Bad Timing

I have dirty brown hair. It hangs in a mess over my face, gently parted in the middle. My eyebrows are darker and neat, and- darker still- the deep wells of my slow eyes. My smooth, thin skin glows paper-white. Wrapping under my eyebrows, it turns sharply around my cheek-bones, reaches up and around the tip of my pointed nose. Lower, two elegant lips rest immobile. A decisive line traces around my jaw, sharply turning upwards to meet two, delicate ears. My face is cut like stone, and its expression is just as dead.

As devoid as this room, which is entirely in white. White to hide the invisible, black smoke that did not leave the apartment with the previous tenants. The orange light from the street strains up through the blinds.

I'm reflecting. In my mind's eye swim the last four months. They overflow with images, scenes, faces drifting, and distant emotions. All in my swimming-pool of Paris. I look forward: Jane is in a plane and will arrive in the morning to replace my reflection with new moments. And, after two weeks together, another adventure begins. But presently, I assess tonight. My last night of freedom, probably for the next 4 months. I'm horny.

The orange light is interrupted by blue alerts from my phone. I sent out my calls-for-help on dating apps, summoning everyone on my list and in my vicinity. What returns now is a Tinder notification. My eyes drift and focus onto a profile named Artur. I scroll through his pictures, neither impressed nor offended. I respond, engage in the dutiful small-talk. Politely, I ask him his occupation. Also in music. I inquire further as Grindr's alternatives float across my screen. Our conversation is devoid of any questions about myself; a typical Parisian flirt- zero validation. I interview, he responds.

No, I won't fuck in the bed I'm going to share with my best-friend. He, too, is staying with a friend.

'Does your friend want to join?'

'Haha, nooo.'

'Too bad.'

I try again. Are you sure it won't work? Does he want to join?

'I really don't think that's a good idea.'

'Why not?'

'He's my ex.'

'That's kind of hot'

No response. I try again;

'You should ask him'

...

'He thinks your cute'

'Great. Can I see a picture of him?'

I hesitate before sending my number-- a habit, as if the hesitation helps me feel responsible. Another face drifts onto my phone. I receive a picture of a beautiful, dark-haired, blue-eyed boy. They make a cute couple, I tell him. Along with his picture comes the address, which is too far to metro to at this hour (again, I feign responsibility).

'Take an Uber'

'Too expensive'

'We'll split it'

Yea right. I'll use any obstacle to stay in bed.

'Thanks, you guys are really cute. I'm sure you'll have a good night regardless ;)'

'Nooo, come!!'

My conscience now wearing on me, I lose interest. Once, my conscience used to assume my own voice. Now, it's Jane's. And at this moment my best friend is patronizing. "J, you're really gonna race me back to the AirBnB, walk-of-shame style?" Stressful, I admit. I yield, and my left hand descends to assume it's nightly duty. Several minutes later:

'My ex and I will pay your Uber'

How can I say no?

'UberX'

That's how.

'No come on, Uber pool?'

'UberX'

Please turn me down.

'You're a bitch, I know babe, but I'm a great bottom'

'Oh yea?'

'Yea, you could gain, side-chain-comp, bounce the fuck out of me'

'Oh haha, you're in music too?'

...

'Fine, UberX. Address?'

Shit.

———————————————

Uber's here in 4 minutes. I throw on whatever and slip down the narrow staircase. The alleyway looks like a movie. The mist blends with cigarette smoke in the street, there's yelling; a bottle shatters. There's a car stalking slowly behind me— must be the Uber. I look at my phone for confirmation: 'Tell him you're Artur.'

"Salut!"

"Oui, pour ... Artur?"

"C'est ça."

I hop in. Immediately, I wrap myself in conversation with the driver and I forget my nerves. I'm behaving stupidly. Going to an apartment to be fucked by two bigger, older boys I've never met... Jane's voice is pitched. The conversation takes over; he's funny, he isn't from here either and I ask about his story. The streets we weave through are empty. As we slow to our destination, I realize my phone had been accumulating messages: 'Are you in the car? Everything okay? Hello?' I quickly respond, telling him that I'm here. He tells me he's waiting outside.

I leave the car, but no one is around. Either side stretches out like an optical illusion, alternating darkness and sickly orange light. In a patch of dark is a boy in a green jacket gently lit by his phone. We ease towards each other.

"Jules? Artur?"

His pictures do not do him justice. He is absolutely adorable. Slightly curly hair, soft features, slender. He stands a good head above me. We greet cheek to cheek, and then again on the other side. He shows me in the building and we pause for the elevator. The silence is awkward-- of course it's awkward. So I continue with my interview questions. In the cramped elevator cabin, his soft syllables and inquisitive tones float around me. His voice is darling. I don't want him to stop. Also because I also don't want to risk him hearing my heavy heartbeat.

To be blunt, I'm kind of a hoe. I came to Paris knowing I would spread myself onto as many boys as I pleased. I managed to accumulate a good list of heavy-hitters. An unplanned threesome with two blonde Australians, light dom-play on the mayor's desk, a pit-stop between the metro change to the office, and the longest fuck of my life. All this to explain my surprise at how, in this elevator, I could feel so nervous. He is adorable.

Life's film-editor had cut-out the hallway between the elevator and the keys in his door. Before I realized I was standing in a small, dim room packed with music equipment. There's a fold-out double squished in the corner with a boy hanging over the edge. He rises to greet me. Evan is shy, he's not as attractive as the pictures. Artur asks me if I want to a cigarette, I decline— "no, I don't mind if you guys smoke, I like the smell." I like the taste. They invite me to settle on the bed. I keep my jacket on (the window is open and its Christmas-time). I feel them relax; and I feel myself relax. They're comfortable, they seem very tame.

"So you're American?" they ask.

"Yes, but I'm also French."

"Oh, that's cool. You don't have an accent."

"Haha, sorry to disappoint. So you're both in music, or?"

"Yes! Both Evan and I went to conservatory. Now we're both in the same mixing class"

"Oh, nice! What instruments?"

"Me violin and Ev viola"

(Viola, no wonder he's shy...)

"Very cool!"

"What about you, what are you doing here in Paris?"

"Well, I went to conservatory for piano. Like you, I moved into the electronic scene."

I explain to them my internship at the city institute, they're impressed. We uncovered mutual connections in the scene here, and things started warming up quickly. We start making jokes, they made jabs at my American side and my dated French (my grandparents raised me). Artur has the cutest dimples. Evan is so charming; his blue eyes drank everything in with intent. Almost 45 minutes goes by when Jane's voice reminds me of her arrival time. I stir, wanting more. I decide to be forward.

"So is one of you making the move, 'cuz I'm 20... and you outnumber me."

I brace for the response. They look at each other smiling and fidget; this part is always uncomfortable.

Everything gets quiet, they both turn to me. I settle on Artur's eyes as he leans forward, inching towards me. I close my eyes shyly and wait. The anticipation grows like a pressure until— I freeze. His lips rest around mine. I relax and taste his smokey tongue as it claims my mouth in slow strides. Can he hear my heart beating? I bend into him and release, not even realizing I had held my breath. I submit to him as our faces brush against each other, first lightly, then desperately. I feel his fingers, no, Evan's, gently reach the back of my head. Artur thoroughly paints my mouth with himself, more than I've ever been kissed. I obey his direction, making space wherever he goes. A few more circles, and he releases me, eyes deep in mine. I swim back and forth between his brown pools.

His hands hold my face, and- as they turn me towards his ex- I feel a coolness around my mouth; he was a messy kisser, and I loved it. Evan, who was next to me all along, receives me. Blue eyes closing, he brushes my nose with his, holding the space between our lips and lightly surrounding me with his smoke. Gingerly, he begins warming my mouth with his. Our tongues play around each other, and I feel him invite me in. I timidly kissed his mouth, and felt myself again relax my held breath. Somewhere else, I feel Artur wander under my shirt. His big, delicate hands glide over me. Timidly, they brush my sides and send jolts through my body. I let them pass through me, and feel Evan hand grasp the back of my head firmly, ensuring I stay his in spite of his ex. My shirt, being pushed-up to my arms, exposes my torso. In my nudity, I feel a wet warmth caress my cool abs; Artur had begun claiming my body.

At the center of these blissful, anonymous caresses and smokey warmth, I became painfully aware of the sharpness in my pants. Quietly, I reach down to fidget with the button without interrupting. But Artur dives to complete the task. Eyes closed, I feel him rise off of the bed. For a moment, I am alone with Evan. He kisses me confidently and skillfully frees my shirt from my arms. I wrap them around him for stability. My heart is really thumping and I start to fade.

I feel my pants come off. Without looking, I know my cock is visible through the tight fabric; I feel my tip pushing out through the waist-strap. I move to protest, I don't want my dick out while they're both fully clothed. But it's no use. I feel Artur return, easing himself down onto my body. Evan yields and, with his free hand, brushes Artur's head, his free hand still in my hair. I release him and slowly lie down, my arms floating down above my head. In that moment, I glimpse Artur, his determined eyes inches from mine, staring. The growing weight of his body on mine forces my breath to escape with a moan. He pauses, mouth slightly gaping. Suddenly, the first words spoken: "T'es beau, Jules"