Lover you're a WHORE YOU'RE A WHORE
Look I'm standing naked before you
Don't you want more than my sex
I can scream as loud as your last one
But I can't claim, in a sense
Oh, God, could it be the weather
Oh, God, why am I here
(It's not the weather
Hand me my leather)
Paris was an adventure, adventure after adventure after adventure. The Notre Dame is sober, calm, like a low voice talking in your ear. I joined in a French protest march (the teachers were protesting against their low wages) and returned home (and at the hotel) with a flag, and a sign-/board ("A good salary is a rising salary!" Ahahah, word). I wrote letters and cards and cards and cards. There was a huge Hard Rock Café spectacle-disaster that ruined half the trip and some friendships, but I ended up going there on Tuesday noon after all, so I was very relieved. Note to the strange sad beautiful praying girl in the Notre Dame. Party in Sophie's hotel room that last night, everyone going to bed early, drinking and laughing. M. asking if it was okay if she spent the night over at E. and E.'s room, long shower, packing, dressing in dress and nothing more in a hurry at four in the morning when Dirk and Marnix knocked at my door, wanting to hang out/talk. Desperate upset heart-broken letters to God in the Guestbook of the Notre Dame. Being serenaded in front of the Centre Pompidou. Far too much questions about mine and other people's sex lives and sexual orientation. Writing letters back and forth to ex-friends, given on streets or in supermarkets or in the Thalys, or pushed under the door of their room. Being a one-eyed monster. Posing for more pictures in five days than I have in years. Montmartre, and the horrible, horrible portrait the man drew of me - and I still paid for it, because I didn't think I could not. Later everyone said I should've. Metros, more metros than I counted. Mixcds, my beautiful-song playlist, and my vampire playlist, and three kinky songs, all on one CD. Not getting to go to Montparnasse. La Défence, which is like a postmodernist artwork, way to go for being grand. Wanting to buy cheap lingerie and lots of cocktails, but not getting a chance. The Rodin musée!! (F)(F)(F) His sculptures, and then stopping and watching closer and realising that he made it with his hands, that the marks are of his fingers, his materials. Oh, heaven. And the Louvre, modern Belgian art in between all the classic works. Not being very impressed by the Mona Lisa, as usual, but adoring Milo's Venus. Dirk who knew Tori Amos, and knew from the first few seconds that it was Leather playing - him being surprised at liking my taste in music. Victor Hugo's house, his macabre paintings. Some of my companions who started humming or yelling the intro to Smoke On The Water at the strangest moments, but also whenever someone mentioned the Hard Rock Café. The place just beyond the Notre Dame where the public tortures and executions took place! Buying cards and cards and cards and cards. The man at the station whose eye I caught and kept catching, who made that movement with his head that universally means, hey, follow me, not following, and wondering what Michèle would say if I gave her my bag and told her I was just going to have spontaneous sex in some bathroom/deserted corridor with a handsome man almost two decades my senior, brbkthx. Artistic poetic photos of things, including the Eiffel Tower. Dreaming and dreamless sleep.
Oh, little Stacy Q...