My First Time in Paris

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The dubious craft of “modeling,” posing in front a camera, was the last thing on my mind. It simply came to me, I certainly didn’t look for it. People had often taken my picture, just for the fun of it. But in Paris that was about to change.

I arrived in the ‘city of light’ a week before I was to start a summer job, to chauffeur German and English speaking kids of well-to-do guest around town for Hotel Nikko, to make sure they didn’t get in trouble. Things didn’t work out that way. On the very morning of my arrival, tired from the long drive because the French nuclear engineer who’d pulled over to give me a ride had asked me to drive. He had been partying the whole weekend and loved to just sleep and have me wake him up in Paris! A dream come true to any hitch-hiker and I was very happy to drive the 5 hours non-stop. Upon arrival I thought it would be fitting to take a nap under the symbol of Paris; the Eiffel tower. From my spot, next to one of the four large stone structures that supported her long, iron legs, I panned my eyes upward in to a seemingly limitless sky, all the way up to the top that had been the Eiffel family residence. Soon I sank in to a nice deep nap and would have slept for hours if a little dog didn’t lick my face.

I opened my eyes, trying to adjust to the bright light, what appeared were two long, suntanned legs leading upward to a white G-string. Contrasting with ‘Eiffel’s’ iron dame’s legs these warm-blooded, smooth, stems were not the sight I was expecting. I very much came to life, glowing with shame to such lack of reservation, -to allow the public sightings of the tiniest of undergarments at end of these endless legs to die for. Despite the good omen, I had not arrived in heaven yet. And in all fairness, given my position, I had no choice but look upward at the proud owner, of what appeared to be a fine example of a woman who loves to stride around in a tiny mini-skirt and enjoy the attention. She noticed my red cheeks and obvious Dutch accent and said “Oh…I was looking at you. Did my dog bother you? I was worried that he may do pee-pee on you…”.

While she chuckled I was overwhelmed.

“I am Isabella…what is your name?” As to accommodate me she came down and sat in the grass, allowing me to see more of her than her legs that had frozen the little teenage-boy-cool I possessed. Her face was only making it worse. -Bright blue eyes, set in a gorgeous, classical face, framed by cascading long waves of dark blond hair with sun-induced-highlights that draped shapely shoulders, wrapped in a fitting white, low cut blouse that could barely tame the bouncing of large, pear shaped, bra-less breasts, whose piercing nipples not only added red to my cheeks, they turned my guts in to knots. Why was this so hard?

I didn’t just blush, I radiated red and when I thought I would never fall in love it was that moment in Paris that changed every smattering of insight about the power of beautiful woman…I was sold and useless, lost in the depths of the azure blue of her eyes that blended with the cobalt blue of my own.

I was glad she did the talking, -explaining to me that she had studied art and specialized in sculpture, but made her money running fashion shows and posing in bathing suits.

Ah, yes, that made sense. The idea to see her in a bikini was nauseating and in response, with a few intelligible words, I manage to communicate to her my own love for art and of my plan to visit to the Louvre that day. When I thought that all she saw in me was a young fellow with a knack for art, she offered to show me the museum. I naively had no clue there were a lot of other things she felt I too should become familiar with. Things other than paintings, sculpture and legendary Parisian architecture.

As we sat in the grass I couldn’t keep my eyes off her…she was a stunning, absolutely mesmerizing beauty. I knew it and she knew it and we both loved it in different ways. I never ever saw a woman like her, and certainly not one to be so kind to take my hand, pull me up on my feet, then lean forward, look up to tell me: “Oh, you are very tall, I love tall man…nice!”

When she asked if I had a girlfriend it dawned to me that her “nice” didn’t mean the same as my “kind.” As to add to my confusion she planted a soft, wet kiss right on my lips accompanied with; “Welcome to Paris.”

As I tasted her saliva I thought of all the British and American soldiers that had liberated this city from the Nazi’s and finally understood how very happy these man must have been! In contrast, all I did was catch a ride to receive such unforgettable welcome while these legendary soldiers had to fight street to street before receiving a true French-kiss.

Not only did I never had time for girlfriends, I was clueless about what to do if I had one. I was in to kicking and hitting sandbags at school, climbed trees or sail the sea, stuff most woman I knew hated. But in Paris, under the spell of Isabella I was far too smitten and nervous to make any Gaziantep Genç Escort sense, let alone be a match to a 24 year old super-model who had seen and heard all she needed to know to read “boys” like the back of her hand. She knew, I had no clue and it showed when she took me to a cafe. We sat and after I slowly calmed down, able to at least glance at her without turning in to a total stumbling fool she asked me where I was staying. When I explained of my deal with Hotel Nikko she insisted I take her offer and be her guest and let go of my arrangements. “I’ll show you Paris too, don’t worry about Hotel Nikko, and I’ll show how you can make a fair amount of money fast. You will love it!”

That afternoon we entered the Louvre and she impressed me with her profound knowledge of nearly every piece of ancient sculpture, and her way of speaking about the forms, materials, the artist and the times at which they were made that made it so special.

As I day dreamed of the far away places from which Napoleon and his predecessors hauled many of the best pieces I looked at her lips, my mind floating on the melody of her voice. She took my hand and on we went to the next statues and paintings. I loved that everyone stared at us. Older, well dressed, distinguished men just sucked up every inch of her breast, her beautiful face and body…and yet, here I was, the spring-chicken from Holland, walking hand-in-hand with miss-world, the best statue of all!

She paused at the sculpture of a Bathing Venus by Christophe-Gabriel Allegrain, glanced at me and asked: “Do you see her womanly body, the reality, the imperfections?” Even looking at a naked statue put enough glow on my cheeks to light up a cellar. Yes, I did see, -the woman was a bit, what one could call today; “chubby” but I said: “She is a beautiful woman, so graceful.”

Isabella smiled and said; “At that time, trying to portray the ideal beauty, the artist choose her over many other’s and if you too love her womanly figure and her grace…you and I will have no trouble enjoying what I have to offer you.” I had no idea what she was talking about and looked around to see what other statue she was referring to. Not allowing me to even as much as ask she planted another kiss on my lips and grabbed my hand…were we heading to heaven?’

As I rolled out my camping mat next to the radiator in the living room of her Victorian style, three bedroom apartment on Reu de Doctor Germain-See, I didn’t think of the Eiffel tower, a mere ten minutes by foot, nor of the Venus bathing but of Isabella who stood in the door opening, observing me with a smile. Too tall for the French dimension guest beds I preferred the hard wood floor. I didn’t want to sleep in the guest bed room any way because it was right next to her room, offering her “privacy” when privacy was the last thing on her mind. Nor mine of course, but my mother had raised me well and that is what you did, -give women their space. Besides, while she was all over my mind, I foolishly assumed I was the last thing on hers, until she kissed me good night and I felt her body shiver the moment our lips touched.

Despite that proper upbringing and my best intentions I could not resist taking peek at her when she walked back to her room in her revealing, heart stopping, mind-churning, baby-doll dress. My God, those legs and firm derrière!

How would I be able to sleep?

The next morning, while I made breakfast, she explained to me that she was going to introduce me to one of her modeling agents.

“Modeling is one of the nastiest of all jobs, it seems glamorous, but you’ll not necessarily enjoy to be constantly judged on the level of perfection of your body and face which are always in a state of change. Perhaps, for you man it will be a bit less cruel. For us woman it can be hell. If I ever have kids, it’s the last thing I want them to do. Woman have no idea the reality of that world when they dream of it can turn them bitter, self loathing and insecure, or stuck-up and arrogant while they have little else to offer beside their perky boobies, skinny legs and flat buns. That’s why most of them never get to the top, it kills your self esteem. I was lucky to be lean but voluptuous and able to do bikini’s too…if I had to do just fashion I would quit. If you only heard what the make-up artist, stylist, agents, designers and producers say behind our backs.”

She explained how she grew elephant skin…”I don’t care anymore, as in the end I go home, open my mail and see that another large check has been deposited, then walk over to the mirror, smile happy about what I see and if I am lucky I turn around and kiss a man like you.” To illustrate, she got up and kissed me on my lips again, licked my tongue and pressed her self against me. I got nauseous and couldn’t say a word. My heart nearly exploded with pride…if only my friends could see me now!

“Today we are going to meet my agent, perhaps she has a connection, a photographer who needs a beautiful boy like you.” We sat down and she continued: “Let me warn you to never listen to anyone but your agent and don’t measure your self against others. Be your self as what you see in the mirror is not who you are inside. I bet you’ll be working as model when ever you like to, but do not let it get to your head. It is all just an illusion. That is why I keep studying art and help traveling art shows and have friends outside of the fashion world.”

That late morning we arrived at Elite Agency and her agent took one quick look and said; “We don’t really handle man, but you should get in front of the camera.”

She then immediately called a photographer, they spoke for a minute, she hang up the phone and gave me the address…off I went. Isabella suggested I go right away, kissed me good bye, I then walked through Paris for an hour before I found the studio. The photographer expected me and took a good long look as if I was a painting…or a piece of meat, then smiled and before I knew anyone’s name send me to the make-up room where female models were walking around nude or in their underwear, most of them top-less.

Flustered I accepted the soft, weak hand of the make-up artist who quickly got me ready for the L’ Oreal hair gel commercial they were working on. After my hair was gelled-up, to look ridiculous, I exchanged pecks on the cheek with a tall blond who introduced her self as Magdalena. All I had to do is get in to a speedo type swimming trunks stand in front of a white screen and let her fall in to my arms and kiss me on the lips…topless. We had do it about twenty times, carefully adjusting positions as to hide her nipples behind my arms. That was hard! When modeling could only always be this much fun. Could Isabella be wrong?

A few days later her agent told Isabella there would be a check waiting for me at the office with an amount that was higher than I ever thought possible anyone my age would earn in a whole month…and if I could work again the following week in a commercial.

“Oh, yes, good…and if he wouldn’t mind jump in the (ice cold, dirty) Seine river.”

Upon arrival on “set” I was actually asked to jump from a yacht and act like I was in the Caribbean. The moment the cold water hit my shorts I knew that Isabelle had been right. I feared my nuts would turn in to raisins when I had to repeat it at least ten times in front of faux palm trees and tropical silk flowers that floating on a platform.

The daily fee made it all a lot warmer and more jobs followed. Despite its moments of insanity it was mostly fun and the models I met were all very kind, intelligent and professional. It was interesting to see the cultural difference; models from Brazil, Spain and Italy were touchy-feely and always kissing me right on the lips, some even teasingly adding a quick tongue swirl with a smile and butt-pinch, while the ginormous Nordic goddesses could barely move beyond a kiss on the cheek but were then bold enough to simple ask “how about we meet up for drinks, tonight. I like you, you’re cute.” To me the ease and confident joviality of these gorgeous women was captivating and so unexpected. The possibility of me having any reluctance, lack of desire or hesitation to fall for their advances or at least be helplessly enthralled by their mere appearance never appeared to cross their minds. Did all men just dropped whatever they did at a chance to at least breath the same air, or whatever these models had in mind?

While I initially loved every moment in their presence and looked forward to all forms of interaction a strange feeling that I needed to guard myself being exploited slowly emerged from below all layers of pride, desire to be admired, and my own instinctual blatant drive toward sexual satisfaction. These were not normal woman but ferociously driven, calculating intelligent beings that often happen to be also irresistibly attractive, until I started to observe their behavior and listen to their conversations. Like with all people, most of these models were not as kind, culturally refined and educated, let alone as restrained as Isabella was. Of course, Isabella was aggressive in pursuing her objectives but she did it with class and keen observance of the needs and boundaries of everyone she interacted with. And I was all too eager to explore the depths of her wisdom, devotion to learning, sharing, love for esthetic proportion and sensual touch.

Finally, one week after we met Isabella called me over to her large bed room, by the sound of her voice I sensed she was up to something new. Only once before I had laid on her bed, fully dressed, taken a nap with her head on my chest. It had been magical to feel her voluptuous body, smell of her perfume blending with our pheromones as we kissed. She’d sensed my apprehension and nervous anxiety and said: “I love that you are here with me…we need to get to know each other better. Soon you will be ready for me” then teasingly nibbled on my earlobe: “You see, I don’t bite, I only kiss and lick.”

Wondering what she was up to I walked in to her room, happy to take her up on her invitation. Perhaps to once again sit in a chair and watch her give me mini fashion shows while asking for my opinion after suggesting I put together combinations of clothes, shoes, the extra’s found in her large closet and the racks throughout her bed room. Kindly correcting me if my choices made a mockery of style or ignored the lines of the female body whose “curves” I was to always subtly accentuate.” I loved these moments of interaction. It was not only a great way to learn about fashion, but an opportunity for me to look at her without blushing, something I still had not been able to master. She would say: “don’t be shy… keep your eyes on me, look at me… look at my body… look at how my clothes move. It is all a complex, balance of reality and illusion.”

That night was different, she apparently felt it had taken enough time. Now she didn’t have fashion and teasing on her mind;-she had decided the moment had come for me to learn about the living statue, the very structure that carried her further than runway’s and bikini-beach shoots. I needed to become one with the flesh and blood that lives under these pieces of beautiful designer fashion, all the stuff whose elusive existence was merely to enhance the female statue through the vision of designers predisposed to not care to sample the woman who displayed their creations to a market place that did a lot more than paid their bills. Buoyed by the media that blasted their goods in to consumers who admired, loved and iconized them to extremes that would engulf true Gods with envy.

From my spot in her chair I looked around to see her, but only I heard her voice: “Close your eyes.” Suddenly the lights went out. It was pitch-dark. Then music, slowly increasing in volume filled the room. I smiled when I recognized Richard Wagner’s “Parsifal Fantasia.” She had really put some thought in to what ever was coming. A match flared up to light a candle, giving me a fraction of a second to see a white ghost…”Isabella?”

Still not a word…the music swelled and then I saw her…but only the contour of a deformed human figure, nothing else.

She came closer, stopped about eight feet away from me and set the candle down behind her enhancing her silhouette. She now moved her arms and slowly twirled like a ballerina. In the flickering candle light she bend down, turned on the balls of her feet and with one swoop took the sheet of her body… I stopped breathing… was she naked!? I had only seen a glimpse of her when she walked in to the living room to kiss me good night or quickly slid from dress in to another partially hidden behind a screen. It was dim and I trembled the moment her nipples rubbed over my chest as she came down to kiss me. Her long hair had brushed my face, neck and chest and I wished the feeling would never stop. I remained yearning for her to touch me again, afraid, unaware that what she felt for me didn’t exactly match my confusion of love and lust but was rather lust and adoration.

I was so green and so lost in emotions… I couldn’t sleep as the wonderful scent of her body filled my nose the moment it ascended from the pillow she had given me. Devouring my identity, poisoning my brain and claiming my heart, only to replace the voids with lust, craving and fear… addicted to her every fiber. Like a dependent dog, sniffing his master, I let her played with me and I didn’t want to miss even a second of it. She now turned her back to me, the candle light revealed the sharp outline of her body, her hips, her endless legs and the sides of her big, bosom… and when she bend down to pick up the candle she revealed the area between her legs that I was afraid to even glance at. This was too much! Slowly, following the directions of the music she turned and walked toward me, the candle now lit up the front of her body and cast strange shadows that deformed her beautiful face. I now saw her hard nipples, when she stopped in front of me, I stopped breathing. She touched my hair and stroked my cheeks, then softly told me to look. “Just look at me, look at all of my body… it is now yours, to see, and touch, I want you to touch me.”


Without a word she reached out and took my hand, first placing it on her belly. Her left hand slowly moved the candle up and down in front of her body, revealing me every detail while she guided my hand up to her breast and chest, face and then down to her pubic area…I pulled back. She kneeled in front of me so I could carefully caress her forehead, hair and her shoulders. She leaned in a kissed me, licking my tongue and lips. Turning sideways she offered her back, I moved my hand all over her shoulders spine, the upper area of her buttocks. She then got up and waited… and waited, then took my hand and urged me to caress the rest of her bum… before she turned and bend over… revealing her anus and what I now know to be perfectly shaped labia, by moving the candle right beside her hip. I saw for the first time what a woman looked like…’down there.’

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