To Drink, To Dream, To Love…

Oh, those heady days of romance and lust in Paris. We would laze in bed until noon, swimming in each other until we could stand it no more. A whore’s bath and a quick pulling on of trousers and stockings and then onto the busy afternoon streets, clotted with the conventional, the bureaucratic and the bourgeois, Parisian as we, but as foreign as a Martian. The hot sun shone upon us as we moved between shadows and keened our mutual musk, reminding us and repelling us from our bed-ridden mornings. We were upon the street, no return until our secular communion was consecrated.

Down a dim alley, to a ocher awning that promised a moist and cool tickle and trickle of languid veritas and conversation. We had left our apartment, but we had come home, come home to L’Beauchoir, where all our other carnal needs would be filled, and we would gird ourselves for the night to come.


One thought on “To Drink, To Dream, To Love…

  1. Pingback: What The Hell Am I Shooting Here? The Photo Show | What The Hell Am I Shooting Here?

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