Now, I have resisted posting this update for almost five weeks now, as I just couldn’t help but feel that it wasn’t in the best taste. Now, however, I just think get a grip, neither is “The Babes of Paris”! So here goes.
The night that I documented in the last entry did not end there. When I parted ways with my friends and went off to get the last metro home, I made an astounding breakthrough. I was fucked, really truly trashed thanks to that rum baba and the copious amounts of other booze I consumed during the night. But it was in that way where you know you’re drunk, but you don’t realise the true extent of it because you’re in public and constantly talking and socialising so you just think you’re being normal. And it’s only when you get home and go to bed that everything starts to spin because you’ve finally stopped moving. Anyway so I got on the metro and I’m not sure when exactly but a girl got on and sat in a seat diagonally facing me about four metres away. And this girl, she was a dyke. It was not glaringly obvious, but to me it was. She was cute: about the same stature as myself, scruffily dressed, dirty blonde hair (not something I usually go for but I made an exception), nose ring (that’s definitely hot) and harem trousers. I figured what better time than now to try my hand at a bit of my favourite public transport game (with the possible exception of Travel Scrabble). Stared at her, and I find that the more you concentrate on the desired outcome while you’re staring at someone (even from behind them), the more likely and quickly they are to subconsciously notice you and react. Like when you fancy someone sitting somewhere in front of you in a lecture, so you stare at the back of their head and they always turn round within a couple of minutes! Insane. So that’s what I did. And sure enough, our eyes met within less than 30 seconds. I held her gaze for approximately two moments, then she turned to look out of the window into the darkness of the tunnel we were in. I did not move neither eyes nor body. Shortly afterwards her eyes returned to mine. She giggled, exclaimed “Putain!*” and I winked to uphold the momentum and intensity of the situation. For a while longer we were looking directly at each other. I grinned like a Cheshire Cat and it was around this point that I became fully aware that the guys sitting by me had noticed what was going on. This only served to enhance the drama of the affair, and if I had not been so very drunk I probably would have felt my heart beating and my pulse in my eardrums in the way that you do when you know shit’s about to go down. Well at the next stop a bunch of people got on and we were temporarily obscured from each other’s view. We managed to re-establish the eye contact through the throng and it was at this moment that she beckoned me over to the empty seat next to her. I stood up and the men next to me shifted to allow me to pass. I did not once look at them, or indeed anybody else in the carriage. I traversed it and sat down next to her and started talking to her. Can’t remember much of what I said but I gleaned that her name was Ines and she was the same age as myself. I also asked her whether she had a girlfriend. She said she did but it was “pas grave”. For the dullards amongst you this means “not serious” as in “doesn’t matter” and it is what the guy who came onto me in Le Truskel said when I told him I was gay. As I rambled, it dawned on me that, contrary to the previous observation of being socially acceptably drunk, I was in fact far beyond the point of “being drunk enhances my foreign language skills” and into the realm of being unintelligible in English, let alone French, a bit like the dyke in “Gay as in Shit Creperie Musicale”. Speaking of alcoholic dykes, Ines was carrying a flask of white rum. She offered me some and I gratefully accepted. Just before we arrived at my stop to get off, I asked her for her number. We exchanged numbers. I have texted her twice, and both times she replied immediately. The first was that night when I got home and the second was two weeks later when I returned to Paris after the February break. That time she said that she was at her parents’ house in the countryside and would ring me when she got back in a couple of days. She never did. No big deal and here’s why: the French have a verb “draguer”, which means literally to flirt or to cruise or pick up. Needless to say, in the latter context it is virtually always something that men do. It is by no means an unusual thing to see in France! But I did it with success and that proves that I can do it again! QED “Cruising the Metro” IS possible for a dyke.
*Means “whore” but used as the equivalent of “fuck!”