Two French Boys in One Day
I'll try anything once, twice if it feels good :)
The first time I slept with two people in one day I felt like I was going to wear a scarlet letter forever. It was high school and I was between boyfriends (which meant I was still having sex with my ex and already having sex with my future beau.) Back then, being called a “slut” was in insult used to demonize women’s pleasure and exploration (again, high school) and even the notion that something you did could be deemed “slutty” was enough to instill fear and shame.
Little did I know this wouldn’t be the last time I stumbled into this taboo. But it wasn’t until much later that I accidentally got in two separate beds with two separate men in one 24 hour period that I felt—instead of shame—a sense of pride, freedom, and…dare I say conquest? Is this what it’s like being a man?
And what changed? Well, I did it for “science”. That and I was on vacation.
Read on for the full story which includes the genesis of Aurore.
Two French Boys, One Day by Carly
I arrive in Paris and climb three flights of stairs wearing a backpack bigger than my body to find myself locked out of my Airbnb. No key left under the mat, no note left with instructions. But I’m not at all miffed, I’m in vacation-mode. I drop my bag in the vestibule, find a café down the street, sit at a small table outside, order a glass of wine, ask for the Wi-Fi password, and open up Tinder. Tinder in Paris is a dream: every swipe offers up a new impossibly handsome French man, and every swipe is a match. August in Paris means most French people are at the beach or the countryside. And that means I’m fresh meat in a stinking city.
French men can be over the top. I know this because I had an adorably dramatic French boyfriend during study abroad. But today I don’t mind the ridiculous compliments rolling in, as my second glass of rosé makes me buzz along with my phone. “How beautiful you are,” one match writes. “An American girl in Paris? Let me take you out,” another direct messages me.
By the time my AirBnb host returns to let me into the apartment, I’ve already made a date for that afternoon with Jean.
I’ve been traveling through Europe interviewing men about sex and dating in their respective countries, so I show up to each date with an audio recorder. I don’t tell them about my project beforehand, I just lightly bring it up once we meet. Discussing intimate details with strangers has led to hours of salacious recorded conversations, and inevitably, sex. There’s something that transpires between two humans after baring their deepest fantasies, fears, and desires. It’s basically like playing “The 36 Questions That Lead to Love” but an abridged, sex-focused version.
My afternoon Tinder date tells me to meet him at Parc Buttes for the best view of the city. It’s on the outskirts of Paris, and when I exit the metro, I realize I am the only tourist in the area. It feels like a secret.
Jean arrives near the entrance to the park on his motorbike. He’s tall and slim, but I can see beneath his light sweater that he has defined muscles. He’s classically handsome, dark wavy hair that he runs his hand through when he’s nervous, and a very French five o’ clock shadow. He is animated and has an ease about him. Plus a funny accent, which he explains is the result of learning English in Scotland. It’s a French-tinged brogue and it balances his handsomeness with harmlessness.
We walk around the park, take in the view—which is indeed the best, Montmartre looms on a hill in the distance—then settle on a spot in the grass, lounging and talking. I ask him if I can flip the switch on the recorder and he is happy to oblige, only if, he ventures, he can interview me as well. I agree.
Our conversation wanders from serious relationships to casual sex—I admit I have been single for awhile and my approach to sex has begun to feel too unceremonious. I tell Jean I feel blasé about one-time sexual partners, like they are just another in a long list, difficult to differentiate and too risky to put meaning on. He stops me, corrects me, “Each new lover is a discovery,” he says.
“Don’t you think there’s something sad about having really wonderful sex with a person where you feel really connected and then you never see them again?” I ponder, already thinking about what it would be like to fuck him and leave Paris in a few days.
“Well,” Jean answers, “it’s kind of beautiful, too. It’s kind of both. It’s the most free act and liberating thing you can do. Of course it can be sad because you start wondering, what if, what if, what if? But it’s never just sex to me, and I don’t say that just to please you.”
This is really how he talks, like a poem put through Google translator.
With only the recorder between us, Jean details how his job lusciously allows for sex in the afternoon. He declares it’s his favorite time to fuck because he knows how few others are enjoying it then. On the other side of the recorder, I am thinking how nice it is to be with a handsome man in a park in Paris in the afternoon. I also feel superior to my friends and acquaintances back in New York, in their frosty, air-conditioned offices.
Jean suggests we move to a café, but I tell him, hopping on the back of his bike, “We can just go back to your apartment.” “As you wish,” he says, handing me his extra helmet, made for moments like these, when a willing woman wants to take a ride.
We zoom off and I try to make sense of all the sensations in the moment. The air is teasingly lifting my skirt and the motor is humming and jumping over cobblestones. Iconic Parisian apartments loom above us, providing a grand tunnel that our journey seems unworthy of. The man in front of me, unfamiliar but friendly, reaches back often to rest his hand on my thigh, protectively. I tighten my grip around his waist.
We arrive in hilly Montmartre. Jean lets me into his perfectly situated apartment, makes me an espresso, and then leaves me on the balcony with my cigarettes to go run an errand.
I light a cigarette and start texting my friends back in Brooklyn, describing Jean, describing our conversation, suggesting it will surely lead to sex. Yes, they agree, it surely will, and I send pictures of the cinematic views from my perch on his balcony.
Jean returns quickly, and I step into his living room and conspicuously sprawl on his couch, in my most seductive pose, letting my legs open a bit to offer a peek up my skirt. It’s completely unnecessary.
“So,” he studies me, “after all that talk about sex, I think we have to try each other.”
He walks to the couch and scoops me up, carries me into his bedroom. He lets me down on the side of the bed.
His bed is large, and there are beautiful windows thrown open to the afternoon light. They look directly across to a string of Baroque apartments—windows, balconies, carved stone flair.
He stands behind me, waiting for my next move. I press my ass into him, feeling him already hard in his jeans.
Without looking back, I say with such authority I surprise myself, “I want you to fuck me from behind while I look out your windows. I want someone to look out their window and see us fucking in the afternoon.”
Seconds later…