I graduated from high school in St. Martin at the age of 18. I should explain that to graduate you need to pass a series of tests for a
baccalaureate
, or
bac
. Since the tests are given at the end of the school year, it's all or nothing. There is a lot of pressure on students to cram and pass the tests.
In any case, I passed easily with high grades. For this reason I was granted a
bourse
, a scholarship, to study English and French literature at the Sorbonne in Paris. Since I would be living away from home for the first time, my father arranged for me to live with a Parisian family, the Faures, in their apartment near the Trocadero.
Monsieur Faure was a
haut fonctionnaire
, a bureaucrat, in the Ministry of Education. He knew my parents through his work. Madame Faure worked in a travel agency on the Boulevard de l'Opera. Both the elder Faures welcomed me into their family, but were otherwise reserved and formal. They were both in their middle forties, and except for meals I did not see much of them.
They had two children. The older, daughter Florence, was twenty-three and had her own apartment on the rive gauche near St. Germain de Pres. It was for this reason that there was a bedroom available
chez Faure
. Their son Benoit, nineteen, was still living at home. So we were four in the apartment, and Florence usually came for Sunday lunch. The apartment was a typical upper-middle class one, on the fourth floor of a nineteenth century building. It consisted of three small bedrooms, a
salon
or living room, kitchen, and bathroom. Like most French dwellings, the toilet or
WC
was in a separate room from the shower. All of the rooms had high ceilings, and the windows looked out over the Trocadero and the
Tour Eiffel
beyond. I had Florence’s bedroom, which was furnished with a dark walnut dresser and bed. I was very pleased to have landed in such a place.
I applied myself to my studies and had little to do with the other students in my classes. Most of them were much older than I, so I was content to ride the
metro
to school in the morning and back to the apartment in the afternoon.
My first month in Paris, September 1988, Florence appointed herself my guide. She is the same height as I, 170cm or five feet seven. She was slim and elegant with dark brown eyes and black hair, and I felt like an ugly duckling to her swan. We went anywhere and everywhere, acting like tourists. Florence was Parisian to the core and she said that she enjoyed sharing Paris with me. She showed me where to find clothes and how to dress stylishly but cheaply. In St. Martin I always wore the Catholic school uniform of white blouse and tartan skirt so my wardrobe was sorely lacking. We shopped at the big department stores Galerie Lafayette and Printemps, but we bought more cheaply at Monoprix and Samaritaine. We had the same build so I modeled my clothing purchases around what she liked and wore. I began to think of Florence as an older, wiser sister.
I saw Benoit every day at home. He was a tall, lanky, handsome boy whose world revolved around sports. Even though he was a year older than I, he was still in high school. He was not a good student and his parents despaired of his being able to pass the
bac
. Yet he had a good memory because he could tell you details of every football match Paris St. Germain had played for the past five years. He was also a fan of American basketball and wore Chicago Bulls sweatshirts almost all the time. Michael Jordan was his god! As part of my rent, I tutored him in English several hours per week.
It was not hard to tell that Benoit liked me even though he was shy. I immediately felt an attraction to him, but I was as shy as he. At breakfast on weekdays I would come into the kitchen in my sleepwear, which consisted of a tee shirt and nylon shorts. While we were drinking our coffee and eating bread or croissants, he peeked at the outline of my breasts and the way my shorts wedged between my thighs. My all-over tan hadn’t faded yet, so I can boast that I looked pretty good in that skimpy outfit.
For my part, I thought he was gorgeous. Since we all shared a single bathroom, I had plenty of occasions to see him going to and from the shower with a towel wrapped around his waist. He had a nicely muscled hairless chest and flat stomach with well developed abdominals. A little trail of curly black hair led downward from his navel and disappeared under the towel. I hadn't seen his cock, but I imagined it lying concealed waiting to be revealed at some appropriate time.
After a couple of months, Benoit got up his courage and asked me go out with him on a Saturday night. He proposed that we go to a discotheque and then for a late meal with some of his friends. I was happy to accept since now the barrier of reserve between us would be broken. Neither of us was a good dancer, but our awkward gyrations were lost among all the other bodies at the disco. Between dances he put his arm around my shoulder as I pressed into him. It seemed very natural and comfortable. Later we went to a student hangout, run by Algerians, where we ate
couscous
and drank cheap red wine.
We missed the last
metro
and had to walk home. I was tipsy from the amount of wine I had drunk. I leaned against Benoit as we walked along the sidewalks. His arm was around my back and under my arm, supporting me. I was aware that his hand was in contact with the side of my breast, but it felt warm and comforting in the cold night air of a Parisian autumn. Arriving at the entryway of the apartment building, I turned to face him as we fell into a tight embrace, kissing deeply. This was my first real romantic experience, and I felt my nipples stiffen as his chest pressed into mine. His hand was roaming over the seat of my jeans, while all I could think to do was clench the material of the back of his coat with both hands.
"You are so beautiful," he whispered when we broke for breath. "I wanted to tell you that since the first day you came."
"
