Parisian Descent

Kleber. Champs-Elysees Clemenceau. Anvers. Opera. La Defense. Bastille. Louvre-Rivoli. Saint-Michel Notre Dame. The Paris Metro station names, on fourteen separate underground lines, overwhelmed my wife on the map. Not to mention the RER lines and heavy rail labelled by letters, A-B-C, etc. Navigating the rush-hour crowds beneath the city in a labyrinth of subway-tiled passageways required a certain confidence and assertiveness she could not muster. Changing lines at Charles de Gaulle-Etoile or Gare de Lyon can be World Cup worthy, darting between opposing teams, alert to every break to reach goal. It’s not her game.

I grabbed my wife’s hand and pulled her into one of the teal blue train cars on the M 13. We crowded into the crowd already standing shoulder-to-shoulder inside the car, as the doors closed abruptly, automatically. I turned her around so that my front pressed into her back, as we both faced the door; I put my arms around her upper chest and neck, pressing the stirring dick in my jeans into her oh-so-inviting leggings that clothed her oh-so-perfect ass; we were sandwiched between other passengers, with little room to maneuver. But I managed a few provocative moves, just the same, signaling my hunger. My right hand subtly cupped her left breast, discreetly but unmistakably.

I leaned into whisper, “You have to move with me in the Metro. Just do what I say, when I say it, no questions, don’t try and figure it out. I know my way around Paris; trust me, stay close to me, and you’ll have a good time, I promise.” I squeezed her with a grin and she mouthed coyly, “Yes, sir.”

We would have this same conversation and go through these same motions over and over during our four days together alone in the City of Light. I had been to Paris many times before and was no stranger to the Metro, the Seine, the cafes, the sights and sounds of this most romantic of cities. But my wife had only been once and then with me and our children. Without French fluency, without experience, without a grasp of how to get from the Sorbonne to the Galleries Lafayette on the Boulevard Haussmann or anywhere else, for that matter, my wife was charmed, fascinated and intimidated, all at once.

We held hands on the sidewalk, stopped to smell the flowers, wandered into coffee and chocolate shops, climbed the mountain of stairs to the summit of Montmartre, and stopped to pray in the Sacre Coeur. The Eiffel Tower at night, the beauty and mysteries of the Latin Quarter by day, and more boulangeries from dawn to dusk than we could number, conspired beautifully to make her want more.

Fashion, culture, art, architecture, life. Paris excels at all the above. And always with a sly and sensual smile.

Our train came to a stop at the Metro station Varenne. I whispered again into her ear, “This is our stop; move with me off the train quickly and stay close.” She nodded and I pressed down on the handle which springs the subway doors open. We rushed into the crowded platform and found the stairs out. Climbing into the sunshine breaking through some morning clouds, the brilliant dome of the Royal Chapel Les Invalides caught the glint of the sun on its gold façade and made us squint. A brisk walk to the corner, across the street, and to the left. We had arrived.

The Musee Rodin is elegantly housed in a sprawling mansion-cum-hotel-cum-museum, surrounded by manicured gardens, in which some of the master sculptor’s most famous masterpieces are displayed, outdoors. Auguste Rodin’s “The Thinker” is often named the most famous statue in the world. The muscled, naked bronze has braved the elements in the Musee Rodin’s garden from 1922. It’s the first stop everyone makes inside the courtyard walls. We stood alone by the statue, framed by geometric shrubs and I pulled in her for a light kiss on the forehead. “It’s beautiful here,” I whispered. And she said, “Oh my, so beautiful,” in a hushed, reverent tone.

The museum’s galleries are bright with huge windows, flooding the high-ceiling salons gloriously with daylight, making every piece of art shine. There are no shadows, just natural light dressing the Rodin collection. Immediately, though, we were stuck by the Rodin signature: nudes. In the first room, surrounded by some of Rodin’s own remarkable paintings and sketches of naked men, stands the statue that first made Rodin famous in Europe, “The Age of Bronze” (cast in 1877).

The life-sized bronze of the naked young Belgian soldier Auguste Neyt is so lifelike that Rodin was widely accused of actually making a cast of the model himself and not independently forming the work with his own hands. Rodin engaged one of the most respected photographers of the time to photograph the naked model, Neyt, to prove that the sculpture itself was original, if also an extraordinary replica of the living, naked 22-year old man.

“The Age of Bronze” stands unashamedly, serenely, in the middle of the room. It is not possible to walk by and not engage. Our eyes searched the figure, from head to toe, front to back. The shoulders. The closely-cropped haircut. The muscles of his arms, chest, legs, and torso. His chiseled ass and comfortably hanging cock all connect the dots to capture the wonder of the male form. My wife stared. And I stared at her. We both suppressed the desire to touch the figure; it begs for touch, to feel.

Throughout the exhibition, Rodin’s genius for casting the human body, both male and female, in both dramatic and natural movements, makes visitors reflect on the creation, but also on our sexuality. Rodin was, by all accounts, a man with ravenous sexual, hetero, appetites. My wife and I spoke superficially while in the museum, but then more deeply walking away. About the setting. The beauty. The power. And the sensuality of it all. Of the art, of “The Age of Bronze,” “The Kiss,” and all the rest.

We spent the day walking under the trees, made bare by winter but budding for spring. I brushed my wife’s blond hair from her cheek for a spontaneous gentle kiss. I held her close while standing on the Pont de la Concorde spanning the Seine, watching the boats ply the water beneath us. My hands ran up her thigh, while seated in cafes, shielded by the tablecloths. And when swallowed by the crowds crossing the Champs-Elysee or descending into the Metro station, I repeatedly whispered, “Do just what I say, when I say it, no questions asked; stay close to me and you’ll have a good time, I promise.” We both would laugh at this sometimes, but increasingly, my wife just held me more tightly and followed me.

At last, after a leisurely dinner in a café at the Bastille and then some dessert in a cozy small shop not far from the River, we rode the M 1 underground back to our hotel. The night air grew cold and crisp. The crowds moved almost silently around us. My wife listened carefully to every breath I exhaled and responded quickly to every direction. “Turn here, to the left. Yes, that’s our train, jump in.”

“But where will we get off the train?” she asked in the crowded car. I tried to point it out to her on the M 1 map above, but she couldn’t see it for the tall men around her, like me. “I’ll make sure we get off at just the right time.” She relaxed.

We walked up the broad Avenue that is one of the spokes of the Etoile, “the star” of the Arc de Triomphe. The quiet side street of our hotel grew near. The three young men at the hotel desk in the fitted suits and white shirts with open collars had already, over the last few days, taken notice of us.

I’m not sure what they thought, but I could venture a guess. I had booked the most expensive room in the hotel, across the small courtyard which the hotel surrounds and then to the third floor, up a rounding staircase. The room had French doors, of course, which opened to the outside, above the courtyard and another spiral staircase inside that led to a bedroom loft, tucked into the rafters. A cantilevered skylight above the bed could be tipped open to allow fresh cool air to settle in, even as it gave us a view of the stars.

After I opened the hotel room door and ushered my wife in, I came up from behind, after sealing the door behind me, and hugged her once more. “It is time. Take off your clothes.” She looked back at me surprised. “Do what I say, when I say it,” I said quietly with a smile, but also with a certain sense of command.

She began to undress, as did I. I climbed first up the spiral staircase to pull back the down comforter and open the skylight. She soon joined me on the bed and snuggled under the covers as I lay on my side. The air was clear, fresh, chill. I loved the feel of it, the way it made every hair stand at attention and every square inch of my skin conscious and alive. She snuggled next to me and moved her hand onto my naked chest. Neither of us wore any clothes.

I moved her hand to my nipples. “Here, you know how I like it.” She began to pinch and caress, with increasing pressure and tension. I began to moan and sigh with deep pleasure. “Now, take my dick in your hand. Make me hard.” She paused and stared at me, as if to say, “What about me?” Before she could speak, I said, “Do what I say when I say it and you will be safe. And YOU. WILL. HAVE. AN. AMAZING. TIME.” I squeezed her with a grin and she mouthed coyly, “Yes, sir.”

We would have this same conversation and go through these same motions over and over during our four days together alone in the City of Light. I had been to Paris many times before and was no stranger to the Metro, the Seine, the cafes, the sights and sounds of this most romantic of cities. But my wife had only been once and then with me and our children. Without French fluency, without experience, without a grasp of how to get from the Sorbonne to the Galleries Lafayette on the Boulevard Haussmann or anywhere else, for that matter, my wife was charmed, fascinated and intimidated, all at once.

We held hands on the sidewalk, stopped to smell the flowers, wandered into coffee and chocolate shops, climbed the mountain of stairs to the summit of Montmartre, and stopped to pray in the Sacre Coeur. The Eiffel Tower at night, the beauty and mysteries of the Latin Quarter by day, and more boulangeries from dawn to dusk than we could number, conspired beautifully to make her want more.

Fashion, culture, art, architecture, life. Paris excels at all the above. And always with a sly and sensual smile.

Our train came to a stop at the Metro station Varenne. I whispered again into her ear, “This is our stop; move with me off the train quickly and stay close.” She nodded and I pressed down on the handle which springs the subway doors open. We rushed into the crowded platform and found the stairs out. Climbing into the sunshine breaking through some morning clouds, the brilliant dome of the Royal Chapel Les Invalides caught the glint of the sun on its gold façade and made us squint. A brisk walk to the corner, across the street, and to the left. We had arrived.

The Musee Rodin is elegantly housed in a sprawling mansion-cum-hotel-cum-museum, surrounded by manicured gardens, in which some of the master sculptor’s most famous masterpieces are displayed, outdoors. Auguste Rodin’s “The Thinker” is often named the most famous statue in the world. The muscled, naked bronze has braved the elements in the Musee Rodin’s garden from 1922. It’s the first stop everyone makes inside the courtyard walls. We stood alone by the statue, framed by geometric shrubs and I pulled in her for a light kiss on the forehead. “It’s beautiful here,” I whispered. And she said, “Oh my, so beautiful,” in a hushed, reverent tone.

The museum’s galleries are bright with huge windows, flooding the high-ceiling salons gloriously with daylight, making every piece of art shine. There are no shadows, just natural light dressing the Rodin collection. Immediately, though, we were stuck by the Rodin signature: nudes. In the first room, surrounded by some of Rodin’s own remarkable paintings and sketches of naked men, stands the statue that first made Rodin famous in Europe, “The Age of Bronze” (cast in 1877).

The life-sized bronze of the naked young Belgian soldier Auguste Neyt is so lifelike that Rodin was widely accused of actually making a cast of the model himself and not independently forming the work with his own hands. Rodin engaged one of the most respected photographers of the time to photograph the naked model, Neyt, to prove that the sculpture itself was original, if also an extraordinary replica of the living, naked 22-year old man.

“The Age of Bronze” stands unashamedly, serenely, in the middle of the room. It is not possible to walk by and not engage. Our eyes searched the figure, from head to toe, front to back. The shoulders. The closely-cropped haircut. The muscles of his arms, chest, legs, and torso. His chiseled ass and comfortably hanging cock all connect the dots to capture the wonder of the male form. My wife stared. And I stared at her. We both suppressed the desire to touch the figure; it begs for touch, to feel.

Throughout the exhibition, Rodin’s genius for casting the human body, both male and female, in both dramatic and natural movements, makes visitors reflect on the creation, but also on our sexuality. Rodin was, by all accounts, a man with ravenous sexual, hetero, appetites. My wife and I spoke superficially while in the museum, but then more deeply walking away. About the setting. The beauty. The power. And the sensuality of it all. Of the art, of “The Age of Bronze,” “The Kiss,” and all the rest.

We spent the day walking under the trees, made bare by winter but budding for spring. I brushed my wife’s blond hair from her cheek for a spontaneous gentle kiss. I held her close while standing on the Pont de la Concorde spanning the Seine, watching the boats ply the water beneath us. My hands ran up her thigh, while seated in cafes, shielded by the tablecloths. And when swallowed by the crowds crossing the Champs-Elysee or descending into the Metro station, I repeatedly whispered, “Do just what I say, when I say it, no questions asked; stay close to me and you’ll have a good time, I promise.” We both would laugh at this sometimes, but increasingly, my wife just held me more tightly and followed me.

At last, after a leisurely dinner in a café at the Bastille and then some dessert in a cozy small shop not far from the River, we rode the M 1 underground back to our hotel. The night air grew cold and crisp. The crowds moved almost silently around us. My wife listened carefully to every breath I exhaled and responded quickly to every direction. “Turn here, to the left. Yes, that’s our train, jump in.”

“But where will we get off the train?” she asked in the crowded car. I tried to point it out to her on the M 1 map above, but she couldn’t see it for the tall men around her, like me. “I’ll make sure we get off at just the right time.” She relaxed.

We walked up the broad Avenue that is one of the spokes of the Etoile, “the star” of the Arc de Triomphe. The quiet side street of our hotel grew near. The three young men at the hotel desk in the fitted suits and white shirts with open collars had already, over the last few days, taken notice of us.

I’m not sure what they thought, but I could venture a guess. I had booked the most expensive room in the hotel, across the small courtyard which the hotel surrounds and then to the third floor, up a rounding staircase. The room had French doors, of course, which opened to the outside, above the courtyard and another spiral staircase inside that led to a bedroom loft, tucked into the rafters. A cantilevered skylight above the bed could be tipped open to allow fresh cool air to settle in, even as it gave us a view of the stars.

After I opened the hotel room door and ushered my wife in, I came up from behind, after sealing the door behind me, and hugged her once more. “It is time. Take off your clothes.” She looked back at me surprised. “Do what I say, when I say it,” I said quietly with a smile, but also with a certain sense of command.

She began to undress, as did I. I climbed first up the spiral staircase to pull back the down comforter and open the skylight. She soon joined me on the bed and snuggled under the covers as I lay on my side. The air was clear, fresh, chill. I loved the feel of it, the way it made every hair stand at attention and every square inch of my skin conscious and alive. She snuggled next to me and moved her hand onto my naked chest. Neither of us wore any clothes.

I moved her hand to my nipples. “Here, you know how I like it.” She began to pinch and caress, with increasing pressure and tension. I began to moan and sigh with deep pleasure. “Now, take my dick in your hand. Make me hard.” She paused and stared at me, as if to say, “What about me?” Before she could speak, I said, “Do what I say when I say it and you will be safe. And YOU. WILL. HAVE. AN. AMAZING. TIME.” I squeezed her with a grin and she mouthed coyly, “Yes, sir.”

We would have this same conversation and go through these same motions over and over during our four days together alone in the City of Light. I had been to Paris many times before and was no stranger to the Metro, the Seine, the cafes, the sights and sounds of this most romantic of cities. But my wife had only been once and then with me and our children. Without French fluency, without experience, without a grasp of how to get from the Sorbonne to the Galleries Lafayette on the Boulevard Haussmann or anywhere else, for that matter, my wife was charmed, fascinated and intimidated, all at once.

We held hands on the sidewalk, stopped to smell the flowers, wandered into coffee and chocolate

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