There are a lot of rather sad stories on this site. I thought I’d add one that is well, joyous.
In my junior year of college I was accepted into a well-known program to study in Paris. Although the city was glorious and I made lots of friends, I was a bit lonely as the French aren’t the most accommodating people. Also, I’d broken up with my boyfriend for good that summer, and I’d never been that far away from home before. Remember, in the late seventies there were no cell phones, and no email. The only way to communicate with family and friends back in the USA was by post and the very rare, and very expensive phone call. I think my parents called twice the whole year.
That year I dated a few young men, flirted wth others (I kept finding tiny boxes of Godiva chocolates on my chair in class!), but mostly we went out in groups – there was really no one special. One day I got a letter from home, wherein my mother mentioned my father, who was in the Air Force Reserves, had a contact for me. My father had been away in training and had met another Air Force member whose son was also studying in Paris. At the time I thought, oh, that’s nice – and completely forgot about it.
A few months later, I returned to the house I’d been living in after a day out, and Madame F. , my landlady, told me there had been a phone call for me from a friend of my father’s. I was confused, and then remembered the letter.
I can’t remember if I returned the call, or if he called again – I think he called again. His name was Jim, and our phone conversation was rather awkward. In fact, I thought he sounded really preppy – but I think it was just nerves. Finally I said, “I really don’t know what to say!” He laughed and said the same thing, so I said, let’s meet. We agreed to meet at a cafe close to his apartment shortly thereafter.
We’d had the good sense to describe ourselves so we could recognize one another . I liked him right away. He ordered a beer and I ordered a Perrier trenche, and we talked and talked. He was a very nice, polite young man. Jim asked: “Have you seen any good movies laterly?” I still wasn’t sure about him, so I said “No!” He laughed and said, “Well, would you like to?” We made a date for the movies that night, and he met me at my metro stop.
It was a gorgeous spring night in Paris – warm for the first time, and everyone was out on the Left Bank. The movie wouldn’t start for a while, so we walked along the Seine and the Pont Neuf and watched the boats and the crowds. Then we saw “Rebecca” – he liked old movies, just as I did. We went home by metro – he couldn’t walk me to my door, he apologized, because the trains stopped and he’d be stuck – so he got off first, but not before he bent over and kissed me twice on the lips goodnight. There was such a lovely pause between the first and the kiss, too – titillating, in fact!
We made a date for dinner that Saturday. I can’t even remember where it was – it was a small, inexpensive bistro, and by the time we got there, they’d run out of everything we ordered. I think the waiter knew we didn’t really care that much about the food, so he brought whatever was left in the kitchen, and that made us laugh too. Jim did fill my wine glass up every time I dipped into it – I wonder now if he was just being polite or had an ulterior motive! I was “happy,” but definitely not drunk.
After dinner we went back to his apartment. I think we walked. We entered the foyer, got in the elevator, turned to each other and started kissing passionately. To this day I don’t know how we were both so sure – there was absolutely nothing awkward about it. We just turned and kissed and kissed.
Jim lived on the floor of an older Paris apartment building – servants’ quarters, now mostly occupied by students. His apartment was small and shabby, but neat. It had a decent view of the Eiffel Tower, and he must have tidied everything before I arrived. We started kissing again, he stopped to put on some music (I remember “Two tickets to Paradise”) and then we started kissing in earnest on the bed. In a matter of minutes we had our clothes off and it was wonderful. He was passionate and gentle – I’m feet, and at that time, before I’d had any children, tiny in the waist, but with ample breasts – a lovely armful for any man. He was about six feet, and I enjoyed feeling little and curvy in his arms. We kissed each other all over with abandon, from top to bottom, and then he rolled me over, looked at me and raised his eyebrows, questioningly, looking for my consent to make love.
There was just one problem – I was a virgin. I’d had some experience, but had never felt ready for sex. I wasn’t on the pill, didn’t have a diaphragm. I blurted out: “Jim, I’m not wearing anything.” – He looked confused, so I said “Jim, I’m a virgin.” Poor Jim! He dropped his head to my breast for a , then looked up and said “Well, it’s a surprise, but it’s a nice surprise.”
Well, that absolutely melted me, and I didn’t want to stop then. Luckily Jim had some condoms, and we proceeded to make love. It didn’t hurt – I was so excited by him and we’d had such delicious foreplay that he slid in pretty easily, and I remember feeling “filled up.” However, I must have been pretty tight, because I think Jim kept hitting my pubic bone, and the condom came off! He was persistent, though. He got up, got another one, then came back to bed and said he knew a better way. I had to kneel. I gave him such a look he immediately said “It’s not what you think!” So I turned back around and he entered me from behind, and there was much less resistance that way. He could penetrate more deeply and soon even with the condom I could feel his sperm shooting out of his penis.
I felt so proud I could give him such joy. I didn’t have an orgasm that night, but I didn’t really care. We lay in each other’s arms, enjoying the after moments, and I said, in all honesty, ” I could die now, happy.” By that I meant if nothing else ever happened that was good in my life, that night made everything worth while. I still feel that way, although I’ve had many other and different types of joy in my life.
We made love again in the morning, tenderly and passionately. We took a shower together, and jumped back into bed to warm up together under the covers. Jim cooked pancakes and made coffee for breakfast. I stepped out onto the little balcony through the French doors and looked at the Eiffel Tower. Jim came up to me, enclosed me in his arms from behind (his favorite approach!) and kissed me deeply on the neck. I can’t ever remember feeling more content than that.
We made love many times after that in the weeks we had left, before I went home to the east coast, and he to the west coast. Just before I left Paris he told me he’d had a girlfriend who was flying over for his graduation. Of course, that upset me, broke my heart in fact, but 23 years later I have no regrets. In fact, we corresponded for some time after that (the other girl out of the picture evidently), and Jim even once explained that he was afraid to get too close to someone he thought could fall in love with. For some reason, I couldn’t answer that letter. We were so far apart physically, I had s of law school ahead of me and Jim wasn’t even sure what he wanted to do. The whole thing seemed too difficult, and we went our separate ways.
I looked Jim up several years ago, when a friend was researching an article on US students in Paris in the late 70s. My letter ended up going to his father, who forwarded it to him. He was now on the east coast, married, with twin boys. He called me – I was speechless. It was good to hear from him, as I’d always wondered what happened to him. He’s moved back west now, for new job responsibilities, but we email each other occasionally. Jim, if you ever read this, I want you to know that night meant a lot to me. I believe I was in love with you, and a (large) part of me probably still is.
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