Cruising the Metro

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!”

The babes of Paris

So, Paris is crammed full of mega-hot babes right. And I'd not been in Paris for long before I developed a game that I can play with myself (well, not in public--) Well, actually yes, in public, (that was just an unintentional pun that I didn't want to delete) cos its most prime location is the Metro, hence its name: Cruising the Metro.

The rules of the game are thus:

You're like in the metro or whatever. The RER is also good cos the stops aren't as frequent but I fear there aren't as many honeyz headin' in the direction of the banlieue. So anyway, I've not done this for a while, because until recently I've been in a happy, loving relationship. Now, don't worry, this blog is not about to deteriorate into some ranting bullshit about how I just got dumped. Cos, I like totally didn't anyway?
ANYWAY, one of my most priceless memories was in early October, and it was early in the morning, well, commuting time. I'm fairly sure I was hungover and it was a Thursday. A couple of stops into my journey,
a chick who looked like a dude got on. "Cool," I thought to myself, "now to make exaggerated and repeated eye contact as I am wont to do, for I am, after all, a Raving Insatiable Dyke". So I did this a few times, and to my delight, she seemed to be yielding to my seduction, looking back at me with that unmistakable longing in her eyes that is so very much more than simply a "gay gaze". By this point I had become so excited that I had to stop listening to my iPod, for the distraction was quite too much to handle. She was 18, or 20, and had hair in the style of Robert Smith c.1984, i.e. before it went too crazy and he got too fat. Suffice to say, sexy as fuck. Now, a bit further on, the person sitting next to me alighted. Chick moved towards the empty seat. I could hardly contain myself. Literally. I didn't. But. Alas. To my abject despair, SOME FUCKING MORON BOY SAT THERE FIRST. And Reader, I can honestly say that never in all my long, lonely years of raving insatiable dykedom, have I ever so passionately wished for somebody else's untimely passing. Chick shifted back to her original position, clinging to one of the poles in front of me. I took a few more forlorn glances at her, before she left me a few more stops later and disappeared into the throng! At length I heaved a sigh, stuck my 'Pod back on, and continued on my trajet de tragedie towards work of doom.

So I mean like it happened again today. This time it was actually at the RER station. Saw this proper buff babe. She kinda looked like a more attractive version of myself, if I'm honest. A more French version of myself. Her hair was more controlled, more sleek and her face was so angular, so androgynous. God, I mean, I really dig that shit. So natch I followed her up the platform, stealing conspicuous glances every few moments. Didn't look at me once until she turned to face me full on, she was a comfortable distance away so it wasn't too alarming, more like quite exciting. I followed her onto the train like some fucking psychopathic stalker from hell. And nothing else worthy of note took place. And it was at that moment that I thought this thing, that I think every now and again: What if dykes were more like fags? I mean, if I were a fag, and if she'd been a fellow fag, there's like, a 50% chance we'd have been banging the shit out of each other in the bathroom of the nearest bar at the next station, right? But alas, no of course that didn't happen cos she was a fucking nobhead arrogant dyke who didn't want to know! So now I'm here talking shit about my feelings instead of what I'd be writing if I were this fag character I created:
"Totally gay gazed this fag on the RER today. We looked at each other then we got off the train at the next stop in the middle of the banlieue, and went to this proper old man bar. I gave him some poppers (I always carry poppers cos I like, get laid so often) and then I banged the shit out of him in the bathroom. It was fucking awesome. Hope something similar happens tomorrow". That's litch what it'd be like, I think.