Men!

 

In a change of tone, Men! is a humorous piece.

It’s a twist on the old saying: In order to catch a prince, you have to kiss a thousand toads.

 

Men! The only three-letter swear-word. They’re all the same — sweet nothings and then creeping away in the morning.

At twenty-nine, I’d pretty much given up any hope of finding an adult male. I was just looking for someone who might treat me better than dirt.

Probably Paris wasn’t such a good place to start but I’d won a free all-expense paid vacation and I’d never been there. I knew enough French to get around but I was very clearly an American. It didn’t matter what clothing or perfume I wore, I had that indefinable Yank-ness about me.

After the first full day, I realized that the only men worth looking at were the statues in the Louvre. The Parisian males were as willing to give me a leer as a wave and everything in their bearing seemed out of place in any self-respecting shark.

I’d tired of the night club scene in my mid-twenties and I wasn’t about to start in a city where I couldn’t understand the language. Instead, I found a nice quiet restaurant and contemplated indulging in some of the best cuisine in the world. I pored over the menu, trying to translate it back to something familiar. A veal cordon bleu would be nice or a decent boeuf bourguignon or perhaps some chicken Marsala in a decent French red wine sauce.

“The Marsala is not worth it here,” a voice spoke up behind me. I twisted in my chair, ready to show this Parisian some good old New Jersey slang — and stopped.

I think it was the eyes that did it. They were green. The sort of green a person just melts in to. Green eyes, jet black hair, slicked back to reveal a swarthy complexion, a ready smile and a chin that the Masters of the Louvre would have warred over.

His accent wasn’t French and it wasn’t American, either. There was a touch of English in it — with the crispness but also a softer sound … Italian, maybe?

“If you would, permit me,” the man said, bowing from the waist and then moving around to stand at the chair opposite me.

“I’m – I’m –”   flattered but of course I couldn’t tell him. “I’m expecting someone,” I finished lamely.

He glanced around the restaurant and smiled knowingly. “But, of course! And what sort of a man would leave such a pretty wife —”

“I’m not married,” I said. I should have shut up, I knew it. But … he was nice. He was not just handsome, he was cut — I could see that much from the muscles on his biceps peering out from his stylish short-sleeve shirt. Was it silk? I took a longer glance at his outfit and tried not to look impressed as I imagined its cost.

The immaculate white silk shirt was hand-tailored, I could tell from the stitching. Oh, sorry! I forgot to say — I’m a fashion designer. Men’s fashions, as you might have guessed. The vacation was an award for the best portfolio of the year.

The trousers — black, creased just so, almost certainly freshly pressed. And the shoes — oh my God, the shoes! Hand-tooled leather, hand-stitched uppers … those shoes were easily a thousand dollars in themselves.

“Not married?” he said, sounding incensed. He looked angrily around the restaurant. “Left here and not married?” He huffed. “I will have words with your escort.”

“No,” I said, raising a hand in surrender. “I lied, I’m alone.”

“And you did not want me to join you,” he said, his voice toneless even as one eyebrow rose thoughtfully. “By your accent you are American. New Jersey, correct? But high class, not the ‘Noo Joisey’ accent —”

“I should say not!” I bristled but he stopped me with a raised hand.

“Princeton?” he asked. “Your parents are historians or at least one of them, n’est-ce pas?”

My jaw nearly fell to the table. How did he know?

He smiled and pulled back the chair he’d been standing in front of, saying, “May I?”

I nodded and waved to the seat with a sense of surrender. He sat quickly, raised an imperious hand to the waiter who appeared magically by our table, whereupon he rattled off an impressive but hardly decipherable menu in French, added some word of urgency to which the waiter responded promptly and then disappeared back to the kitchen.

“If you don’t mind, I thought you might appreciate my favorite selection,” the green-eyed man told me.

“I don’t even know your name,” I said and mentally slapped myself for my tone of voice — I’d said it in the “I-don’t-even-know-your-name-and-I-want-your-lovechild” sort of half-hypnotized tone that I’d never heard in my own voice before.

He smiled and ducked his head apologetically. “What name do you like?”

I smiled at him. Very well, if it was to be this way, let it. “You look like a Tomas.”

“Ah,” his smile expanded into a grin, “you are very perceptive! My middle name is Tomas.”

“Spanish?”

“Paquito,” he replied with a flawless accent. With a negligent flick of his wrist he added, “But mostly I trace my heritage to the marshes of Italy.”

“Venice?” I asked, my heart pounding.

“Sometimes,” he allowed with a quick shrug.

The appetizer — and wine — arrived. Then the antipasto — and wine. And then … somewhere before desert I lost all track of time.

 

We were walking in the cool moist air of after-rain Paris in the early hours of the morning. His hand was on mine. It felt warm and a bit clammy, as though he was fearful.

My-middle-name-is-Tomas had been a perfect gentleman the whole evening. In fact, he was perfect. He listened to my stories, heard my complaints, clucked appropriately in the right places, nodded in others and looked affronted at the antics of my past amours.

“You deserve better,” he’d said when I’d told him about the last time, the worst time. We slowed by mutual agreement and now he halted, turning to face me.

“Well,” I’d replied, shrugging, “to catch a prince you have to kiss a few frogs.”

He blinked in surprise and then started laughing, a low, steady chuckle. “Oh! Oh, I see! Yes, you make a joke!”

“Not much of one,” I admitted ruefully.

“No,” he agreed solemnly. He gave me a sad look. “You would not believe how often I have heard that said.”

“So what, are you a prince?”

He smiled but did not answer, turning back to stand beside me and gesturing that we should walk again. Like a puppy, I followed.

I didn’t know exactly where we were going but I knew where we were going. There was going to be a bed and Tomas, my green-eyed prince.

Without a word he unlocked a door on a side street and ushered me in. With a tense smile, I entered.

We walked through a hallway on which were hung amazing works of art. I was certain that most belonged in museums. The hardwood floors gave way to carpet as we headed up the stairs past a statue that looked like Venus complete with arms.

“Where’s your bedroom?” I said, looking at the doorways lining the landing at the top of the stairs. He nodded toward the furthest one and I took his hand, leading him after me.

Inside, I started to remove his clothes and ducked forward to kiss him but he twisted his head.

“No,” he said, “no kisses.”

“No kisses for the poor prince?” I teased. He moved against me and grabbed me, lifting me off the floor and into his arms.

“No,” he said sternly, “no kisses for me.” An eyebrow went up mischievously. “But for you …!”

And then we were on the bed and I was pulling off his shirt and his pants and he was pulling my dress over my head and then — oh! This is why women come to Paris!

We made love and we made love and we made love. Tomas knew things about women that no man I’d ever met knew. He knew things about me that I didn’t know.

I was not putty in his hands — putty is too hard. I was liquid, limpid, languid — and loving it.

Somewhere I drifted off to sleep.

 

Sunlight streaming in the windows woke me and I twisted nervously, afraid that I’d had an unobtainable dream. But no! He was still there, his green eyes watching me anxiously.

With a cry of joy, I threw myself on him, locking my lips on his even as he cried — “No!”

Our lips touched. It was heaven.

And then … I … I … what was happening?

 

Big, big green eyes were looking down at me with a sad tenderness. I was being moved, I could feel it. 

“Oh, querida, querida! Why did you not listen to me?” Tomas’ voice bounced off me. I quivered with its strength.

He was carrying me. In his hands. Hands?

We went out of the bedroom and through another doorway. The air was moister, warmer and I felt strangely better. Tomas, muttering curses under his breath, moved around the room, twirling me and giving me a kaleidoscopic view of empty fish tanks, dark lights, and — frogs.

“Always it is the kissing,” Tomas muttered now, elbowing off a lid. And then he dropped me.

I was wet. I slid more into the warm water. It was nice.

“A thousand tadpoles!” Tomas groaned. “Do you know how hard it is to find good homes for a thousand tadpoles?”

Tomas, I wondered, what are you talking about? Had I crossed into a madman’s world? But, if so, the water was warm and his eyes were so green. A girl could get used to bed-hopping with a man like —

“Ribbit!” I cried in terror.

“Yes, querida,” Tomas told me sadly. “You have figured it out.” A tear formed in the corner of one eye and slowly dripped down his cheek. “They say to find a prince you must kiss a thousand toads. They never say what happens when the prince kisses back!”