Date: Thu, 10 Jul 2014 22:56:09 -0700
From: R B <castoryteller@hotmail.com>
Subject: French Kiss

This story is a work of FICTION. The events described are my own invention.
Any similarities to actual events or persons are strictly coincidental. The
author retains the copyright, and any other rights, to this original story.
You may not publish it or any part of it without my explicit authorization.

This story contains depictions of consensual sexual acts between teenage
males. If you find this type of material offensive or if you are under the
legal age to read said material; please proceed no further.

Comments are welcome at: CAstoryteller@hotmail.com

French Kiss

Have you ever been to Europe in the summer time?  It's terrible.  The whole
continent crawls with fat American tourists.  There are lines for
everything you would want to see and the heat can be unbearable if you
don't have air conditioning.  I've spent every summer of the last 15 years
in Paris with my parents and I've never been thrilled about it.

My dad works for an American investment bank that has its European
headquarters in Paris. He travels several times a year but works out of the
Paris office during the summer.  My mom is a freelance writer for magazines
like Atlantic and The New Yorker.  Every morning my dad hops on the metro
to take him to the financial district and my mom kicks me out to explore
the city.  The only real rule I have to follow is my curfew, 11:00pm.  I'd
like to be back in Manhattan hanging out with my friends or blobbing out in
front of the TV but mom thinks I need to broaden my horizons.  I tried
telling her I liked my horizons right where they were but she just kissed
me on the cheek and sent me on my way.

I don't want to sound ungrateful.  I know lots of people would be thrilled
at the prospect of spending the summer in Paris but I'm just not one of
them.  Despite my efforts over the years, I can't speak a word of French
and the French only have so much patience.  I have to carry an English to
French dictionary everywhere I go or point and gesture at the things I
want.  I can't read minds either but I can tell by the way the waiters and
shop keepers look at me they're thinking, "Stupid American." I simply don't
fit in.

The one bright spot about this summer is my new camera.  Last fall I took a
photography class at school and discovered I have a real eye for it.  I
followed up that class with one on Photoshop and now I can do pretty much
any special effect I want in order to perfect my pictures.  I turned 15 two
weeks before we left for France and after months of hinting, my parents
surprised me with a Nikon DSLR, a set of specialty lenses and all the
equipment I would need to turn out professional photographs.  My mom even
got me one of those dorky vests you see photographers wearing.  You know
the type with all the pockets so they don't have to keep going back to
their bags to get equipment.

My Nikon has made this summer bearable.  Paris may be crowded, stinking and
sweaty but even I can't deny how beautiful it is.  When my mom kicks me out
of our apartment, I don my vest, sling my camera bag over my shoulder and
head out to photograph the world.  I make my way through the throngs of
tourists and search for something that tells a story.  I can spend hours
with a single subject.  It's amazing what light can do to change your
perspective if you give it time.

Today I'm heading for the Pont des Arts, a pedestrian bridge that crosses
over the river Seine and links the Institut de France with the Palais du
Louvre.  The bridge commands impressive vistas of the Louvre's neoclassic
façade and the cathedral of Notre Dame.  I'm not here to take
architectural photos, I did those weeks ago.  Today I'm out to capture the
"Locks of Love."

In recent years couples have begun coming to the bridge and attaching
padlocks with their names written on them to the bridges railing.  Once the
locks are secure they take the keys and throw them into the Seine as a
romantic gesture.  Not everyone is happy about it but the government hasn't
come up with a policy to stop it.  I thought the industrial appearance of
the locks set against the neoclassic architecture of the surrounding area
would make for an interesting contrast.  I also thought if I waited long
enough I might capture a couple in the act and maybe do a photo essay on
the subject.

When I got to the bridge, it was hard for me to set up and get the photo I
wanted of the locks.  Considering the view you get of Notre Dame, and its
proximity to the Louvre, I should have known there would be tourists
everywhere.  I remained undeterred.  I took my time and got the shot I
wanted then set about people watching.  As the hours passed the throng of
tourists died down as they headed to the cafes for lunch.  I didn't see any
young lovers but I did see a subject that caught my eye.

He was sitting against the railing with his knees up to support a
sketchpad.  He had light blond hair and delicate features.  When he looked
up from his drawing I discovered he had the richest brown eyes I'd ever
seen.  He must have sensed me staring at him because he looked right at me
and shot me a smile that rivaled the sunrise.  I got embarrassed and
quickly packed up my tripod.  When I turned back, the boy had returned to
his drawing.  He was beautiful, I'd never seen anyone like him before and
my gut instinct was to take his picture.  I put the tripod back in my bag
and hung the camera around my neck.  I looked through the eye piece, set my
shutter speed and aperture settings then fired away.

He was poetry in motion.  Every move he made, every angle I shot him from,
he was simply beautiful.  I lost myself in my subject.  Nothing else
mattered, not the tourists, not the passing policemen, not even the young
couple with their padlock, the subject I'd originally come to shoot.
Nothing mattered but me, the boy and my Nikon.  I was so caught up in
shooting him that when he got up and started walking towards me, I kept
shooting until he was standing right in front of me.

"Bon jour," the boy smiled.

"Um hi," I waved like a dork.

"Ah, American, oui?"

"Oui," I nodded.  Ok, I can speak one or two words in French but then any
idiot can tell you the word for yes is oui.

"Je m'appelle Luc," said the boy.  I must have looked at him funny because
he patted his chest, "Luc, oui?"

"Yeah, I got it.  I'm Jason."

"Ja-son?"

"Right, Jason," I nodded.

"Grand, Luc et Jason," he smiled.

"Uh, yeah," I nodded."

"Vous avez pris ma photo?"

"Huh?"

"Ma photo," said Luc, pointing at the camera around my neck.  "Vous avez
pris ma photo, oui ?"

"Oh, your picture, yes, I hope you don't mind," I blushed.

"Puis-je s'il vous plaît voir?"

"Um, I'm really sorry, I don't speak French," I blushed again.

"Ah, vous ne parlez Français, vous ne?  Je vois la photo que vous avez
pris?" this time he gestured at himself and the view screen.

"Oh, you want to see?" I replied, pointing at the view screen.

"Oui," he nodded and flashed his brilliant smile.

I switched the camera back on and started to cycle through the photos I'd
taken that morning.  When I reached the series I'd shot of Luc, he moved
next to me so he could look over my shoulder.  They weren't all great; I'd
set the camera on continuous mode and simply shot everything.  Luc laughed
at some but when I got to the picture of him chewing on his pencil and
looking out toward the cathedral, he smiled.

"Celui-ci est brillant, Jason, vous avez un bon oeil." I had no idea what
he said but he was smiling so I thanked him.  It seemed like he liked the
picture and that felt like the proper response.

"Garder une seconde, vous devriez voir ceci," said Luc.

It was obvious he wanted to show me something as he knelt down and dug into
his backpack.  I waited as he withdrew his sketchpad and flipped to the
drawing he'd been working on.

"Jetez un oeil à ceci," said Luc.

It was me!  The entire time I'd been taking pictures of him, he'd been
sketching a picture of me.  He was a really good artist.  He'd captured me
shooting the Locks of Love as though he'd photographed me with his mind.  I
started laughing and he frowned, he must have thought I was being critical
of his drawing.

"Vous ne l'aimez?"

"Great minds think alike," I smiled, then gestured between the two of us,
his sketchpad and my camera.  When it dawned on him what I was talking
about, he joined me in my laughter.

"Il y a un petit café là-bas, vous souhaitez obtenir un café?" he
asked.

"I don't understand."

"Un café?"

"Oh, coffee, sure," I nodded.  "I don't know where the nearest café is
though."

Luc rolled his eyes then grabbed my hand and pulled me along with him.  I
followed without hesitation but he continued to hold my hand in his.  I
didn't really think anything of it, he's French and the French are
more...free in that regard, especially compared to Americans.  When we
reached the little café, we sat on the patio and he ordered coffee for
the two of us.

As we waited for our order, I dug into my bag and pulled out my English to
French dictionary.  Luc took it and giggled, then handed it back and
pointed at my bag.

"Vous devriez mettre que de loin, il va vous confondre seulement."

Before I could offer some sort of reply, the waiter brought us two tiny
cups of espresso.  I stuffed the dictionary back in my bag and Luc took a
sip of his coffee then gestured for me to do the same.  My parents love
espresso but I'd never tried it and gulped mine down in one shot.  It was
so strong I nearly gagged.

"C'est votre première fois ?" Luc giggled.

"Sorry, I think I'll stick to hot coco," I blushed.

For a while he just stared at me.  His eyes were like shimmering brown
pools and I found myself easily entranced by him.  I had to shake my head
to break the spell when I noticed he was talking to me.

"Ce que tu fais à Paris?"

I recognized the word "Paris," and assumed he was asking why I was in town.

"I come here every year with my parents," I explained.

"Pair ants is momma and papa?" Luc asked in badly broken English.

"Oui," I nodded.  "You really can't understand a word I say huh?"

"Pardon. My L'anglais est très mauvais, mais je me sens confortable avec
vous.  Votre mauvais Français et vos photos sont charmantes," Luc
smiled.

Something about Luc's inability to understand me made me feel like I could
tell him anything.  I've never dated a boy. I've never kissed a boy.  My
parents know I'm gay but they're about the only ones who do.  I wanted to
tell friends at school but I'm really shy and I was afraid I'd be laughed
at or worse.  The last thing I wanted was to get beaten up over it.

"You're the most beautiful boy I've ever seen," I told him.  "When I saw
you at the bridge I never dreamed you'd actually come and talk to me.  I
knew I had to take your picture though."

Luc continued to smile and I think he recognized the word picture because
he posed for me.  He put his elbows on the café table, held his face in
his hands and stared at me with rapt attention.

"Hold still," I told him as I took the lens cap off my Nikon.  I snapped a
couple of quick shots. "Beautiful."

I think he recognized that word too because he blushed a soft, dusky shade
of pink.

"Quand je vous ai vu, je savais que je devais dessiner vous.  Il y a
quelque chose d'exotique sur la visite de l'américain.  J'aime beaucoup
la façon dont vos cheveux s'abat sur votre front.  C'est très mignon
quand vous vous brossez il part avec les doigts. C'est dommage je n'ai pas
mon appareil photo," said Luc, gesturing between my face and the Nikon.

"Oh, you want to take my picture?" I asked and gestured at my face and the
camera like he had.

He smiled and nodded so I slipped the camera from my neck and showed him
how to look through the eyepiece.

"Ah, oui, oui," said Luc, nodding his understanding.

"Ok, just press down on that button when you're ready."

"Say cheese."

I smiled on cue and heard the whirring of the camera.  Luc held the button
down for a moment and shot a series of pictures.

"J'ai comme celui-ci," said Luc, when we viewed the playback.  I'd turned
my head slightly and the late afternoon sun glinted off my brown hair.  It
was a pretty decent shot.

"No bad," I grinned, then my stomach rumbled reminding me that I'd skipped
both breakfast and lunch that day in order to sit on the bridge and take
pictures as the sun changed position in the sky thus changing the effects
of the light.

"Avez-vous besoin de manger?"

"Sorry, my tummy's grumbling a bit.  I skipped lunch," I blushed.

"Venez de suite, j'ai une idée," said Luc.  He stood up and held out his
hand.

I walked with him, hand in hand, as he led me to an outdoor market.  I
continued to take pictures as he selected bread, cheese, fruit and a couple
of bottles of water.  He carried the bag of groceries in one hand and held
mine with the other.  We walked to a park with a great view of the Eiffel
Tower and sat on the grass to enjoy our picnic.  Luc lay on his side,
propped up on his elbow, and I snapped pictures while he nibbled on his
baguette and talked about who knows what.

It was the strangest feeling sitting there.  The language barrier felt like
this huge wall between us yet at the same time, I felt perfectly
comfortable with him.  I know it's easy to think, "he's pretty, you were
just physically attracted to him," but that wasn't right either.

When we finished our meal, Luc took my hand again and we wondered the
streets of Paris.  He pointed at different things and talked as I took
pictures.  We were well off the beaten tourist path; he was showing me his
Paris.  I reveled in being with him.  I held his hand tight and luxuriated
in the softness of his skin.

As the sun set and night claimed the city, Luc led me back to the Pont des
Arts.  Every night during the summer the city of Paris puts on a fireworks
display and lights up the Eiffel Tower in an explosion of color.  I got
some great shots of the fireworks bursting and silhouetting the tower but
found more intimate subjects when I turned my lens on the spectators
gathered on the bridge.  Couples held each other close, put arms around
shoulders and rested heads gently together.

They call Paris the City of Love and I could feel it there on the bridge.
We were in the presence of genuine romance and I realized that's what had
been speaking to me all day.  Love doesn't care if you're American or
French, if you can speak English, French or even Esperanto.  Love is the
language of the soul and as Luc's soul reached out for me, I cried out for
it.

When I turned my attention back to him, he was standing close, almost nose
to nose.  He took my face in his hands and stared at me with those soulful
brown eyes as if he were peering into the depths of my soul.

"J'espère que cela ne t'offense, mais j'ai voulu faire ce toute la
journée," said Luc, then he kissed me.

It was a soft kiss, just a bit of pressure on the lips but it was sweet
like the nectar of the gods.  It was the most incredible feeling I'd ever
felt and when he stepped back from me with trepidation on his beautiful
face, I giggled.

" Vous n'êtes pas fâché? "

 "I don't know what you said but I don't even care," I smiled and put my
arms around his waist.  It was my turn to kiss him.

I offered him my lips and when they met his, I felt a little bit of my soul
escape with the breath I exhaled into him.  I held him tight and he held me
and for just a few moments the world was a perfect place.  Somewhere in the
distance a street performer was playing La Vie en Rose on his accordion.
They do it for the tourists and I always thought it was silly.  What kind
of jerk wanders through life seeing the world through rose colored glasses?

I thought it was stupid because it was a question I couldn't answer.  I'd
never known love before.  Sure my parents loved me and I loved them but it
wasn't the same.  With Luc in my arms and me in his I learned what love is
and for the first time in my life I understood, truly understood romance.

When the kiss ended we both smiled and Luc pulled me against him to watch
the remaining fireworks.  When the show was over I glanced at my watch and
realized I only had fifteen minutes before my curfew.

"Meet me here tomorrow morning?"

There was a look of confusion on Luc's face as though he knew what I said
was important and desperately wanted to understand.

"Wait, I don't want to screw this up," I smiled and pulled the English to
French dictionary from my bag.  "Recontrer ici demain matin?"

"Bien sûr.  Je ne pense pas que je serai capable de respirer jusqu'à
ce que je vous reverrai," he smiled his understanding.

"I've gotta go," I kissed him on the cheek and turned away.  I walked a few
feet and turned to look at him one last time.  It felt like I had to do it
if only to confirm it hadn't all been some sort of wonderful dream.  Luc
was walking in the other direction but he must have been thinking the same
thing because his head turned at the exact same time and we both blushed,
and then waved.  I walked home feeling lighter than air.

"Hold me close and hold me fast.  This magic spell you cast.  This is la
vie en rose.  When you kiss me, heaven sighs and though I close my eyes I
see la vie en rose," I sang to myself when I walked through the apartment
door.

"Jason, honey is that you?" mom called from the living room.

"Yeah, hi mom," I shouted back.

"How was your day honey?" she asked as she came out to greet me.

"Great, got some really good shots at the bridge," I smiled and patted my
camera bag.

"I saved you some dinner if you're hungry."

"That's ok, I ate in the park."

"Alright then, I'll head to bed," she kissed me on the cheek.

"Yeah, me too.  I've got stuff to do in the morning.  Oh, hey mom, before I
forget, can you sign me up for French lessons?"

"Uh, sure, if you'd like," said mom.  I think she was a little taken aback
by the request.

"Great, goodnight." I kissed my mom again and wandered down the hall to my
room.  I couldn't get that tune out of my head.  "When you press me to your
heart, I'm in a world apart. A world where roses bloom.  And when you
speak, angels sing from above. Everyday words seem to turn into love songs.
Give your heart and soul to me and life will always be la vie en rose!"



The End!