Covid 19 Bored And Lonely In Paris

Caveat:

This story in no way intends to make light of the very real threat the Coronavirus COVID-19 poses to us all. Instead, it is about loneliness, and the reinforcement of a feeling of isolation due to the need to remain confined during the peak of the outbreak. If you will, it is a story about how life goes on, how romance finds a way, how people are people with their good sides and their bad, irrespective of the chaos all around us. It is also meant to be enjoyable, during these times of stress.

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Bored and Lonely in Paris with COVID-19

Lace lingerie, sex, and then love; all in Paris

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I was living the dream. My company transferred me to Paris, France, the most romantic city in the world. I was 26, single, and ready to meet some French guy who would sweep me off my feet, wine and dine me, and well...who knows what else?

Right.

I get here, I meet my co-workers, and they're nice enough, but before anything could happen (and anyway fraternizing with co-workers is forbidden by company policy, but I figured, who's going to find out?), COVID-19 burst onto the scene.

Quickly we were ordered to work from home, using the Internet. We had meetings using Zoom (something similar to the more well-known Skype). I had met nobody outside of work and had no social life. My French was good and I figured I would just read tons of novels, but the bookstores were closed. The cafés were closed. Everything except food stores, pharmacies, and Tabacs, were closed. (Tabacs were a strange French artifact that sold metro passes, lottery tickets, various expensive stamps used for government purposes like residency permits, and -- of course, it's primary

raison d'étre

, cigarettes and tobacco.)

Now, I was all alone, had not yet made friends, and had nobody to talk to, and could not even go to a café, in order at least to be around people. Also, it was March, cold, and rainy. French TV had little appeal to me. I was sick of hearing all about COVID-19 and the French municipal elections, and the only good thing was French dubbed reruns of the ancient American TV series Columbo. I watched Columbo religiously.

One of the Columbo episodes gave me an idea, and I began to wander about in my apartment wearing just a bra and panties. I would imagine there was a voyeur watching me show my stuff, as I went about my household routines, cooking meals, eating them, washing the dishes, and working at my laptop in the window, always clothed only in a bra and panties. I would get aroused, thinking of someone watching, even if I was sure nobody was.

For my work Zoom meetings, I would put on a totally correct blouse as if I were going to work, but below the waist I'd be wearing only panties. I felt wicked. I wondered if any co-workers at the Zoom meeting were doing the same? You never know, do you?

Sometimes I would get aroused by my thoughts. In those cases, I would retire to my bedroom, where the shades were always down to give me privacy, and I would let my fingers get myself off. I began to wish I had a dildo, or a vibrator, or something! All stores but food stores were closed. Well, this is why God in her wisdom gave us cucumbers, right? I picked out a perfect one at the local produce stand, insisting that it be "bio," which is the French word for organic. No point in allowing insecticides into my most intimate area, now, is there?

I upped the ante, just a little. When I washed the dishes after one of my home cooked meals (the only option, other than going hungry, since all restaurants were closed by law -- some take-out places were still open, however, thank goodness), I removed my bra, and washed the dishes clothed only in my panties.

This served two purposes. First, any splashes from doing the dishes landed on my boobs, and not my bra. That almost never happened, but it was my excuse to be bare on top. Second, it truly turned me on to expose myself like that, since in my apartment there were these big French windows everywhere, and it came without shades, blinds, or curtains, and now the stores were closed so the windows were destined to stay that way, except of course for my bedroom, which luckily came with shades.

The third day of washing the dishes topless, I simply stayed topless for the rest of the evening. I lay on the couch, wearing only my black, lace, see-through panties, and watched Peter Falk as Columbo solve yet another murder, while speaking excellently dubbed French. My breasts, which are a C cup for those who care about such things, arranged themselves on my chest, according to a mixture of the law of gravity, muscles, and skin tension. My large areolas and big bright pink nipples pointed to my ceiling, which had French embroidery decorating the edges, all around the room.

I felt truly wicked being topless and on display, even if I was morally certain nobody was watching. Why watch me topless, when you could watch talking heads discuss COVID-19

ad nauseum

on the tube? Or alternatively, when you could watch Columbo reruns in French? Columbo had a plot, and I was just a topless lump, lying on the couch. Okay, I had boobs, and maybe some guy would think they were pretty, but even a woman's boobs and illicit looks at them must get old after a while, right?

Right?

To be honest, I had no idea, and the fact that I had no idea I found titillating. I thought about the next step, losing my panties, but quite frankly I just didn't have the courage. Besides, a girl's tits are pretty, the subject of countless paintings over the centuries, but her twat? Not so much, I'd guess, and I had trouble believing anyone would want to see that unless, of course, they were in a position to do something about it, hee, hee. Sadly, nobody was.

*********

Good luck comes to those who wait. I knew it would not stay cloudy and rainy forever, and suddenly not only was it sunny and cheerful, but it was a Saturday! I couldn't go to a café or anything, but close by to my apartment was a church, and it had a little park alongside it, and I found an empty bench (true good fortune!), grabbed a book, and sat on the bench to have a good read.

It felt so, so good to get outside for a reason (sitting and reading), and to be amid people who were food shopping, or out for a stroll. A man sat down next to me. He looked at me funny.

"Excuse me for interrupting you, Madame," he said to me in French, "but I believe we may be neighbors? I live in the building right there," and he pointed to a truly nice French apartment building, made of cut stone, dating from the Art Deco period. It had statues of two women, one on each side of the entry, topless of course since this is France, and holding up the building with their heads, or so it seemed.

"Ah yes," I replied in my heavily accented French. "I call that The Migraine Building."

You don't joke with the French. I think the cause of the animosity between the French and the English was not just the Hundred Years War, the Norman invasion of 1066, the economic rivalry of the 18th century and the colonial period, and all those kings named Henry, and the like, or Louis for the French, but really it was the fact that the English, collectively, have a great sense of humor, and the French, well, they just don't.

"Do you, by chance, live in the building directly across from mine?" the man asked. Uh-oh, I thought.

"Why yes, in fact I do," I said.

"On the third floor?" he persisted, just to hammer it home. Double uh-oh, I thought to myself.

"Indeed," I said, and I scooted away from him. "We must keep one meter apart, my neighbor; Macron's orders." Finally, he smiled.

"You know, I wanted to buy that apartment, when it went on the market. I rent currently, you see. Without being indiscreet, may I ask what you paid for it?"

This is part of the charm of the French. They always preface questions about money with the phrase, "without being indiscreet," but of course that's exactly what they then do: They ask an indiscreet question.

"Oh, did your wife like the apartment?" I asked. I had noticed his wedding ring. I figured he was also to 35 or 40 years old, well older than me.

"She did. She really wanted us to have it, but she fell ill. Now, alas, she has disappeared," he said, using the French idiom for 'passed away.'

"I'm sorry for your loss," and I meant it, as I could see tears begin to well up in my neighbor's eyes, and I felt his pain. Death is a powerful thing, and it often makes me almost cry.

We talked a bit more, and then he excused himself and left. I saw him enter his Art Deco building. I read some more of my book. I felt sad for my neighbor, but thrilled to have had just a little interaction with another human, in person, and not on Zoom.

The good weather continued, and I kept returning to my park bench after all my work on Zoom would end for the day. I stayed in touch with work on my laptop, using my phone to keep it online. Lost in my work, I didn't even notice when my neighbor, whose name was Jean-Pierre (Jean is French for John, and is pronounced with a soft J), sat down near me, barely the requisite one meter away.

"Working?" he asked, in perfectly accented American English.

"Jean-Pierre? Do you speak English?" I asked.

"My mother is American," he said. "Dad was French."

"Was?" I asked.

"Yes, he's buried not far behind you, in fact."

"Oh!" I said. I didn't know what else to say.

"It's okay. I was young when he died. He was in the Foreign Legion. Africa. It was a covert mission, and well, someone killed him. We don't know the details, and probably we never will. He's just another casualty of France's colonial empire, I suppose."

I sat there in silence, just looking at him.

"You have lovely lingerie, you know," he said.

My eyes got large. I was at a loss. I said, "Thank you," not knowing what else to say.

"Care to go for a walk?" he suggested.

"Is this a date? I know you can't ask me out for a drink, or a dinner, or a movie, since the country is shut down," I said.

"Yes, let's make it a date," he said, and I closed my computer. I went to my building and stuffed it in my cavernous mailbox, which locks, and off we went.

We walked far, all the way to the Luxembourg gardens, and then all the way back. He walked me to the door of my building.

"I'd love to see your apartment," he said.

"Not on the first date, Jean-Pierre," I said.

"May I see you again?" he asked. The forecast for the next few days was clouds and rain.

"How about dinner tomorrow? My place? Seven o'clock?" I asked.

"Oh, I'd love to, but my poker buddies are coming over tomorrow," he said.

"The French play poker?" I asked.

"Some of us do, yes. Maybe the night after tomorrow? I mean, if I may?" he asked.

"Yes, that would be great," I said.

That night, being poker night at Jean-Pierre's, I didn't know what to do! I was wearing a very nice blouse and panties, as I sat at my computer, Zooming with my colleagues, until work ended, around 6PM. I looked out the window and saw a group of men entering Jean-Pierre's building. The poker buddies, it had to be!

A wicked feeling overcame me. I took off my blouse and was once again attired in only my black lace bra and panty set. I then went about my business, assembling my dinner, eating it, and then it came time to wash the dishes, followed by, of course, French Columbo reruns. I wondered, would Jean-Pierre share his voyeurism with his poker buddies?

I decided to do the dishes topless, and then I lay on the couch, my boobs once again arranging themselves in accordance with the force of gravity, and watched Columbo, as I wondered just who, and how many, would be watching little me? I felt so nasty, I almost came in my panties! I was so, so glad I had bought a fresh bio cucumber, carefully selected for its size, just that afternoon!

I remembered our conversation about J-P's dinner invite. I had invited him for seven o'clock.

"Seven? For dinner?" Jean-Pierre had asked. He was genuinely perplexed.

"I meant nineteen," forgetting the French use the 24-hour clock.

After he left, I panicked. Was I really going to cook for a French man? I'm not even a good cook when it comes to an American man!

I went to a top of the line caterer (called a "traiteur") and bought great food. I wouldn't have to cook, just assemble. I put on a tablecloth and had everything ready, and only had to figure out what to wear. I smiled to myself. Problem solved! I knew what he liked. Did I have the courage?

Get real, Joanie, I told myself. The man is a widower, and at least ten years older. He's French, and you're American. This is going nowhere, so you might as well enjoy it, right? For once in your life, take a chance! Live on the edge. Go for it! I realized I was leading a one-woman cheerleading section to encourage me to do what I knew I could never do. I'm just not that type of girl. Am I?

I had a long conversation by text with my best friend, Marcia, even though she was back in the States. I had been keeping her abreast in any event, and she knew all about Jean-Pierre and that -- COVID-19 be damned -- we were dating.

She had told me to go for it. She insisted. I waffled.

I chickened out. At the last minute I put on a T-shirt dress over my black lace lingerie, the bra and panty set that Jean-Pierre knew so well, from his peeping into my windows. I belted the T-shirt dress so that it showed off my figure nicely. I was so turned on just by the thought of having a man over, and a good-looking man to boot, that my nipples were erect, and poking at my T-shirt dress, being quite obvious I must say, even though I was wearing a bra. Well, well.

Jean-Pierre buzzed right on time, and I in turn buzzed him in, saying "Third floor on the right," over the intercom, as there were two apartments per floor. He entered, took a good look at me, his first time seeing me in person without my coat or winter jacket, or thick sweater adorning my body. Then he walked around the apartment, as I gave him a tour.

"Purell?" I offered. After all, he had used the intercom and probably the elevator button and God knows what else. He looked at me blankly. Of course! I used the French word, instead: "Gel?" I offered. He took some and rubbed his hands together expertly.

"The apartment is even nicer than I remember it," he said. "But you, my dear Joanie, look absolutely ravishing. You have beautiful legs, you know," he said, and I blushed. I realized that my T-shirt "dress" was quite short, and my legs were bare, as they were revealed almost to the tops of my thighs.

I offered him Scotch whisky or red wine, the only alcoholic drinks that I had. He took a whisky. As he drank, I excused myself to go to the kitchen to prepare dinner. My phone dinged. It was Marcia. I read her text:

Marcia:

DO IT!! You want to, and he wants it. Go for it, you dummy!

Me:

I'm scared. Won't I be sending him a signal? He'll get the wrong idea!

Marcia:

You sent the signal last night to his whole poker crew. He'll get the right idea, and you know it. How long since you've had sex, anyway?

Me:

Okay, good point. Here goes!

As I removed my T-shirt dress, my phone dinged.

Marcia:

Let's see. Go Facetime

I showed her.

Marcia:

Yes! Now get that barely covered ass in there and bring him some munchies to go with his whisky!

Me:

Yes, Mother

I turned off my phone. I brought the munchies in, and a smile the size of the Maginot Line lit up Jean-Pierre's face. Neither of us spoke of my attire, but J-P couldn't stop smiling.

"May I take a picture of your gorgeous self?" J-P asked, just before I had to head back to the kitchen.

"For your poker buddies, is it?" I asked.

"Yes," Jean-Pierre said, and for the first moment since we had met, I detected a touch of embarrassment.

"Well, then, of course. How's this for a pose?" I said, as I thrust out my boobs, and dropped my hands to pretend to fondle my pussy through my panties.

J-P clicked away, and he continued to click away as he walked around me, taking pictures from every angle. I just smiled. Men, you know?

"I think that's enough pictures now, don't you?" I asked. "The food will overcook unless I get to the kitchen," I said, and I rushed back into the kitchen, my boobs bouncing, just a bit, as I scurried. I got to the oven just in time. "Take your seat at the table!" I called out.

Ding, went my phone.

Marcia:

Serve him topless. Come on, babe, he'll be thrilled!

Me:

Easy for you to say! He'll photograph me for all of his poker buddies

Marcia:

And they'll think he's a stud. It will do wonders for his morale

Me:

What about MY morale?

Marcia:

Don't worry, girlfriend, your morale will be just fine. Trust me on this.

I closed my phone. I did it. Off came my bra. I quickly sent a selfie of me topless to Marcia, and then grabbed the serving platter, took a deep breath, and walked into the main room with dinner. Dinner being the food, I hoped, and not simply a generous helping of my boobs.

Jean-Pierre applauded. "What a meal! What a hostess! What a woman!" He grabbed for his phone.

"Really? Your poker buddies need photos of me topless, too?" I asked. I was getting nervous with these games.

"They certainly don't. These photos are for me. I want to remember this perfect evening for the rest of my life," he said.

I put the platter down on the table. J-P rose from his chair, and he pulled me into his arms. I melted into him, my boobs squashed against his chest. God, it felt good to be held. How I had missed the intimacy of another person, any other person, let alone one I kind of liked and -- yes -- even lusted for!

He kissed me. OMG, he kissed me! I had not been kissed since over a month before I had left for France. I felt as if it were my first kiss ever from a man. My pussy gushed, and I worried my skimpy panties were getting wet, I was so turned on. We hugged tightly, and I felt his hardness.

Our mouths opened. Our tongues met. Our tongues danced the dance of time immemorial between lovers. His hands roamed my back as we kissed. His two hands went beneath my panties and squeezed my ass. It hit me on the head how thoroughly underdressed I was, wearing only skimpy, black lace, almost transparent panties. I felt I was asking for sex; begging for it, even.

I pushed J-P away from me. "Let's eat, while the food is warm. You can kiss me all you want after dinner, okay?"

************

After dinner we both knew what would happen, but I for one thought it would be delicious to postpone the inevitable, to enjoy the wait, to treasure the anticipation. J-P sat down on the couch for the cognac and chocolates, and I deliberately did not sit next to him, but across from him, in the armchair. I could tell he was a bit puzzled by my behavior.

"I'm supposed to keep you a meter away," I said. "What if someone is watching?"

"They might have seen us hug and kiss, you know," he said.

"Maybe, maybe not. Are your poker buddies in your apartment right now, as we speak, watching us?" I asked. I had seen them enter his building earlier. I knew what he was up to. I just didn't care.

He blushed! Jean-Pierre Dupont blushed!

"Tell me more about yourself," I asked him. He did.

"What did your wife die from?" I asked him at one point. He was still wearing his wedding ring. That's when I learned she wasn't dead. They weren't even divorced. She was in Italy, and the entire country was in lockdown. Moreover, she was in Lombardy, the worst hit part of Italy, by the now infamous Coronavirus.

"So, while your wife is in mortal danger, you're having dinner with a topless bimbo, across the street?" I asked. I was angry that he had told me she was dead.