Two Americans in Paris

"The jungle?" he said, running his fingers gently through it to Marie's pleasure.

"A couple of the girls in the locker room called it that, in high school," Marie explained. "'Marie, you're so hairy, you don't have a bush, you have a jungle!' But I showed them. I strutted around the room naked, singing, 'Welcome to the jungle, we've got fun and games!' Once they saw I liked being bushy, they shut up about it!" She was laughing hard now, both at the happy memory and because Francois' well-intentioned touch was tickling her.

"It is beautiful," Francois said. At the same moment found her clit with his thumb. Marie let out a yelp of pleasure, and kissed him on the mouth and tightened her affectionate grip on him.

There was just enough time for her to enjoy a few strokes of his thumb, and his other hand on her breasts, before they both heard Jean-Charles' boisterous phone conversation come to an abrupt end on the other side of the wall. At this, they both pulled back. "Sorry!" Francois whispered.

"No, it's best he doesn't know!" Marie agreed, and she slid back to the far end of the tub to make room for Jean-Charles.

"Let's show him, yes?" Francois said. "I'll tell him no more treating me like a toy, and you ask Pete out?"

"It's a deal," Marie said with a smile just as Jean-Charles opened the bathroom door.

The following day was cold but clear. Marie, who ran a self-styled financial advisory service for expats out of her bedroom, had half a dozen client meetings and the Metro rides between them to think about the deal, and about Pete. As she went over the latest market news and investment suggestions for her clients, her accidental revelation played again and again in her mind, getting her more wound up every time it did. She could only hope it was having the same effect on Pete. "The hick and the bush queen..." However ill-advised, her comment the day before did have a cute ring to it!

Of course, Marie had years of practice in being "cute" about her voracious sexuality. From the first time she'd let a boy finger her in the woods behind his family's barn, and the ensuing rumors and whispers in the school hallway, she'd known all there was to know about the price to pay for being a woman who loved sex. And she'd never since then had any qualms about paying it. "Pleasure without apology" was the mantra she'd scribbled in her notebooks to look at whenever anyone whispered "slut!" while walking past her desk. If it was a boy, she would also scribble down his name as a reminder that she would not be putting out for him no matter how cute he was. "That's right, and even I wouldn't sleep with you!" was a dependable comeback for any boy who called her a slut in front of his friends; she'd caused more than one fistfight that way, and earned the begrudging respect of plenty of the girls who were probably also calling her names behind her back.

She had also earned plenty of attention from more polite young men, and didn't mind in the least the reason why -- after all, as she pointed out to one of them who asked how she felt about her reputation, "So what if you just want to have sex? I do, too, you know!" She'd had plenty of it by the time she made her escape to Amherst, where there hadn't been nearly as much time for dating if she wanted to keep her scholarship, but she'd been active enough there to learn the double standard didn't end at the gates of college. But she hadn't cared then and she didn't care now, especially not since she'd done well enough at Amherst to earn a postgrad fellowship at the Sorbonne. A master's degree in French literature had proven to be exactly as lucrative as she'd expected, but she'd impressed enough of her friends with her day-trading and stock advice on the side to make a day job for herself after graduation.

Three years later, business was booming for the bush queen. But lately her sex life wasn't. Her ex, Leonard, born and raised in her beloved 20th arrondissement, had stolen her heart the summer before -- and then proven to be a dud in the sack. "I just don't like it as much as you do, Marie," he had explained back in November after yet another polite refusal. The next day, she'd shown him the door. It was a polite breakup, with nothing but relief on both sides as far as Marie could tell, and they remained friends although she hadn't seen much of him since.

The weeks that followed would have made the perfect time for a rebound fling of some sort, except that Marie had caught a nasty case of the flu shortly afterward. All the Anglo-Saxon Klatch had sent their polite get-well regards, but had understandably stayed away...except for Pete, who explained that he'd had it a few weeks before. "It might even be my fault you're here," he'd explained in that lovely Midwestern drawl of his. "So it's only fair that I come keep you company. If you want."

If you want, Marie recalled with a grin now. She'd barely known her fellow Midwesterner up to that gray afternoon when he'd arrived at her door with a box of cookies and some tea. It had been a few months since the first time Jane had brought her newest writer to the pub, and Marie still recalled all too well how he'd listened to the round of introductions and taken in where they were all from -- England, Sydney, Toronto -- and then explained that he was fresh off the plane from Kansas City. "I'm the only hick," he'd declared with a grin.

"Nope," Marie had corrected, raising her wine glass from the far end of the table. "Mayer City, Wisconsin!" But she'd been wearing a tailored dress she'd bought there in Paris, and even she could hear the East Coast tinge in her accent that she had picked up at Amherst. Only then, after a couple of years in France, had she been fully aware of just how far the bad girl of Mayer City had come.

Pete, she had soon come to know, was no more a hick than any of their other friends. A sharp if unpretentious dresser and a great writer, he spoke better French than most of the gang did and took to the local lifestyle better than Marie recalled herself doing a few years before. She'd rarely seen him looking out of place among the locals at the pub. But the nickname had stuck.

Another thing that had stuck, at first, was Marie getting to know him. Whether it was the noisy pub or the large group or Pete's shyness or his tendency to stay close to Jane and discuss work into the late hours, the two Americans had only been casual friends until Marie had gotten sick. She didn't know or care why now. What she did know was that on that lovely afternoon, she'd invited him to come sit on the bed and chat for a while, and "a while" had turned into over three hours of the most wonderful sort of platonic bonding. Talking of home and college and Paris and nearly everything except love and sex for once, whether due to Pete's shyness or because Marie had surely looked anything but sexy in her condition then. Whatever the reason, it had lit a flame in her heart that was still burning just as brightly over two months later.

All the more now that she'd let her naughty nickname slip. Marie didn't even recall the guy's name who had first called her "The Bush Queen." It hadn't been intended as a flattering name, but Marie had always liked it just as much as she had liked her secret forest, and she'd embraced it most enthusiastically from that day to this. If only she could make sense of Pete's reaction when she'd said it! It was just too soon to tell. But, recalling her deal with Francois the night before, Marie had her mind made up that it wouldn't be long.

By dinnertime, Marie was fairly bursting with the urge to tell someone -- anyone -- about her newfound resolve with Pete. Jane, she knew, was not the best option to do that with, not with her sour attitude about Valentine's Day and her sense of overprotection with her protégé. But Jane had texted Marie an invitation to dinner at a favorite bistro of theirs in the Latin Quarter. So it was her or no one for the moment.

"Do you feel like you're back home, Marie?" Jane said, standing up to kiss her friend hello as Marie stepped into the warm restaurant and unbuttoned her heavy coat. "It's frigid out there!"

"Oh, I know!" Marie agreed. "I'm used to it but I can't say I missed it! I feel so bad for some of these locals I've been seeing all day, some of the men in just their suit coats even, out and about without winter coats because that's not the way you do it here."

"No doubt you'd like to help them out of those coats," Jane teased.

"Well, of course," Marie happily took the bait. "But only once I got them inside by a fire somewhere."

Jane was not amused. "Christ, Marie, have you no shame at all?"

"Jane! Calm down! I thought you were joking!"

"Well, I was, but I was also giving you a chance to show me you have some boundaries at least. It's just so bloody American to let things all hang out the way you do."

"I am American, Jane, remember?"

"Yes, but you're not..." Jane lowered her voice. "A slut, Marie. Not really, I know you well enough to know that. So why do you want to make everyone think you are?"

"I don't!" Marie replied. "I'm just not going to lie about being a horny gal who loves being that way. And what do you care about that, Jane?"

"I don't suppose I do," Jane said. "It's just...I know you, I love you, you're a very smart and successful woman who's come so far from Wyoming, and --"

"Wisconsin," Marie corrected.

"Close enough, isn't it?"

"Is it close enough to London if I say you're from Newcastle?"

"Oh, heavens, no, Marie! But my point stands. You're smart, you're successful, you've made a lovely life for yourself here halfway around the world from home. Don't you care about your reputation?"

"I learned a long time ago not to," Marie said. "And I'm damn proud of it. But in any event, Jane, there actually is one special guy I've been wanting to talk to you about."

"No, Marie!" Jane snapped, somehow looking even more agitated than she already had.

Marie was flabbergasted. "He's already talked to you?"

"Several times," Jane said distastefully. But I forbid you to come anywhere near Sam without your legs crossed."

Marie wasn't sure if she wanted to laugh or slap her friend. "Sam?!" she exclaimed. "Why on earth would I want to mess with him?"

"Then you weren't talking about Sam?" Jane looked relieved and almost -- but not quite -- apologetic. "Oh, thank heavens!"

"Of course I wasn't! What makes you think that?!"

"Never mind that now." Jane's pert, tight smile had returned to her face. It was the smile Marie had known for years, that tacitly said the discussion was over. "Now just who is this guy you do want to ravage, dear?"

"Well..." Marie was feeling uncharacteristically shy now, but she plowed ahead. "It's Pete."

Jane's smile vanished. "Oh, no, Marie! Please, no!"

"Has he got a girlfriend?" Marie felt like kicking herself for not considering that.

"Never heard him mention one," Jane said. "But, Marie, he's just a little boy. A quiet, polite, shy little boy! Nothing like you. He's also a great writer, and I love having him on my team. I won't have my best friend breaking his heart!"

"What makes you think I would?!" Marie demanded.

"I know you! No offense, but I saw what you did to Leonard when he couldn't keep up with you in bed, dear."

"Couldn't keep up with me?! He wouldn't even get in -- " Marie stopped as she realized her voice was as loud and shrill as every ugly American tourist who no doubt turned up in the bistro. "Wouldn't even get in bed in the first place most of the time!" she continued in a whisper. "Besides, I don't think he was any happier with me than I was with him. And what's that got to do with Pete?"

"I care about Pete," Jane said. "He may be a typical immature little American boy, but I care about him. Marie, I can't tell him what to do with his private life, but as your friend I can ask you, please don't do this. Or at the very least, please don't take him to your bed and then throw him aside next week or anything." Marie saying nothing in response for a tense moment, Jane continued. "All right, Marie? As a friend?"

"As a friend, I can't believe you think I'd do that," Marie finally said.

"Prove me wrong, then," Jane replied. "Or better yet, just leave well enough alone to begin with and find a guy who's more your speed. Why not throw that Valentine's Day party you were talking about and meet a guy there?"

"Pete and I are going to throw it together." Marie couldn't help grinning. "And you and Sam are invited, if you can get over yourselves."

"I'll see how he behaves in the meantime," Jane said. "And how you behave with Pete too, I suppose."

Jane's harsh words echoed in Marie's mind all through the Metro ride home. Traffic was fierce as usual as she made her way through the Place de la Nation and down the boulevard toward her beloved flat three blocks from the Porte de Vincennes, and so were the thoughts rushing through her mind. Just what had attracted her and Jane to one another in the first place way back in that Beaudelaire seminar? Exactly what had she done to persuade her friend she would ever break a guy's heart so wantonly? Here as ever since the first time someone had called her a slut back in Wisconsin, she resolved not to care. But there was no denying it hurt coming from such a close friend, even if Jane always had been kind of a pain in so many ways. Nevertheless, Marie welcomed the chilly air and the wild traffic. She breathed in the pungent air and didn't begrudge the wind in her face. Every bit of it was a triumph as long as she remembered to take it that way, and so was Jane's haughty attitude.

For all that, the uncomfortable dinner conversation had her in the mood for a bath with Jean-Charles when she arrived home. But he was out, and at this hour Marie knew what that meant. So she was left to shower on her own and then curl up with her laptop and have another round at the markets, and steel herself for the inevitable round of self-pity that would bubble up when Jean-Charles brought his date home and she had to listen to their screeches of pleasure in the next room.

Sure enough, it came -- as did Jean-Charles and his date, whose moans Marie didn't recognize. She gave some thought to calling Francois, remembering both their deal and how lovely his fingers had felt on her body the night before, but that seemed more harm than good at the moment. So Marie was off to bed just after eleven, with the happy couple still chatting it up just beyond her bedroom wall.

Marie woke up before the midwinter sun the next morning. But so, regrettably, did Jean-Charles and his date. At least her head was just as lost in the Asian markets as her heart was in pining for Pete, almost enough to keep her mind off the horrible things Jane had said the night before. Nothing, though, could keep her attention completely away from Jean-Charles and his evidently hot date. There was no point in Marie even pretending not to be jealous. But as Jean-Charles' howling reached a crescendo next door, Marie wasn't surprised at all to feel her panties getting moist, or her mind wandering to Pete. With the unsubtle reminder of what lay in store if only she could get over herself and ask him, Marie was pleased to find her resolve returning.

Once the guys were finished going at it, Marie was once again able to focus on her work and mostly put Pete from her mind for the time being. Another half an hour of buying and selling, and she allowed herself a coffee break and a chance to think about Pete again. With the guys now chatting in the kitchen, it was a good time to meet Jean-Charles' latest prize anyway. Marie picked up her coffee mug and strolled out into the kitchen in her sweater and black tights -- no need to put on a skirt for the time being, with her first client meeting hours away yet -- and smiled through her envy.

The hot date -- dark hair and typical French eyes -- took one look at Marie and turned to Jean-Charles. "The American bitch can't be bothered to put all her clothes on?" he asked in French.

Marie managed to keep her smile, and replied in heavily accented but grammatically perfect French. "The American bitch lives here, and we wear what we like at home."

The guy dropped his spoon in his coffee with a plop as he realized she'd understood him. "I...euh..."

"Get out," Jean-Charles said gruffly. "I don't want that attitude here!"

"But..."

"Get out!"

Marie supposed she ought to tell Jean-Charles it was all right. But she held her tongue. In a year and a half as flatmates, they'd grown quite adept at judging the men either one of them brought home, and any problems with their living situation were a red flag. Especially, she reasoned, if he had a problem with seeing Marie without a skirt on. Just imagine what he'd say when he found out they took baths together!

"Sorry, Marie," Jean-Charles said as soon as he'd slammed the door on the departed guy. "He was kind of boring in bed anyway."

"Didn't sound that way from my room!" Marie said with a naughty grin. She finished pouring her coffee and sat down at the table. "You had me jealous there!"

"Nah," Jean-Charles said with a shake of his head. "It just sounded that way to you because you haven't had a guy since Leonard left."

"But I will soon," she vowed.

"Then you have decided not to sit around and wait for this Pete fellow?" Jean-Charles asked. "Good for you, Marie!" His haughty attitude of the other night seemed to have vanished, as she had long known it was prone to doing once Jean-Charles got laid.

"Thank you, Jean-Charles," Marie said, sipping her coffee. "I needed that."

"No, Marie, what you need is to get the hick to open his eyes to the bush queen. I know you can do that!"

Marie laughed. "Got it, Jean-Charles. Now, how should this go? 'Say, Pete, want to go out Saturday night, and aren't you curious about just how hairy my pussy is?'"

"Such a pity straight people can't talk about these things before you get in bed," Jean-Charles said with a grin. "But I know you can think of a way to give him a clue first, Marie."

"I already have, remember?" Marie said. "I let my nickname slip!"

"Ah yes," Jean-Charles said. "What a brilliant mistake on your part, my dear!"

Marie took a long drink of coffee to hide her frustration. Just when she was all set to give her friend a piece of her mind about how he treated Francois, he had to go and stick up for her against his date, and tell her exactly what she needed to hear this morning! A confrontation could wait, she concluded. Her lust for Pete couldn't.

It didn't have to wait very long, as it turned out. Marie had only been back at her day-trading for an hour or so when her phone buzzed with a new text message. To her delight, it was from Pete. "Can we meet Saturday afternoon for party prep?"

Marie replied, "Yes!!", and then quickly deleted the two exclamation points; she did not want to sound like a boy-crazy teenager, even if Pete did make her feel like one. "Let's meet for lunch in the Latin Quarter first," she added. Then, recalling Jane's horrible attitude the night before, she sent a third message: "Don't tell Jane we're doing this. I want to surprise her and Sam with the party." Not exactly a lie, she reasoned as she set her phone down and pretended she wasn't dying to hear it buzz with a response.

It did, a minute or so later: "See you Saturday at 1 by your Starbucks?"

"Sure." Marie cringed to recall how devoted she had been to that most American of coffee options back in the Sorbonne days, and how her fondness for studying there had made the Starbucks on the Boulevard St. Michel known as "hers" even among friends who hadn't known her back then. At least it made for a good rendez-vous point. Not wanting the exchange to end just yet, she also texted, "Looking forward to it!"