Me? a Gigolo?

^^^June 2005. On the beach of Cap d' Agde, France^^^

"An erection? Really, Armand?"

Yvonne rebuked her brother in a harsh, belittling tone. The slim, twenty-year-old frowned, shook her head, and glared at his erect penis.

"I can't help it," the eighteen-year-old answered. His face was red. "I'm surrounded by naked women. It's a natural reaction."

"What's wrong with your dick?" Yvonne asked as she made a face and leaned down to get a closer look at it. "I know all erections aren't straight, but that's a hell of a curve."

Armand's mother and grandmother turned and looked at the nude, young man. His mother, Brigitte, said to herself, "His penis is much bigger than his father's."

The grandmother looked at her grandson's rock hard cock, mumbled something in French, raised her right hand to her heart, and collapsed onto the sand.

"Are you happy now? You pervert!" Yvonne yelled. "You killed Grandma."

They rushed to the elderly woman's aid. Brigitte announced, "She's breathing. She only fainted." She talked to her mother in a soothing manner, comforting and encouraging her to wake.

Armand looked on. His eyes took in the chaotic scene. At first, he focused on his grandmother's face. His eyes strayed and he looked at the nude bodies of his sister, mother, and grandmother.

They were each at a different stage of life. His sister was lean with boyish hips, a narrow waist, and firm, high breasts. The left nipple was pierced. The black hair on her head was thick, long, and straight, reaching down to the middle of her back. There was no hair around her sex.

His mother at thirty-seven was in the prime of life. Her body looked soft and lush. Very sexy. She had full breasts. They sagged, but in a way that emphasized their size. Her hips and bottom were round, not in a fat way, but in a phat way. Her dark hair was wavy and reached her shoulder. The black hair between her legs was neatly trimmed.

Armand's eye's had no boundaries. He looked at his grandmother's wrinkled face and her big, saggy breasts which puddled on her chest and slid into her armpits. She had a paunchy belly and lots of gray hairs in her full bush.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" he said to himself. "They're family!" He looked at his erection and said, "Go away! You're embarrassing me!"

It didn't.

^^^A month before^^^

"We brought nothing into this world, and it is certain we can carry nothing out. The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord." The Huguenot minister said those words as he began the Protestant service of the dead for Victor Gagne.

Afterward, family and friends gathered at his house to pay their respects to the widow, Marie. The short, French-born, sixty-year-old woman sat on the living room couch. Her eyes were red from all the tears she'd shed. For the hundredth time, she nodded and accepted the condolences of another person who had known her husband.

When the last mourner left, Maria's daughter Brigitte, sat beside her, hugged her, and asked, "Are you okay? Do you need anything?"

"I need an airplane ticket," the old woman responded.

"What?"

"I promised your father that when he died, I'd take his ashes to the old country and scatter them on the spot where we met and first made love."

"And where is that?"

"You know your father and I were born after the war in southern France. The area was called the Languedoc-Roussillon administration region. Our families worked on an olive grove that grew behind the dunes adjoining the Mediterranean Sea. We met on the beach."

"I see," Brigitte said. Her brow furled and she said, "I'm worried about you traveling so far by yourself."

"I won't be alone," Marie said. "You and the children will come with me. I have money set aside for the trip. The kids are out of school for the summer. It's time you met your cousins. It's what Papa wanted."

"Okay. I'll talk to them."

Brigitte went looking for her children. A month ago, they moved in with her parents after her no-good husband bankrupted them and they lost their home. She was divorcing the bastard.

Her parents lived in an apartment above their day spa business. It was perfect for two people. A tight fit for five. She and her daughter shared the guest room. Armand slept on the family room couch.

She found the children in the family room and said, "You've both been great helping your grandmother through this difficult time. There is one more task we need to do."

Yvonne turned toward her mother, made a face, rolled her eyes, and said, "Argh! What now?"

"She wants to take us to France to a town on the Mediterranean Sea. We'll meet our French relatives and help her spread Grandfather's ashes on the beach where they first met."

"Cool," Armand said.

"You had me when you mentioned France," her daughter said.

^^^

A couple of days later, the family flew from New York to Paris. They traveled all night, landed in Paris, and took a smaller plane to Montpellier. They caught a train to the coastal town. Relatives met them at the station and whisked them off to an olive farm which Marie's eldest sister, Bette, and her husband, Jean-Paul, owned.

They arrived in the early evening and a celebratory dinner was held in their honor. Wine flowed. Victor's brother, Marie's sisters, and cousins and friends who had known Victor or Marie were there. Marie loved being with family and old friends. She feasted on the homemade French food, savored the local wine, and adored the fact that she was hearing and speaking her native tongue.

The hours of travel caught up with the Americans. Armand fell asleep in a chair. Brigitte went to her son, woke him, and said, "I'm exhausted. Let's go to bed."

"Yes," Armand said. "I'm not sure if I'm worn out by our travel, the wine, or eating too much food."

Yvonne was nearby. She yawned and said, "I'm sleepy and my high school French is not holding up."

Brigitte intertwined her arms with her children's arms and they went to bed. Marie stayed energized by being in her homeland.

^^^

Brigitte, Yvonne, and Armand made an appearance the next morning at around ten o'clock. Camille, their nineteen-year-old cousin, was in the kitchen. She saw their bedraggled appearance, smiled, and said in perfect English, "Sit. I'll get coffee."

"Thanks," Brigitte answered."Where is everyone?"

"There is always something that needs to be done on a farm," the young woman replied. She brought over the dark, caffeinated drink.

Armand sipped his and studied his pretty cousin. She had black hair, black brows, and glistening, dark eyes. Her long hair was combed and tied with a red ribbon which exactly matched the color of her lips. The slim woman had on a backless, summer dress that accented her narrow waist and showed off her shapely, tanned legs. He noticed a wobbly movement beneath her dress and guessed she was not wearing a bra.

Yvonne chastised her brother. "Armand, it isn't polite to stare."

"Ah. Ah," he stammered, his face turned red, and he said, "I'm sorry, Camille. You're so put together. I'm not used to seeing full makeup, combed hair, and a fetching outfit on a woman on Saturday morning at the breakfast table."

"Thanks a lot," his mother playfully. She focused on her cousin and said, "Camille, you look lovely. You didn't have to do your hair and makeup for us."

"This?" The teen dropped her arms, presented her hands to them, palms out, and said, "This is normal. French women always make an effort to look nice. I feel naked without my lipstick."

She turned away and went to get them breakfast. She brought over brioche and a sliced baguette. She placed them on the table next to a variety of jams and some butter. She said, "We French don't eat eggs, meat, or cheese at breakfast. We have some kind of bread and put jam, butter, or honey on it. I hope it suits you."

"Yes. Thanks, Camille," Brigitte said.

She and the kids ate. Yvonne bit of a jam-covered baguette and said, "In America, France is portrayed as a place of romance and passion, fashion and sophistication, and where there is an open attitude toward sex. Is that accurate?"

"Yes," a voice behind them answered.

All eyes turned toward the door and Camille's mother, Estelle. The forty-year-old woman was impeccably made up. Her black hair was gathered on top of her head. Her makeup was expertly done. She, like her daughter, had on a fetching sundress. Hers was accented with a colorful scarf.

"Good morning," Estelle said with a smile. "Yvonne, French is the language of love. Foreigners may not understand our language, but they like the way it sounds. It is perceived as musical, harmonious, and sexy."

"You're right there," Yvonne said. "I love to hear a man speaking French."

Estelle nodded, smiled knowingly, and said, "We are warm people known for being demonstrative in public. People kiss and hug when they meet in the street; friends walk around arm-in-arm or holding hands; couples kiss and caress in the street. That behavior would cause a stir in Germany but is not considered unusual here.

"We are romantic people. We do things differently than you do in America and are always looking for opportunities to flirt."

"So that explains being beautifully dressed and in full makeup even though you have no special plans this morning?" Brigitte asked.

Estelle chuckled and said, "Yes. And we talk to strangers. I've been to America. No one talks in the elevator. In France, we say hello and goodbye as we and others get on and off. We also greet each other in waiting rooms at the doctor's office and the hair salon.

"If you work in a French office, you need to personally greet each of your coworkers every morning. We look store salespeople in the eye and say bonjour when we enter and au revoir when we leave. We speak to people we pass in lobbies, those sitting on park benches, and to the bus driver. We talk with everyone."

"With all those interactions," Yvonne said, "you must catch someone's eye now and then."

Estelle's eyes twinkled, she smiled and nodded. She said, "Indeed. You have cracked the code. What follows is up to you. It can be a single rendezvous, a short tryst, or an affair that lasts for years."

"The famous 'cinq a sept'," Brigitte said with a laugh.

"Yes. The 'five to seven'," Estelle said. "You're familiar with the French term named after the time of day, after work and before dinner, when French people meet their lovers for a sexual liaison. Then, they dash home for a 7:30 dinner with their wife or husband and children."

Armand stared at her with wide-eyes and a slack jaw. Camille saw him, laughed gently, and said, "Cousin, you look shocked."

"How could you treat someone you love like that?"

The older, wiser people around him smiled. Estelle said, "Armand, we French recognize that there is sex and there is love. They are two different things. Sex is a primal, physical action. Love, although it can be equally sensual and erotic, it involves the heart and one's emotions."

She walked over to him. Put her hands on the table, leaned over, and stared deeply into his eyes. It was intense and caused him to look away. That's when he noticed that her dress had fallen forward and that he had an unobstructed view of her breasts. He took advantage of the opportunity and studied the woman's large bosom.

Estelle held the position and allowed him to look at her boobs. She said, "I'm sure that you are a good man, but you have feelings of lust and a desire for sex. When presented with an opportunity, like now, you indulge. My breasts are attractive, yes?"

Armand's face turned red. He looked away and stammered, "Ah. Ah. Estelle, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have looked. I shouldn't have treated you like a sex object."

Estelle laughed and stood, ending the show. She said, "There's no need to be embarrassed. I allowed you to look and I am a sex object. I am more than that, of course, but that is one aspect of me. Denying it is pointless. Just like denying that men and women sometimes want a purely physical interaction and that other times, we fall in love and have a deep, emotional connection with our sexual partner."

"We French are realists unlike you Americans," Estelle said. "You were shocked when you discovered that President Clinton had sex with an intern. We, French, are nonplussed when President Mitterrand's' mistress and love child attended his state funeral along with his wife and their two sons."

"I guess I am naive," Armand admitted.

When they were done with breakfast, Brigitte said, "Kids, go change we'll be leaving soon for grandfather's celebration of life service."

"Mom," Yvonne asked," what do you wear to a memorial service at the beach?"

"Funerals require black clothing. Life celebrations do not, but please wear something nice. Your grandmother wants to spend the day there so I guess we should wear sandals and normal beach attire."

Camille giggled.

They met up five minutes later. Armand had on boardshorts, a tee-shirt, and sneakers. His mother had on a one-piece bathing suit, a floppy hat, sunglasses, a formless black and white smock, and flip-flops. Yvonne had on sandals and a bikini under her bathing suit cover.

The French women wore sundresses. The men had on casual clothing. Marie's sisters, Bette and Gigi, were there as well as Victor's brother. They got into cars, drove to the beach, and parked in a lot. "It will be about a fifteen-minute walk," Estelle announced.

It was a warm, sunny day. They passed other beachgoers. None of them wore long, beach shorts like Armand. He saw Speedos, briefs, and longer, jammers swimsuits. The women wore one-piece suits and bikinis with and without tops.

"Camille, am I dressed okay?" Armand asked. "I don't see any men wearing trunks like mine."

"You would not be allowed in a French pool," she said. "To swim in a pool, males and females must wear something that is used exclusively for swimming. We are very concerned about hygiene and dirt or sweat getting into the pool. Dual-purpose shorts like yours would not be allowed, but where we are going, your board shorts will not be an issue," Camille said and giggled.

^^^

"What do you mean we have to get naked?" Brigitte said in a high pitched voice.

Estelle repeated her statement, "We are leaving the regular beach area and entering the naturalist portion where everyone is required to be naked."

Gigi, one of Marie's older sisters, explained, "Marie, things have changed since you and Victor first came to the beach. Back then, the area was undeveloped. It was farms and olive groves and only locals swam here. Cap d' Agde was a sleepy little town. In the 1970s, the French government developed the area, built up the town, upgraded the roads, and put in a rail line. The city is now one of the largest leisure spots on the French Mediterranean."

"You remember the Oltra brothers?" Bette asked.

"Yes. They grew olives behind the dunes adjoining the beach," Marie said.

"That's right. They opened a camp where people could stay while having a beach holiday. The camp grew as more people came. Many were naturalists so in the 70s they built a naturalist village. Where you met Victor is now a designated nudist beach. If you want to go to the spot where we used to swim, we all have to get undressed."

"Not a problem," Marie said and laughed. "I was naked the last time I was there." She began to undress. Her French relatives and friends disrobed.

Armand stared at his mother and said, "Do I have to get naked?"

"It looks that way," his mother responded. She didn't sound happy. "We have to support my mother and help give my father the send-off he requested." A chagrined look twisted her face, she pointed at the mother, and said, "Besides, the requirement doesn't seem to be upsetting the widow. She'll be naked in a few seconds."

Marie's dress was off. She unsnapped her bra and let it drop. Her underwear soon followed. Yvonne and Brigette began to undress. Armand hesitated, but all around him, people were getting naked. He saw butts, bushes, breasts, dicks, and a few waxed vaginas so he bit the bullet and took his clothes off. He was the last one naked.

"An erection? Really, Armand?" Yvonne hollered.

There were two dozen nude people in their group. Eleven were men and only Armand had a hard-on. Everyone looked at him and it.

"I can't help it," the red-faced eighteen-year-old answered.

"What's wrong with your dick?" Yvonne asked as she tilted her head and studied his penis. "I know cocks come in a variety of shapes and sizes, and that erections aren't all straight, but that's a hell of a curve."

Brigitte said to herself, "His penis is bigger than his father's and his dad didn't have that pronounced upward sweep."

Marie looked at her grandson's rock hard cock, mumbled something in French, raised her right hand to her heart, and collapsed on her side in the sand.

"Are you happy now? You pervert!" Yvonne yelled. "You killed Grandma."

The women huddled around Marie. "She's breathing," Brigitte announced. She put her hand on her mother's wrist and said, "Her pulse is regular and strong."

"Why did she faint?" Camille asked.

"Because she saw a ghost. Armand's penis is an exact replica of Victor's fabulous penis," Bette, one of Marie's sisters, said.

"Yes," Gigi said. "Many men could match Victor in length or thickness, but he is the only man I know of who had that sharp upward curve."

"He jokingly called it

The Pleasure Curve

," Bette said. She laughed and added, "And my God! He was right." She sighed with a faraway look in her eye.

Armand looked around. He was still in distress, blushing, and practically hyperventilating. His grandmother moaned, opened her eyes, and everyone's attention focused on her. Prayers were said. People crossed themselves.

Armand also looked at his grandmother. He breathed a sigh of relief when she sat up and said, "I'm fine." Then his eyes strayed and he looked at the nude bodies before him.

They were fit and healthy. The ages ranged from nineteen for Camile to seventy-five for his great uncle Tyce.

The four younger women, those under twenty-two years of age, like Camille and Yvonne, had slim hips, narrow waists, small, tight bottoms, and firm, high breasts with nipples that tilted upward. All in this group either waxed or shaved.

The next generation of women mourners were the daughters of Marie and her sisters. These women were in the prime of life. Their bodies looked soft, rounded, lush, womanly, and very sexy. They all had full breasts and their nipples proudly pointed to the horizon. The dark hair between their legs was neatly trimmed.

Armand's eye's had no boundaries. He looked at the senior women, his grandmother, her sisters, Bette and Gigi, and two acquaintances. These women had wrinkled faces and droopy breasts which had slid a significant distance down their chests. Their nippled face the ground. They were neither sleek like their granddaughters or fit and rounded like their daughters. They were heavier. Blocky. Their untoned bodies had paunchy bellies and there were lots of gray hairs in their full bushes.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" he said to himself. "Stop staring at the women. They're family!" He looked at his erection and said, "Go away! You're embarrassing me!"

^^^

The day after the memorial service for Victor, in the middle of the afternoon, Armand sat alone in a room in the big farmhouse and flipped through a French version of the magazine "Vogue". He said to himself, "The images here are much more sexual and suggestive than the ones that appear in the American edition. There's more nudity."

On the porch behind him, his grandmother and her sister, Gigi, sat and talked. He could hear their conversation. At first, it was the sister expressing condolences. Then, they shared childhood memories. A discussion of current circumstances followed. Their conversation was in French which Armand was able to understand.