A Miracle and a Marine in Paris
Text by Wesley M. Giaccomo. Seine photo by Eve Andersson
Travelblogs.com – Gay/Lesbian PagesAdvertise with us
As on many other wet yet warm Paris evenings I started a very long walk from my apartment near the crossroads of Boulevards St. Germain and St. Michel and headed west along the Seine. Soon I passed theConciËrgerie, that castle-looking feature with the turrets where Marie Antoinette and her children spent their last days in captivity before being hauled off to place de la Concorde for a little hair trimming, you could say. Never does the beauty cease to amaze me on these walks, a sentiment also fitting to the endless views you get in Seattle. Usually these walks are long and relatively uneventful. Usually.
About an hour into this particular walk it began to rain on the already wet streets. Who wants to lug around an umbrella (or, as the French pronounce it, HUM-brella)? You just step under something if it's a downright downpour or ignore it if it's much less. At points the rain was in between, turning me to a trot, and then not. I had taken the river west and back through the gardens of les Tuileries, adjacent to the Louvre and had just crossed rue du Renard at rue de la Verrerie when I heard the squeal of brakes and then a thud. I turned just in time to see the pedestrian who had been thrown into the air hit the pavement and skid on his back to a halt. Everything stopped.
People gathered quickly at a short distance. I could see everything from where I was standing. Down from an apartment window was tossed a huge blanket, placed over the man up to his neck and tucked under his shoulders. He was not moving. People were holding cell phones. I waited for the sound of sirens while the blood around his head pooled into an ever larger area on the shiny blacktop. In the night his blood looked a deep burgundy. I had never watched anyone die. Who has?
I had been to funerals to watch the dead lie in their repose. Their remembered voices carry on somewhere in my head still. From what I knew they were good people one and all, but their life was over; and, if you believe that sort of thing, their soul bodiless with their last breath. In sudden accidents of death do souls hover not knowing what to do? Or if a person is so disconnected from the real world does that mean their soul had never been near the body for most of their lives? This is neither here nor there.
In the movie Ghost a bad man was killed by a car on a wet night just like this. Groaning and hooded black demons with empty cartoon eyes came and dragged his soul off into the night. It was scary because he was screaming for help and struggling like you've never seen anyone struggle. He had murdered a good man. It makes you think. What goes around comes around!
I thought I saw the soul lingering over this handsome blonde's body lying in the Paris street. Minutes passed. Still no siren. It made me furious. The French, they didn't get to Diana until it was hopeless, and now it happens again. These French! Seven years later they still hadn't railed the concrete pillars into which her car crashed. C'est la vie!
The man went into convulsions, and people gasped. Then his body went still. The pool of blood had stopped growing. It was over, and that was life. Still no sirens. C'est la vie!
But then this man just sat right up, and people gasped. Was this his ghost-body the angels had come to lift off the ground, waiting for him to get his bearings until they could take him cloudward to go play tennis on cloud-courts on warm, sunny afternoons for eternity? He stood, and staggered a bit, but made it over to an overhang to get out of the rain. Nobody including myself could believe it. I had never witnessed a miracle. Who has? I could leave now.
I walked away toward the Hotel de Ville always listening for a siren that never came. I shook my head in disgust at these French, so laissez-faire about everything. I don't always like them, and anyone who knows me knows this outright. I needed a drink.
The man at the door of theQuetzal welcomed me in out of the night and I took a draught to calm my nerves. Its effect was absolutely immediate. I took another, and another. I was good for the night. Good and horny.
However, no man there really caught my eye, as it happens, and I was as frustrated as I was hard. So I cut my losses, put the bottom of my glass to the ceiling, and walked out and down the street. I was minding my own business, truly, when from my left came a deep voice that said, 'Whatcha gonna do with that?' I turned to see a hunky, hot blond with a crew cut. He was staring at my crotch.
Perplexed first of all, I said, 'How did you know I even spoke English?' I really thought it bizarre, especially since I am half Italian and do not consider myself a typical-looking American. He replied, 'I don't know, you look the type. So, whatcha gonna do with that?'
With the three beers in me I was ready to speak my mind. 'Frankly,' I said, 'I was hoping to get it sucked.' Once he said, 'I think I can take care of that,' we went looking for a secluded place to take care of business.
Soon we came across a long, dead-end alley. We went all the way down and I turned so I could face the open end. In the constant, warm drizzle he dropped to his knees on the old stones. He undid my fly and let out a 'Holy shit!' 'Italian,' I said and winked at him. 'Now shut up and suck it.' That beer was talking again.
His mouth was fucking amazing, warm and wet. He went up and down on it as he grunted like a real, hungry man who need not be disturbed sitting down to hearty dinner. Just let him eat. He was so hot, with his blond, cropped hair, sculpted face, very strong jaw, and deep grunts. Looking down at him on his haunches I could see his thighs were beefy in his khakis. I pulled my shirt up and placed my hand flat between my chest and stomach, near my heart. There is the spot through which all of my spiritual energy flows. I could feel the current coming out, and thought it should be visible by a meter or lens of some sort.
I wanted to put my hand on his short hair but dared not touch this beautiful young man. It might wake me. But gaze down at him I did: he was the type you see every once in a while, and what's more get to be with, the type whose beauty absolutely confounds you.
He knew what he was doing down there. He needed to suck a big, thick cock at least as much as I needed to have mine sucked. This was a match made in heaven this night in the City of Light. His lips were amazing as they massaged my shaft and the long, underside vein while he simultaneously sucked gently with the insides of his mouth, up and down all the while slowly jacking his fattie. I was getting close. He sensed this and motioned for me to let loose. I had to lock my knees to keep them from buckling, they were trembling so badly. I let it happen. He shot all over my shoes as I made a direct deposit of my load right down his hungry throat. He did not miss a drop. I was in tears. This is what sex was meant to be.
He stood slowly and rose to over six feet. I asked him where he was from, and all I can say is he was a US Marine from a base in Southern California. Hearing he looked every bit of it made him briefly sheepish. We thanked each other, bid our adieus, and disappeared into the night.
On my way home I thought about the night. There was the incessant beauty, as always, of this town: ornate, triple-globed street lamps, painstakingly detailed facades and bridges, multi-colored ribbons of light reflected on the black Seine, warm windows glowing in cafes. It is such a beautiful place it will bring a grown man to tears. It will. I saw a dead man rise, and for me a United States Marine happily got on his knees. When you take a walk at night in Paris, there is always a guarantee of some sort.
Subscribe to TravelBlogs
Posted by Wesley Giaccomo on July 4th, 2002 in Articles.
