of a hostel and felt very alone. I had no grasp of the language. This was an unplanned detour. Couples in love were everywhere. Everyone seemed to be holding hands or in a passionate embrace. It was like being in a commercial where someone cried "Action" and couples in love wandered in and out of frame. I remember laughing to myself at how completely out of place I felt. I'd fled to someplace even more uncomfortable.

My hostel was too expensive, without the benefit of a holiday. Without question, I'd need to move or leave Paris altogether. I didn't even bother to unpack and after stairing out my tiny window at the elegant rooftops, I took a stroll. I knew there were the Siene and Notre Dame. As sexually frustrating as it was to see people making out around me, I couldn't imagine when I'd be in this place again.

By 11 p.m., the city streets were in full bloom. The cafes were bright and busy and the sidewalks were busier than in the daytime. I had made mental notes of "markers" so I could find my way back to my room above a pharmacy. I tried to get my bearings when a cab pulled alongside me with a couple of short, petite beeps. The driver called me to his open passenger window and I was instantly suspicious of anything he had to share.

I only heard "Papillion", among the French. He then tried English.

"For you, I have the bar. It was a favorite of Papillion. You know?"

I repeated Papillion back to him and he gave me a big, toothy grin. Bullseye.

He then spoke to me as I settled into the back of the cab. We were going to a bar that was a favorite of the most compelling real-life characters I'd ever heard of. Henri Charrière was "Papillion". A French criminal made famous by his memoir recounting his escapes from prisons in French Guiana I was a notorious Frenchman, to be sure, and so yes, I wanted to go where this great man had his whiskey.

We weaved in and out of impossibly narrow streets and I heard him mention that we were near the Opera House, which seemed to be a district all it's own. And finally, we came to a stop outside a bar that looked like an English pub. I was anxious to get inside, so I paid the cabby, who got a tip from both me and the big black guy standing outside in a long white jacket. At first, I thought he was a doctor but his bulk told me he was there to handle the door. I nodded as he let me in and once inside, the similarity to a pub disappeared.

As you enter, a lineup of exotic-looking women, their bellies at the long walnut bar, turn to greet whoever comes through the door. Mirrors, glass shelves, and very heavy smoke in a dim bar made this the experience I had in mind when I booked my trip to Spain.

An older gentleman with the very faintest of a white moustache came to my side. He wore the same white jacket as the guy outside, but on this man it was like a long, white cotton robe. He gave me the same smile that the cabbie had. He found his French was wasted on me and immediately waved at the red-headed woman near the middle, as she was apparently the only enchantress on duty who knew English. Her name was Pascale.

She was stunning. They were all really stunning, and I had begun to note that in Paris, to look stunning was a fashion choice. Every woman I have seen since getting off the train has a certain look about them. Clearly distinct from the tourists, these women carried themselves with a natural authority and an air of superiority and I could not get enough.

Pascale waited until my eyes returned to hers. That much cleavage was going to get unapoligetic stares. Her breasts appeared to be fighting to be freed from her crushed mustard evening gown. Her skin was alabaster, yellowed by the low lighting and her hair was dark red and piled high, 60's style. Her ears were bedazzled with a parade of tiny pearls that ran their length. Though abruptly picked for her English, I felt fortunate to have been paired with this elegant femme fatale.

She offered a discrete smirk, which I was taking as her smile. It felt like we just shared a secret, though I was unclear exactly what it was. She then took my arm, directing me to a staircase at the furthest end of the bar. The other ladies no longer had an interest and turned back to smoking and drinking until the door would swing open again.

It was a short journey past crates of wine and onions to a basement showroom, set behind a heavy velvet drape. Pascale held it aside as I passed and there in front of me was a modest, raised wooden stage illuminated with two faint pink spotlights. Facing the stage were high-upholstered Vegas-style booths, but they were scaled down to accommodate a very small cocktail table. There were a few couples already seated. Hostesses and their guests. Pascale steered me to our booth and slid close enough to where our thighs were side by side. In just a brief moment, before I could say a word, another lovely hostess presented us with a split of Champagne. I turned over my credit card while watching Pascale's bosom roll about as she got comfortable. How expensive could it be?

Her accent made everything she said sound flirty. She surprised me by talking about herself and her family. I had a feeling almost instantly that Pascale was actually her name. Another hostess walked past with an older gentleman, who seemed like a local. The others weren't tourists either. I was the only one. Pascale exchanged a look with the young woman as they passed and once seated, the lights dimmed even lower and from a sound system up in the ceiling, there was a soft rumble of bass that backed an MC welcoming us to "Papillion." It was the name of the bar. Unless they named the place after their notorious patron, I now figured the great French safe cracker probably never stepped a foot in here. The place was cashing in on the guy.

I thought about the taxi driver who brought me here. Was it so obvious that I would get sucked in? He had me pegged from twenty feet away.

I then looked at my new, lovely friend. She smelled so floral, and with the lights even lower, her pale arms, legs, and breasts seemed to glow. Her hair now seemed to be a bright rust color. I was feeling very vulnerable all of a sudden.

Pascale smiled, unaware of my sudden disappointment.

"You're going to love this," she purred into my ear. Watch and see if you can tell which one is gay." I looked at her, unsure what she was talking about, when the MC introduced a couple who came on stage. A man and woman in kahki painter smocks.

Grace Jone's "Le vie en rose" came on and the couple began to embrace. They were both very beautiful people and when I looked back at Pascale, she seemed quite focused on the two on stage. When she caught me staring at her, she frowned and pointed forward.

The couple kissed and rocked to the music. Their legs seemed to wind and unwind around each other and their eyes were locked upon each other with what I took to be a Tango-like vibe. As Pascale put her hand high on my thigh, another split of Champagne arrived. I'd not realized the first was empty, but fresh glasses appeared and were filled to the brim. We toasted and as we turned back to the stage, the couple had shed their smocks and the man was positioning his partner on the floor to receive head. She spread her legs quite wide, and given where our booth was, she was aimed right at the two of us.

It was actually a beautiful song for this. She rolled about as best she could but the naked, beautiful man had her pinned to the floor and he was ravaging her pussy with complete abandon. If he didn't like what he was doing,she certainly couldn't tell. I told Pascale that the woman was gay. She said she would tell me later.

We watched three very dramatic orgasms, with the third featuring two very heavily oiled-up women, including the first woman I'd called out earlier. We had been whispering throughout, drinking and giggling, and though it was clear to me that I was being milked with each champagne, the company felt honest and effortless.

Still, if I stayed any longer, Pascale's hand would move higher and I'd spend all my money on little champanges in this basement. She could sense my change in attitude almost immediately. Her hand returned to her lap and a bit of space between our legs emerged. Again, her smirk, but less of a smile this time. I made a motion to get the other hostess back to close things out but Pascale grabbed my hand and pulled it down.

"Don't call her yet," she said, scooting off the booth. She leaned forward and her breasts were so close to my face that I could feel her warmth. "Count to," she paused, trying to think of the word."Fourteen, no forty. Then call her", and with that, she was gone.

It was definitely anticlimatic but not surprising. I'd had enough and turned off the credit card, so the evening was going to come to an abrupt end. No sooner had I paid the bill, then a man in one of those white jackets came to escort me out of the bar. Apparently, there would be no straggling or a chance to say goodbye to Pascale.

The bar upstairs was no busier, and those ladies left at the bar seemed less playful and their makeup was beginning to fade. Whatever music was playing to give the place charm was turned off and there was a clatter of plates coming from somewhere.

How I was going to get home was now my primary concern, as the door was graciously held open for me.

Then Pascale screamed at me. I froze before the open door and turned around to face a woman who clearly hated my guts. I'm not entirely sure what was said, but she was complaining loudly to everyone within earshot about me. I immediately realized that maybe I was supposed to have left her a tip. The champagne had cost me a small fortune, but that sexy French accent was now loud and mean. The guy holding the door for me looked embarrassed and the women at the bar had turned in disgust to watch Pascale rage and spit in my face.

"Take your fucking phone number and shove it up your ass," and she thrust a piece of paper into my hand, turned, and strode away. I stood there, stunned and ashamed. I now wanted to go back and add to the bill for her, but it couldn't be more clear that I needed to get out and never return.

There were three cabs waiting outside for me. Of course.

I fell back into my seat and decided, as I had in Pamplona, that it was time to go. To get on a train, any train, and get the fuck out of Paris. My cab ride was nuts and I had a feeling I was being taken for another ride, but fine. Let Paris suck all it could out of me. I was leaving tomorrow.

At my hotel, I almost paid the driver with my note, which had been tightly gripped in my hand the whole ride. The only English that Pascale used when she bitched me out was about a phone number but I didn't give her my number. Why would I?

I couldn't read the writing. It was that tan European toilet paper and the ink was red, and the writing was childish. I showed it to the driver and he said it was for me to go to the Louvre.

"Tonight?"

He shook his head. "Tomorrow at 1pm"

This made no sense. Did Pascale want to see me? I'd just decided to be back in Spain by dinner tomorrow.

"Don't be late," the driver added.

"What?"

"This," he said, handing back the crumpled toilet paper. "It said, don't be late."

(To be continued)