(Sounds like the intro to a movie, doesn't it?)
I was 16 when I went to Paris...and that's where I fell in love.
(Well guess what. This isn't a movie.)
I was 16 when I went to Paris...and that's where I was humped by 7 Frenchmen.
Yeah, yeah, I know what you're thinking...
"Way to go, Natasha! Smother that French toast with a batch of your own syrup! Yeah, baby!"
Well, I'm sorry to disappoint you, but that is not how it went.
It all started in a small cafe with three of my friends. (If you converted this situation into some kind of algebraic equation, it would go something like this):
If you have four young teenage girls each ordering one 4 dollar cup of coffee from one male waiter, and two of the girls are adding a shot of espresso for an extra 75 cents, but one of the girls is adding whipped cream for an extra 25 cents, which girl will the waiter hit on first?
...and they said I should have taken a math class my senior year. Please.
"I'd like a cup of coffee, please."
"Of course, of course, Miss...?"
"...Natasha."
"Natasha....Natashaaaaaaa...are you American, Natasha?"
"Yep, I'm from America!"
"You don't look American."
"Well, I am!"
"I've heard a lot about American girls..."
"Have you now."
"Yes...I hear they're a lot different than European girls..."
"Oh, really?"
"I'll go get your coffee now."
He comes back, coffee in hand, mysterious male friend at his side.
"Hello, American girls!"
"Hi!"
"You want to go to a disco with us tonight, yes?"
"Hehehe!"
What? We were 16. We didn't know any better but to sit back and giggle at the 25-year-old perverts. Who happened to be quite attractive.
"We can't; we came here with a group of people and we have plans tonight..."
It scares me to think if we would have gone with them had we not had a mandatory engagement.
"You should forget about those other plans, yes?"
"HEHEHEHE!"
Look. I've already explained the giggling thing. You're just going to have to get over it.
"You know what the ladies call me?"
Random questions like this can never be good.
"What?"
"Superman."
"Superman?"
Along with the giggles often come questions you wish you, yourself, had not asked.
"Yes, Superman, because I be with THREE girls one night, THREE girls at the same time, in my bed, and they call me Superman."
Notice the word, "girls." Also notice the fact that OUR WAITER IS TELLING US ABOUT HIS THREESOMES AND WINKING AT US.
This evening was significant because, although we did succumb to a bout of the gigglies, we were not oblivious to our new outlook on Frenchmen. Well, let me correct myself: on the stereotypes Frenchmen believed were true regarding American girls and their frivolous friskiness. Which, while this can hold true for many girls out there, hence the skyrocketing on the "YOU HAVE A DISEASE; KEEP YOUR TONGUE IN YOUR MOUTH FROM NOW ON" charts, it did not match up to myself and my friends. BECAUSE WE'RE NOT SKANKY WHORES.
This is where we jump a couple days ahead on the, "Encounters With Frenchmen" Timeline, to none other than...New Year's Eve.
The streets were nothing short of chaos. As we walked along the sidewalk, we had to dodge people left and right (whether this was because there were a lot of people or because there were a lot of people stumbling around due to intoxication, I'm still not sure), and not one person was lacking the accessory of the evening: a bottle of wine. The whole time I crossed paths with a fellow teenager, a teenager with the ability to freely carry alcohol in their hand, only one thought was able to consume my mind.
Why am I not French. Why am I not French. Why am I not French. Why am I not French.
But no matter! It's not like I MIND the American law of prohibiting people under the age of 21 to drink! It's not like if we had been able to drink while we were young, we wouldn't go so haywire with it when we FINALLY were of legal age; it's not like a lot of people would still be ALIVE had they not had to wait over two decades to get to drink, and then not know how to handle it since they had been holding off all their lives! It's not like America is FUCKING RETARDED when it comes to alcohol!
As everyone else stumbled around screaming, "Bonne année!" (pronounced bone-oh-nay) (it means, "Happy New Year"), my friends and I cautiously wandered the streets, in complete awe of the scene before our eyes. It was beautiful...it was magical...it was a moment I'd never forget...especially when 7 men emerged from an alley... and began to hump us.
"Bonne année!"
They hit my friend Josie first.
"Man down! Man down!"
We tried to alert the group, but soon it was too late.
"Bonne année!"
They had swarmed us.
"Call for back-up! Repeat: call for back-up!"
But the 7 Frenchmen had their own idea of "back-up."
"Bonne année!"
We had no choice but to initiate Plan A.
"STOP, DROP, AND ROLL! STOP, DROP, AND ROLL!"
It was pointless; we had been seized.
"Bonne année!"
And conquered.
"WHAT TO I DO WHAT DO I DO!"
Josie shouted to me.
"WHAT DO I DO WHAT DO I DO!"
I shouted to Josie.
"Bonne année!"
The Frenchmen shouted to no one in particular.
It was no use; they continued to thrust their pelvises at any part of our body they could come near to. In our desperate attempt for survival, we moved on to Plan B.
"AAHHHHHHH!"
We began to scream.
Our tour guide turned around. FINALLY we had caught his attention.
"HELP USSSSSS!"
"Ha! Ha! Ha! That's what we do in France!"
Back to Plan B.
"AAHHHHHHH!"
"Bonne année!"
"AAHHHHHHHHH!"
"Bonne année!"
"AAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"
"OUR TOUR GUIDE IS AN ASS!"
"THESE GUYS ARE GRABBING MY ASS!"
We were in the middle of a battle that we were sure we would lose. We had no ammunition but our own individual pair of grenades, and that is exactly what these men seemed to be after as they tumultuously tried to fire off their own individual missiles. And people say the Vietcong was fierce...they don't even come close to the fierceness of the VietCOCK.
BUT, just as we were about to surrender, a neighboring troop of fellow females passed us, and the Vietcock immediately migrated to their next battlefield, with enthusiastic shouts of, "Bonne année!"
(Now I know why they pronounce it, BONE-oh-nay.)
Though our limbs were warm with friction, though our innocence was publicly stolen from us, though our last night in Paris was spent getting involuntarily dry-humped by drunken strangers, these strangers had moved on to their next target, which, in my optimistic opinion, means only one thing:
Mission accomplished.
No comments:
Post a Comment