Ah, Paris...

Guess who's in Paris at the moment?

That's right, yours truly. Also, Attitude, of course. Old readers of my blog will know precisely what this means. Mischief. Sexual mischief. Lots of it.

Today, I was walking quietly, minding my own business, when this tall French woman wearing tight jeans and a white jacket bumped hard into me. She was shouting at her phone, verbally abusing some kind of underling, and had failed to notice me. She had just drawn a long drag from her cigarette, and her breath smelled foul as she snapped at me.

"Faut faire attention, hein!"

She turned around, not waiting for an answer. I watched mouth agape as she strode away, heels clacking on the deserted sidewalk. I'm polite enough that I was going to let it go, but Attitude had another idea. She hated cigarette smoke and was obviously bent on revenge.

"Follow her," she ordered. I didn't want to end up with a fourteen-inch schlong (which, it turns out, is not nearly as much fun as you might think), so I did as instructed. 

Attitude did her thing, and it wasn't long before the French woman stumbled on an invisible bump on the sidewalk. She resumed striding ahead, but her steps were shorter and less confident. She stopped occasionally and squirmed like someone who needs to go to the bathroom. She bravely kept walking, but whatever condition affected her seemed to worsen. Finally, she stopped, knees pressed together, and from the back it looked like she had hunched forward to grab her crotch.

"Ben voyons," I heard her say. That's French for WTF.

Understanding what was about to happen (not my first rodeo, friends), I ducked out of sight and watched the show. Frenchie glanced around to confirm there was no one around. Confident she had some measure of privacy, she approached a low fence near the street and flung a leg over it. She lowered herself and gasped when her crotch pressed against the horizontal railing.

"Oh putain," she moaned between clenched teeth. That's also French for WTF.

Then, both hands now gripping the metal bar, she ground her heated sex back and forth, back and forth, hard against the invading fence. Her rhythm and breathing got faster, and her moans reached my ears. She began talking to herself, first just "bordel," then "Oh non! Oh non!" and at last "Il faut pas, non, il faut paaaAAAAAH!!!"

She came pretty hard, I think. She recovered, then realized what she'd just done and retreated from the fence with alarm. She glanced around, and this time she noticed me. I just smiled. Cheeks burning red with shame, she fled the scene in a hurry. 

I don't think she noticed she'd dropped her phone and cigarette on the ground. I doubt she cared.