Perving on the Path to Paris
After a soulful goodbye kiss, I queue up at French Passport Control.
The long wait gives me time to obsess over Violet. The way her body moves when she walks. Her sexy lips. Her soft, squeezable tits. Her amazing ass. Her parting glance. And most of all, Violet's irrepressible personality. Her boundless self-confidence. Her saucy, self-deprecating humor. Her fearlessness. Has Violet been afraid of anything, ever?
How did I end up next to the hottest girl on the plane last night, anyway? Have I ever known anyone so sexually adventurous? Not likely. What did she say? "Get that hunky bod of yours to Prague, and you can cum where ever you want."
How long does it take to cycle from Paris to Prague?
And that parting comment? "I put my Skype address in your contacts. Use it!"
If Violet's wants me lusting after her, she nailed it with that invitation. I'm still tingling when I hand over my passport.
The Immigration Officer regards me suspiciously. His eyes dart from passport photo to my face and back again. After a triple-take, he seems satisfied. With a stamped passport in my pocket, I ride the long escalator to Baggage Claim.
My panniers are already on the carousel. And my bike is waiting in the Oversized Baggage Area. A French Customs Inspector pulls me aside near the exit. My heart sinks at the idea of him tearing apart my meticulously packed panniers. But he's more interested in my bike gear than searching for contraband.
"What's this?" he asks in English, tapping the rear wheel. I don't use a typical chain-ring cog and derailleur to change gears. Instead, there's a small silver hub on the axel of my rear wheel.
I ask him to hold the wheel off the ground, while I spin the pedals and shift through the gear sequence that's built into the hub. "Maintenance free," I tell him. "More robust and reliable than a derailleur." But he grimaces at the price, which is about $1,000.
"I can buy a new bike for that," he says, waving me along.
Five minutes later, I'm jockeying for space on the airport exit ramp, surrounded by taxi cabs, cars, and trucks. Charles de Gaulle Airport was not designed for bikes, pedestrians or, it seems, even motor vehicles.
There are some harrowing moments, but finally I'm pedaling toward Paris on a country road with the wind at my back, and the rising sun on my face. French back roads, I discover, are narrow. But so are the cars and trucks. And unlike the US, drivers are usually respectful of bicyclists.
Just before Noon, I arrive in the vicinity of the Ourcq Canal path to Paris.
The path itself is amazing. Perhaps because it's a weekday, I ride for miles without encountering another bike. The empty trail that stretches to a vanishing point in the distance reminds me how very much alone I am. Can art and sex save your soul? I'm on the road to find out.
The path enters a heavily wooded forest and climbs a steep hillside where I glimpse the first sign of other cyclists.
Two expensive mountain bikes lean against a chest-high stone wall. Next to the bikes is a gap through which a stairway descends to the canal. About 100 feet further along the path, a battered road bike with what looks like empty saddle bags also rests against the wall.
My curiosity piqued, I stop and listen. At first there's only bird song and the rustle of wind in the leaves. I'm about to push ahead when a peal of feminine laughter drifts up from near the canal.
By the time I hear a second volley of laughter, it's obvious this particular woman is in her early twenties. And the timbre of her laugh has a distinctive inflection that can only be caused by one thing. Sexual excitement.
I could, and probably should, ignore the distraction and continue to Paris. But like I said, my curiosity is piqued. So, I dismount and peer over the edge, humming to myself, 'I smell sex and candy.'
Directly below is a secluded picnic area. Most of it is obscured by the wall. What I can see are the intertwined legs of a couple embracing atop a picnic table.
I don't get voyeurism. Well... that's not entirely true. Watching a woman undress when she's unaware, I get that. It's happened, and was hot. But sneaking around in the shadows to peek on couples getting it on? Never appealed to me.
Until now.
The sexy laughter has worked a certain magic on me. My pulse is pounding and I have a powerful urge, not entirely sexual, to find out what's going to happen? Just a quiet picnic with a little kissing? Or something more?
Maybe a lot more?
Is this part of voyeurism's allure? The uncertainty. Like a live sporting event? Since it's real, there's no telling how things will all end.
Instinctively, I find myself thinking like a voyeur. As in, how can I get a better view? Near the third bike, the wall jogs out near the picnic table. And there's a little vine-covered tower that overlooks the entire patio.
Who knows, maybe this is the beginning of some strange and wonderful new fetish. Not that my ex, Cindy, didn't think I'm strange enough already.
I creep to where I can see.
The woman is stunning. Shoulder-length black hair and brown eyes that flash in the sunlight. Her skin glows with a faint copper hue. Her facial features are exotically beautiful. Maybe this is how Victor Hugo envisioned Esmerelda. Think of Rhianna, Shanina Shaik, or Kristen Kreuk. You get the general idea.
While she's in her lover's arms, I can't tell much about her figure. But after a long kiss, she breaks away, climbs off the table and twirls around with the grace of a runway model.
Athletic shoulders. Round, ripe breasts. Thin waist. Long, coltish legs. With her eyes fixed on him, her fingers reach to the top button on her blouse. My heartbeat kicks up another notch. There's no denying it.
Watching her is a horny rush.
There's one problem. Now that I can see her, she can see me if she glances up. Show over. Angry boyfriend. The risk of discovery raises the stakes and adds a little adrenaline surge to my already rampant hormones. And forces me into the shadows.
The little stone tower is my best hope. Behind it is an arched opening with light filtering through what looks like a latticed window. I duck inside.
But there's just one big problem. Someone's already here.
She, and it's almost certainly a she, is kneeling on a carved stone bench wearing skinny jeans that conform seamlessly to a very shapely ass and thighs. On top she has an equally tight black T-shirt. At home it would probably say something like Metallica, Anthrax, or Megadeath.
