Tuesday, November 03, 2009
Excusemoi Monsieur but I do not want to see your Pen*s
I thought I'd reminisce about France, love the food, like the people, adore the language... but as I sit here, the most vivid memory of my travels there is the number of men that couldn't wait to waggle their tackle at me.
From a phone booth in Blois, to a chateau on the Loire, to the quiet streets of Le Puy. It seemed that regardless of the temperature random French fellows felt a burning desire to whip their boy bits out of their trousers.
The first incident was in a phone booth. My sister and I were squished in there, calling Mum back in Australia to assure her that we were fine. Just fine. Alas half way through the conversation we were disturbed by a thud against the booth and both glanced around to find a middle-aged guy, trousers around his thighs, pressing his small, cold and frankly embarrassed member up against the glass. He was all, "allo, you want this eh?", whilst his pen*s was all, "its cold and I need a wash, can we go home now?"
Being entirely unprepared for this we did a beautiful impression of Not Coping At All, saying things like 'Oh GOD his dick is out," to mum on the phone and then hanging up and realising that as he was against the door we couldn't get out. Clearly this made his evening, as with a final wink and a leer, he tottered off, tucking away his mortified appendage and pulling up his trousers as he went.
So we scuttled back to the cheap hovel we were staying in, made a revoltingly expensive call to Mum to get her to stop booking her flight to come and rescue us, and resolved never to venture out after dark again.
Only after dark didn't seem to be the determining factor.
Three days later we had arrived at Chambord, a famous Chateau on the Loire.
So, I'm doing the tourist thing and snapping pics, the place is deserted and its just me. Only, it isn't. As I raise my camera and frame a shot across from one alcove to the other, I realise there is a youngish man standing in the alcove. For a moment I wonder why he has his fist like that in the front of his trousers, and then, in a happy moment I realise its because he has his poor cold embarrassed pen*s in his hand. He's all, "here is my gigantic pen*s ready for you to photograph," and his pen*s is all "no its fine, I'll stay here in your hand where its warm?" and I'm all, "if this is France what are the Italian men going to be like??"
So I reel away and hot-foot it to the coffee shop until my sister appears and we catch the bus back to our hotel. In hindsight I so wish I'd taken the photo. Hell of a lot more interesting than a marble staircase.
Anyhoo, so the final one. And really its a bit cheating because our last guy wasn't actually flashing at me. We're in Le Puy (which btw is pronounced Le Pwee, and not Le Pie, and yes it is where the lentils come from). Heading up the main street in search of dinner. Its cold and sleety and everyone is bundled up in scarfs and beanies and big jackets, the wind is just bitter. Then, casual as you like this older man walks past. Bundled up like everyone else except his fly is unzipped and gaping open to reveal no underpants - no, this is no absent minded zipping problem - its a cold, unhappy pen*s, on display for the world to see problem.
He hurries past, eyes down, and is gone into the miserable weather.
Odd. So very very odd.
And sadly that ends today's trip down memory lane. Tomorrow perhaps a list of the drug deals I've witnessed in various clubs around the world, or maybe a monologue about the seedy hotels with grimy sheets where you have to excuse yourself to get past the local prostitutes who hang out in the doorway.
Nah. Back to whittering about m'children, m'garden and m'lettuces and the War On Slugs.