Friday, April 03, 2015

My de cinq à sept client was easy, he was happy to fuck me on the couch, leaving no bed linens to wash. I set the apartment straight and within 45 minutes I had Marty's top down and I was on the Blvd. du Palais, headed for home. 

There, I fixed dinner for myself and fed Wags and then out for a walk. I'll admit that I dawdled and while I had time to meet my client at 10, I would need to drive myself rather than a taxi. I valeted the Miata at the hotel, a bad practice, and entered Les Heures, where we were to meet. 

He was at the bar, with a saved chair and a martini for me. Though this was our first time together, he had sent several pictures and I recognized him straight off. Then he spotted me and waived. He was no rookie at such transactions and greeted me with a wide smile and a kiss rather than a handshake. Having completed the financial transaction earlier, we began our date.

We chatted some, mostly him, primed with my questions till our drinks were finished and we retired to his room. At one, when I came out of the bathroom, dressed and ready to leave, he was asleep or feigning sleep. On my coat, there were several 100 € notes and a note from him on hotel stationary that he had a wonderful time and would be in touch.

As I waited at the valet stand for my car to be retrieved, one of the doorman approached me, he was familiar and later I remembered that he worked at the Sofitel near La Defense and had warned me about hustling for clients at their bar. He greeted me with unfailing politeness, saying that it had been a long time since he had seen me and that he had assumed that I had left the business. "Just a break," I told him. "Will we be seeing Mademoiselle again?" He asked, to which I replied with an inauthentic smile, that "I hoped to. Frequently." As my car arrived, he bid me goodnight. But I'd been warned. 

Now off to the village.



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