The following story is fiction. However, it is based on two events that took place when my wife and I visited Paris in 2012.
There was an attractive couple in our hotel. I’ll call them Brett and Louise. One morning when I left the hotel to get some items for our lunch, I saw Louise being chatted up by a Frenchman. She was openly flirting with him and looked to be on the verge of leaving with the man when her husband appeared. The change in her demeanour was instantaneous. She snapped the word ‘Husband’. The Frenchman walked off, and she ran to her husband crying that the sleazy Frenchman was annoying her.
The other event was similar. While waiting for the Georges Pompidou to open, my wife wandered over to use the brand-new self-cleaning toilet and was groped by a lecherous French guy (her words). She said he tried to enter the toilet with her. My imagination flared, and so the story was born.
———
Louise shivered, not from the cold, but at the thought of the sexy lacy lingerie she wore under her plain white blouse and knee-length green skirt. It was the most expensive lingerie she’d ever bought, yet there was less material in the bra and thong than any she had ever owned.
She and her husband were sitting in front of the Pompidou Centre in Paris, sipping their coffees. Louise had bought three sets, plus some sheer nighties, to get her husband in the mood, as she wanted a baby. She was more than a little irked that her husband did not share her ardour and was giving him the cold shoulder.
Brett and Louise had been married for five years. Both were professionals in their thirties with high-paying jobs. Brett was in Finance. He’d made his first million before he was twenty-one. Louise, a lawyer, ran a small team for one of the oil companies. Both were attractive and tanned from frequent holidaying in popular hot spots around the Mediterranean.
They had busy lives, fitting work, sports, and socialising into their weekly schedules. They were both fit. Louise had long dark black hair and a pert, tidy figure, partly because she was obsessed with attending her Gym at least three or four times a week and partly because she tried to fit as much tennis into her busy schedule as possible each week. Genetics also played a part. She took after her mother, who still had a perfect figure at age fifty-four.
Brett also kept fit by attending the Gym, playing social football each weekend, and golfing at least twice a week. Their friends all thought theirs was the perfect marriage. And it was until Jill, Brett’s work partner’s wife, turned up at a party proudly sporting a baby bump. Louise immediately became clucky and began pestering Brett about starting a family.
Brett enjoyed their lifestyle, unencumbered by children. But after three weeks of pestering and torment from Louise, he sat down and talked through a solution. Brett put up little resistance as he realised it was probably a good time to start a family. They settled on Louise taking at least a three-year sabbatical as they had decided they wanted three children. Once they had their wish, they would hire a Nanny so Louise could return to work.
The first hiccup was that Louise’s company didn’t want to lose her and implored her to work from home during her three-year sabbatical. So Brett organised for some builders to convert one of their four bedrooms into an office.
The second issue would necessitate a significant shift in the more intimate side of their marriage. They made love infrequently, and neither had ever placed much emphasis on that part of their relationship.
Brett had always put all his energy into his work and sport. Women had never been on his list of priorities. It was more the pressure of living up to his friends’ expectations that he asked Louise out in the first place. His mate’s teasing him and suggesting he had no chance with her brought out his competitive streak. And when they continued to suggest he was punching well above his weight with such an attractive bird, he doubled his efforts and thought about marriage for the first time in his life.
She was no better. A messy relationship at University left Louise ill-disposed towards men, and Brett’s initial advances were met with total disdain. After a few dates, however, she let her defences down as he behaved like a perfect gentleman and did not seem to care if she wasn’t interested in bedding him. Even in the early days of their marriage, they seldom bothered to make an effort to have sex more than once or twice a month. That had slipped substantially by the time they decided to start a family.
Once they had committed to having a family though, Louise’s libido had soared. However, getting Brett to perform during her most fertile periods was a real issue. He frequently found excuses to bail out of date nights. After the fifth month of trying, Louise put her foot down and insisted Bruce take a week off work to get the job done. She booked a flash hotel in the centre of Paris and made Brett promise, on the threat of castration, not to even think about working for a week. She told him they were to make love every day.
Secretly, Louise started to believe there might be an issue with one of them conceiving. They had never bothered with contraception, and she suspected the problem might lie with Brett, as she had read somewhere that passion played a big part in one getting pregnant. Although her libido had increased, Brett was still his same old dispassionate self regarding sex.
By their standards, their first two nights in Paris were passionate affairs. They bathed in the room’s hot tub, drank champagne, and retired to bed early. On the second night they’d even chosen a sexy video from the hotel’s selection of soft porn, and they had their best sex ever. But the third night, Brett had fallen asleep on her, and that morning, he had rushed her out of bed and into the shower while he made them a cup of tea. He wanted to get to the Pompidou Centre before it opened, as he had read that there were long queues if you didn’t get there early.
It was Brett’s idea to go to the Pompidou. He had invested in some modern art earlier that year, and the artist of the piece he had invested in had some work on display at the Pompidou. Modern art was not her thing. The Louvre held more interest for her.
Feeling a little irritated, with only a cup of tea in her stomach, she let Brett lead her through the lobby and down the road for the half-mile walk to the Pompidou. They made it just before 10:00, only to find that it did not open until 11:00. That was how they came to be sitting in the centre of Paris with the remnants of a ham and cheese croissant and half-empty cups of coffee in front of them. Her annoyance increased when she caught Bruce trying to glance at a newspaper over her shoulder. She reminded him about his promise of no business for the week. Then, standing, she announced, “I’m going to use the toilet. And don’t you dare look at that paper while I’m away?”
She hailed their waiter, who pointed out a silver shed across the square. Louise objected. She did not want to use some filthy public French toilet with pee all over the floor and seat. But the waiter informed her it was brand new and self-cleaning after every use.
Reluctantly, Louise crossed the square and joined a line of six people outside the toilet. She was busting and asked the man before her how long they would have to wait. Secretly, Louise was hoping he would let her go before him. He turned and ran his eyes over her body. She tried not to show her irritation. In the two days she had been in Paris, she’d had her frequently had her bottom pinched and had several sleazy Frenchmen hit on her. And the arrogant look on his face told her he would be just like all the others. She noticed he was handsome, though, with an engaging grin plastered over his face. Not listening to his reply, she gave him a cold smile and looked back to catch Brett’s eye. The bastard was not looking. He was talking to the man at the adjoining table, with their heads in the man’s newspaper. She’d fucking kill him, she thought.
The French guy introduced himself as Pierre, seemingly unconcerned by her indifference. She noted that he spoke good English, heavily accented and very sexy-sounding. Even more annoyed with Brett now, she returned the smile and gave Pierre her name, hoping Brett would see her and get jealous.
——
Brett spoke reasonable French, not as well as Louise, but good enough to make himself understood. He leaned over and asked the guy on the neighbouring table where he had gotten his paper. The guy told Brett they had some papers behind the counter but that he could have his paper as he was leaving.
Brett opened it in the financial section and then guiltily looked across to see if Louise was watching. He caught a glimpse of her through the crowd and took note of the guy chatting her up. He had a chuckle to himself. That the guy was making a pass was obvious. But Brett knew the guy had no chance. Louise had been moaning to him ever since they had arrived in France about the French bastards hitting on her. Turning back to the paper, he looked up his stocks and read the articles. He was slow but could read French much better than speaking it.
——
“What has brought you to our city of love?” Pierre asked.
Not wanting to show interest, she explained that she was married and pointed out that her husband was sitting across the square.
“What a fool to have his head in a paper when he has such a beautiful wife.”
Louise could not stop nodding in agreement but replied, “We are very happy, thank you. Do you think this is going to take very long?”
“Sadly, mademoiselle, it will take longer than we wish.”
Louise ignored the fact that he had used the single woman honorific and asked, “Do you work close to here?” She knew the second she spoke that it was a stupid question. Of course he didn’t work nearby, or he wouldn’t be standing in line for a public toilet.
“No, mademoiselle. I work in Finance on the other side of the city. I’m early for a meeting over there,” and he pointed to a large office block.
At that moment the toilet door clicked, and a woman stepped out. As the door clicked shut behind her an orange light began flashing. Louise heard the water flushing inside, cleaning the toilet. There were three people ahead of her and Pierre. The man next in line turned to the woman hopping from foot to foot behind him and engaged her in conversation. Then, much to Louise’s astonishment, when the green light signalled the toilet was ready, the man guided the woman into the toilet.
“Are they married?” Louise squeaked, knowing dam well they weren’t.
“Non,” Pierre replied. “I read an article about the retailers around this square complaining about these new self-clean toilets. The old toilet used to handle forty or fifty persons per hour. But these new ones are pushing to pass fifteen through in an hour. I have heard that men often share, and sometimes women double, so they don’t have to wait. We French do not share the Victorian hang-ups you English have, so toilets are not so taboo.”
The woman standing before them turned and whispered in Pierre’s ear.
