The Reluctant Daddy

(Continued from CHAMPAGNE DREAMS PT. 3)

Having been traumatized by the unholy antics of a gaggle of Sports Gays whose brand of Super Bowl fun necessitated beer, DirecTV and a lobotomy, I decided that football would/should be left to straight dudes who need an excuse to get fucked up and give each other belly bumps, butt slaps and high fives.  As a sexually active gay man, I hardly needed the pretense of sports to get my fill of that kind of ‘male bonding’ if you catch my perverted drift.

As I was now hopelessly drunk at my charming Parisian cafe, I asked Pierre, the devastatingly handsome waiter to whom I’d been shamelessly throwing myself to accompany me cleat shopping.  While my American public school education was at best, adequate, for some unimaginable reason I am able to speak French semi-fluently.  I’ve never studied the language in any cohesive manner, I just picked up some CD’s once and it sort of stuck.  Naturally enough, I cannot transfer this talent to any other language, nor does it help me in any other facet of my life. My speaking French is like having an appendix, no one quite knows why it’s there nor what good it is, but unless that shit flares up and needs to be surgically cut out, it sticks with me for some unimaginable reason.

Like something out of ROMAN HOLIDAY, gorgeous Pierre tossed his apron to a co-worker, lit a cigarette and escorted me to his ancient Vespa Scooter that had coincidentally been parked next to my table.  Now, I know what you bitches are thinking and YES…I did feel EXACTLY like Audrey Hebpurn.  How could I not?  I dare you to drunkenly ride on the back of a scooter searching for your son’s cleats through the streets of Paris while clutching the rock-hard abs of a nubile Parisian waiter and not fancy yourself as Princess Ann!

As Pierre expertly navigated the byzantine streets of Paris and the wind whipped all around us, I caught a whiff of his intoxicating scent which smelt vaguely of fresh linen, aftershave, and cigarette smoke.  Maybe it was the closeness of Pierre, the endless bottles of champagne, the hypnotic beauty of the buildings, parks, and monuments of Paris that spread before us or even the heat of the scooter’s engine which presently warmed my thighs, I found myself unexpectedly overcome with exhilaration and longing.

Our journey ended far too quickly as Pierre rounded a curve and came to a stop in front of store with the disappointingly banal-sounding American name SNEAKER BARN.

(To Be Continued)