I was talking to a friend the other day. A smart, vivacious person with varied interests, who speaks all the Romance languages fluently. She is a talented painter, sex addict and recovering alcoholic. She moved to Paris with her mother right after the War ended. She learned her languages in convent schools there. She learned to drink with the urchins in the streets and alleyways. She learned about sex from a succession of US Army officers who were her stepfather. She told me about a weekend in the late sixties when she became so distraught about her uncontrolled behavior that she went home and shut herself in her apartment for two days. It was the most abstemptious time she spent for many years before or after.
She still managed to have sex nine times with six different partners between Friday afternoon and Monday morning and go through several bottles of wine.
As we talked, I was lounging sideways on an overstuffed chair with my feet up on the arm of a couch next to it. She was sitting on the couch, turned toward me, her ample left breast resting comfortably on the arch of my right foot. Beautiful smile. Sleepy eyes. French convent girl.
I wish she had been my friend, in those days. If I had lived a few miles North, she probably would have been my French teacher in high school.
Still. Better late than never.
2 comments:
You really should find this woman.
Thing is, she won't be the same performer though. Meh.
Neither am I.
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