Guillaume Bacharene

 

bacharene@gmail.com

 

This story is again bit of fact and fiction although based on some key, factual details from the past, updated to the present electronic age. I reiterate that a mixture of fact and fiction is what good writing is about, and, one has to write, above all, for the reader. Getting the words right and telling a wonderful story to which readers can relate is key. Words can move and induce a sense of involvement and identity. The wonderful feedback I receive is an absolute reward.

 

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Coffee to Go – Part I

 

My having lived all over the world seems to have sharpened the senses. I've talked about this with others, who agree. So, it is not merely an individual perception or fantasy. Human beings are creatures of habit and comfort but, living in different cultures, keyed by different languages, opens the mind to options, differences, possibilities. So, one has an `original' cultural identify and traditions but, these can become modified. And, in my experience, America is the place where if something new is going to happen it will happen.

 

So, I was in Los Angeles on a 4-month `stage' advising on a research project. The university had provided a charming apartment in West Hollywood and around the corner I had discovered a totally cute coffee shop, which became my regular haunt for `morning Joe'. It had a few tables on the pavement although most customers either did coffee to go or sat inside. I habitually arrived around 7:45am and would generally be alone outside, looking at the day's program and making plans. On this particular morning I had a day off and unusually there was a guy sitting two tables away from my usual spot. When I arrived and went in to order, he smiled, nodded and said "Mornin!" as I passed. Moments later I emerged to claim my spot. He nodded and smiled again. Now, over the years I had become accustomed to American openness and friendliness. It had become `normal' in my repertoire. I had learned to drop the usual French reserve. I had also learned to read `certain signs, certain indicators'. I sat down and opened my iPad after a quick scan through `Le Figaro'. As the calendar flashed up in iPad, I couldn't help but notice my only sidewalk companion. He had long hair, dirty blonde—not usually my thing—but there was something about him, a confidence, a cockiness, and he had me firmly in his gaze. This was planned and controlled. This guy was a skilled operator who knew exactly what he was doing and, he sure as hell was doing it; a choreographed performance such as I had never seen previously. Through my sunnies, I scanned the greater offering: cute smile, chiselled jaw, chin dimple (I always notice chin dimples because I have one and it had served me well as a beacon of attraction in the past); grey-blue eyes, nice body, covered in a Gap Paris T-shirt, pronounced pecs and nipples, long and tanned legs with golden hair, glistening in the sun and repeated on his forearms; bare feet and red rugby shorts. In short he looked like a slimmer and cuter version of Conan the Barbarian. I went back to my iPod and the pressing issues of the day but, Monsieur Trottoir (Mr Pavement) seemed determined to put on an event. I presumed it was for me because quite simply there was nobody else. Being surrounded by what was a very static scenario, the slightest movement registered and M. Trottoir while looking at and doing things on his cell phone, moved his chair so that I had a direct line of sight, opened his legs so his cock came in full view and leaned back. Free balling. Even had I wanted to ignore what was happening, it was impossible unless I stood up and left or, turned my back. M. Trottoir was on a fishing expedition and the bait—as unusual as it was—was tantalising. His cock was long and, even without looking pointedly, exquisite; cut, sleek, like a larger version of my own. He smiled again, licking his lips, the sun catching and enhancing the golden hairs on his legs but also, his ballooning rugby shorts allowed it to put a spotlight on his pubes. In sum the message said without any shame or understatement, `treasure'. It was like a slow motion performance and I realised he was setting me up, either to deliver to him whatever was in his head or to walk away. Next, perhaps not exactly shocking under the circumstances, he began to moan, sliding his right hand under his T-shirt making the Gap Paris logo jump as he massaged his left nipple.  His body arched and jaw dropped as if he were being beautifully fucked. He licked the forefinger of his right hand and as he caressed his left nipple, his cock rose to full erection. This entire experience was turning into the most intensely erotic I had ever experienced; beautiful, mesmerising. And then, he smiled and came back to earth. The treasures subsided and were hidden away. The next thing I got a huge shock. In fluent French he said:

"Alors Monsieur Le Beau, tu veux que je te suce la bite?" – "So handsome, would you like me to suck your cock?" I looked around. He continued: "Monsieur, il n'y a personne d'autre. Je te parle et tu m'Žcoutes." – Sir, there's nobody else. I am talking to you and you are listening to me." My jaw dropped. "Si tu lis Le Figaro, dŽjˆ �a parle!" If you read Le Figaro, already that speaks volumes."

Now, in using the `tu' form in French, the familiar from for `you' he was already taking liberties and making assumptions. Normally I would have been offended but this was far from normal. I thought for a moment. M. Trottoir was like a poet, a playwright and I was being tested. I replied: "Tu veux alors que ton cul dit bonjour ˆ une bite fran�aise?" "You want your ass to say hello to a French cock?" He nodded.

"Comment �a se fait que tu parles fran�ais alors?" I looked his straight in the eyes as I spoke. "How come you speak French then."

He switched to English. "My Dad worked in the US embassy in Paris. I was born there and thereafter, wherever my Dad ended up on a posting, I had a French nanny called Marie-Claire. I was stunned. His French was perfect, with the clear characteristics of the purest French in France, as spoken in Touraine. He brought me out of my reverie. "Alors Monsieur, mon cul t'attend!" `So Sir, my ass is waiting!"

"Ton nom?" I asked, "Your name?"

"Alors, c'est Claude mais on m'appelle CloClo." "Well, it's Claude but they call me Cloclo." I recalled instantly that Cloclo was the affectionate name of a French singer called Claude Fran�ois, electrocuted in his bath by a faulty electrical fitting. I thought for a moment.

"Alors Cloclo, tu connais peut-�tre la tragŽdie de Cloclo Premier?" "Well Cloclo, perhaps you know the tragedy of Cloclo the first?"

He looked at me.

"Oublions CloClo Premier, c'est plut™t CulCul qui t'attend!" `Forget Cloclo, it's AssAss waiting for you." It was a very clever `jeu de mots', a play on words in French. He was good.

 

As the perfect French gentleman, who was I to refuse? I fucked his brains out two to three times a day thereafter. Two days before my contract ended, I discovered he had a wife and three children. The last time I fucked him, as he moaned and shuddered beneath me, I said:

"L'AmŽrique ne manque pas de surprises." "America is certainly not wanting in surprises." As he moaned and my cum pulsed inside him he whispered: "Je ne suis pas amŽricain, suis ton cul!"

"I'm not American, I'm your ass!" But in French, this is loaded with meanings. "Suis ton cul" could mean, "I am your ass" with a notion that "My ass is yours" but it could also mean "I follow your ass" or, "Follow your ass."

 

Morning coffee, Morning Joe, had taken on a new dimension in ways unique to America.