FRENCH WHORES MAKE GREAT WIVES
(An interview with Gaspardo Del Tornet)
{The teller of this tale, Gaspardo Del Tornet, talks of his life experience. Gaspardo is a French citizen born in Aix-en-Provence of a father who was very strict, being a Sergeant in the French military, and born of a French Moroccan mother, who was a baker, specializing in chocolate filled beignets. Gaspardo is now 93 years old and has recounted his life's adventures as herein dictated to the writer known as Erectus. The interview starts with Gaspard speaking.}
My first wife Jean, God rest her soul, was, I'm not ashamed to say it, she was a French street whore. At the worst she may have been the most common of a common street whore who plied her trade among common men. For every man who has a cock, there comes a time he has need to find a willing chamber in which he can vent those poisons that the almighty has insinuated in the very spleen of mankind. Above all, my dear wife, Jean De Tormet was a fine person who was not only honest but treated people in the most Christian manner, and God knows, she alleviated the poisons in many a man's spleen.
Jean used to work the streets back in the 1960's, that surround the huge Flea Market in Paris, which is still found there on the Rue des Rosiers. Famous the world over for its fine antiques and unique offerings, many of the peddlers and antique dealers who displayed there were her regular customers, and many tourists found her beauty, charms and professional skills most irresistible.
In her day she was one of the most beautiful whores to work the streets. She no doubt would have earned more in a bordello but she didn't want to be under a pimp or boss, she loved her freedom and always remained independent. Of course, she always dyed her brown hair to a honey blonde, she had big natural breasts with full perky nipples, probably bigger than the ever popular Bardot but with a narrow waist just like Brigitte who she resembled. In the evening she was often mistaken for the starlet, which is ridiculous, what would Bardot be doing whoring on the street under a night lamp? But men live in a fantasy world and Jean had every right to take advantage of their sexual stupidity. But the truth was she was a near look alike, it was uncanny, I must say that whenever we went places together, people would point and often come up to us to ask for her autograph.
Jean was extremely intelligent, spoke pieces of several languages. When approached by foreigners she could get by in sex banter with the Chinese in Mandarin, with Indians in Urdu and with the blackest of Africans in Swahili, she could even trade Brooklyn slang with the Yanks and if she could not communicate with words, she would use sign language. And for those clients who prefer quiet, her face could communicate all the necessary emotions while her mouth did all the work or the preparation for what comes next.
Why would I marry street whore? Well for the very simple reason that I am a romantic. I fell in love with her. Above all, you don't' try to reform a street whore. You accept the reality of their profession as if they were a missionary who promotes sexual wellness. And above all, you must never be jealous of her clients. Her regulars all fell in love with her and most of them loved me as I was her husband, and they were thankful I was there to keep her well and protected. As long as you do not interfere with your wife's satisfying their needs, her clients will consider you a brother. I counted her best customers among my closest friends and through this long life they have often come to both our aid, like Dr. Monet, but that is a story for another time.
Of course, Jean was an expert at sex, more expert in fact than any woman I had ever met, and I'd bedded many before, during and after the wedding. She was an expert at fellatio, she could swallow a 12 inch penis as easily as a peppermint stick, she could jerk off a man as easily as milking a goat for cheese, her vulva was as fuckable and redeeming as a priest's benediction after a confession and her clitorous seemed to have a hidden trigger that could elicit a flood of cum from the most recalcitrant customer.
As you might expect it was an open marriage, I like to say we were both open to anything, but in the end we were always together. We were married for over 40 years, of course she retired from her chosen profession five years after we married. That had been her plan from the start.
How did I get to know her? Well, as Maurice Chevalier would say in Gigi, "I remember it well."
It was a warm summer night. The air in the city was thick with food smells, garlic and onion, fish stew, Moroccan dishes and the rising scent of fresh baked bread from the Arab kitchens in the ghetto area. At that time I was a student at the Sorbonne. My speciality was the translation of French into English, if you have read Francois Rabelais or Arthur Rimbaud it was probably one of my translations. Translation is a difficult chore when it comes to conveying not only the meaning but also the subtleties and that special "color" that French writers seem to have a monopoly on. Translating Kafka's into English, or Thomas Mann, -that's easy, but try translating Guy de Maupassant into English—forget it.
Anyway, how did I meet Jean? I had spent the evening in the with Roberto, an exiled Cuban poet, who worked for a politically sensitive Spanish newspaper, Pasquale, a want to be Italian revolutionary and political science major and also a fervid communist and dear Pierre, a fine artist and illustrator of those bucolic court scenes you have no doubt seen hanging in lawyers offices around the world, at that time he was enrolled in the university medical program but seemed dissatisfied with becoming a doctor and taking over his father's thriving practice in the province.
We all were seated at a small table in the Bar de Champs, the four of us.
Pasquale back then fancied himself as a revolutionary, a Che Guevara, but today he is a fat bouswa who has inherited his father's vineyards in Italy and is more adept at exploiting the peasants in the neighborhood than improving their lot, I'm sure it was Pasquale who said,
"Shall we all not all go whoring tonight?"
And being young students with little money we argued amongst ourselves as to how we might afford the treasure of one of the madonnas of the night. We were all too poor to have liaisons with girls our age and although masturbation is a young man's vice, it never held the fascination of a ripe vagina. But how might we afford one? Pierre brought the discussion to an end when he generously offered,
"I sold a painting yesterday, there should be enough for a four-fuck but it would be nice if each of you could contribute what you can."
So we all three dug into our pockets and threw our coins and any small paper francs and pocket lint onto the table. Pierre collected the money and counted it out and then added a number of larger notes to top it off. With our new found financial strength we figured we could manage. Of course Pasquale, the big talker, nominated himself to negotiate for us,
"If we all make love to the same girl she would charge less for four fast fucks then if we were to choose four separate whores,"
We seemed to be in agreement on that point, besides, it was in the spirit of comradery to share and share alike.
"We are the four mouse-keteers," joked Roberto.
Needless to say, this all took place back when the pill had become standard ammunition for prostitutes and HIV had not raised its ugly head, when pleasure fucking was not something that put your life in danger.
Pierre led us to the alley where his old Citroen Ami was parked. We piled into Pierre's car which was a sort of small SUV/ station wagon that was popular and cheap in those days. The battery failed to start the car, it gave up after two weak tries. We got out and rolled the car back and forth a bit until we could get it's wheels fully onto the cobblestone roadway. From there we push started it. That seemed to do the trick, the car sped forwards about thirty meters and we all ran forward where Pierre awaited us, smoking a Gauloise.
He drove us to the San Cloud suburb as two of my friends mooched his cigarettes as the car quickly filled with smoke.
"Open the windows, I can hardly see," said Pierre.
San Cloud was obviously an area where Pierre seemed to know every alley as well as every whore on the streets. Of course we vetoed a number of fat whores standing under the lampposts who were excessively vulgar. One even lifted up her skirt to show off her vagina when we passed by, quickly picking up speed. When we didn't stop, she shouted after us,
"You are all fags."
When we happened upon a whore worthy of our attention, one who we all thought was attractive, the car slowed and Pasquale jumped out and started to negotiate, laying out the economic advantage of a foursome but soon he was overcome by her bad smell. He jumped back into the car saying,
"Boys, she must have syphilis, she smells like a sour herring."
Finally it was getting late, around 1:30am, we happened up a petite but delectible treat, there in the morning fog she appeared, like a savoir out of a mirage. This was the first time I ever saw Jean, a 5'4 inch blond who had a striking resemblance to a famous starlet of the day. Once we spied her everyone was in quick agreement, but could we afford her? Being good looking she was sure to cost more money than we had.
Pasquale again exited the smoke filled vehicle to negotiate, he tried to explain why it was to her advantage to fuck all of us at a discount as she stood there looking bored. He then veered into a political argument asking her if she would support his favorite leftist candidates in the upcoming election. He assumed she was a perfect voter to support his party. She listened but at a certain point she interrupted him,
"Listen you stupid ass, I am a capitalist, I sell my twat for real money, I don't pay taxes and I don't vote leftist. As for the government, they can lick my ass and as for the four of you, if you don't waste my time and afterwards drive me to Rue de Carnot—- I will charge you only for three fucks but I'll accommodate all four of you."
A brief accounting took place, then agreement. We opened he door and squeezed together to make room for her, she smelled like expensive french perfume and her hair was stiff with hairspray, her tits were overflowing her tight bodice.
"Drive to the Park Dumont," she commanded as she was the queen.
