An American Couple in Paris

An American Couple in Paris

Goddammit there’s another one. Just take your cock and fuck off already. No, don’t touch. Don’t! Ughh, this isn’t going to work…

THREE HOURS EARLIER

It’s 9pm on a rainy Sunday in Paris and we’re getting dressed for our first trip to a lifestyle/sex/libertine club aside from Desire. We’re in Paris to celebrate Karen’s birthday and we’ve long talked about having some raunchy public sex in one of Paris’ many libertine clubs. 

She did some research and found a club that had decent reviews*, a somewhat convenient location, wouldn’t cost a small car payment, and probably wouldn’t have us rubbing elbows with billionaires looking to go Eyes Wide Shut and sacrifice one or both of us on an altar of Euros. Our preferred club had a good looking website with information in English, and we discovered they were only open on one night that aligned with our schedules. 

It’s called “threesome night”. Ok, twist my arm, right? Wink wink, nudge nudge. 

Well, threesome night is a poorly coded euphemism for single males night. Rather than allowing couples only, the club would allow a select number of single guys (depending on the number of couples in attendance) who were willing to drop $150 to get in and $25 per drink to maybe get called off the bench and into the game. 

“You only live once” is a phrase I saw on a motivational poster at TJ Maxx and the sentiment seemed appropriate given the circumstances. We agreed we’d regret not giving it a try, and how many single guys are coming out on a rainy night to maybe get the chance to spend a bunch of money to maybe get a little action?

The painfully correct answer: a fuck ton. 

We took an Uber to the club because we thought riding the metro to a sex club was perhaps not the way to get in the spirit:

“You look amazing in that dress, I love when you’re out with no bra. And that thong. And oh-my-fucking-god is that guy going to keep coughing the whole ride? I don’t need Coronavirus, dammit. Which stop are we at? Ok, that guy over there keeps looking at me so I’m going to move my wallet to my front pocket but not really conspicuously because if he’s just a normal guy and not a master pickpocket I don’t want him to get offended, unless being thought of as a master pickpocket is a compliment in France? Shit, I think this is our stop…”

Uber was the right choice. After getting slightly lost trying to find the actual club we were met at the door by a lovely lady blocking our way.

“It is the night for single males, is that ok?”

“We’re ok with that.”

The woman at the door repeated her question, which was very confusing because her English was pretty good and, last I checked, I’ve successfully used the language every day for quite a while.

“Yes, we understand. That’s fine.”

“D’accord. Welcome.”

After heeding the multiple warnings about single guys – thanks! We’ll be fine! – we finally headed inside. They took our coats, started our tab, and we tried to figure out what we had gotten into.

The public area was smaller than I expected, with a very short bar, and it was packed shoulder to shoulder between the bar and the dance floor. Karen turned to me after 30 seconds and said she’d been groped multiple times. Before I could even answer another guy moved past us with his open palm deliberately passing over her entire ass. Okay then.

The music was loud. Way too fucking loud. I didn’t see how it would be possible to talk to anyone in this environment and develop even a basic connection. If only I had continued with that American Sign Language correspondence course! Then again, they probably use French Sign Language so it would have been useless anyway. *Gestures emphatically with baguette*

I got us some drinks and we found an elevated perch over the dance floor where we could sit and get our bearings. I don’t think we were the youngest couple there, but we were pretty close. As for the single guys, they ranged from 20s to 60s. And there were a lot of them.

Less than five minutes after we sat down a tall blonde and two guys took over an empty sitting area just above us. They all stripped off their clothes and we realized we were getting a good look at threesome night. It ended up being a strange twosome**, with one guy fucking her in a variety of positions while he and the other guy chatted casually. Why did guy #2 get naked just to talk to his friend? It’s France, so…solidarité? 

As soon as the clothes came off and a cock went in her mouth, a tsunami of single guys crashed into our area. They were there for the show, and nearly all of them stared intently while openly slow-stroking their Napoleons. The blonde put on a good performance, moaning and writhing around as she took it from various angles across a cocktail table and over a metal railing. The guys just stared, and occasionally one or two would filter away only to be replaced by four or five more. 

I suspected they had a holding room full of these gents, with some assistant director on a walkie talkie sending a new bunch into the club every couple minutes like they were extras in a movie.

After finishing our drinks we decided to explore the play areas. That must be where all the couples are! The first room was actually pretty fun…a large octagon shaped bed raised up in the middle of the space like some sex altar, with benches and pillows along three walls. The other wall was partially open to the hallway. 

We would have been all about this, except for…the single guys. There was a couple in the corner of the room, just talking, and six or seven dudes stood at the door quietly watching. Waiting.

Pass.

We moved onto the other play rooms which snaked through a dark, low ceiling area in the back of the club. It was, again, way too crowded. Most of the beds had naked people, I think, but you couldn’t really tell because the hallways were impassable because of all the watchers. We didn’t even make it down the last hallway because of the crowd. There was probably some super sexy awesome fun stuff going on down there.

There was one empty bed in the play area, and I gave a quick thought to utilizing it until we noticed the big cumstain in the middle. It was then that we noticed what was missing: towels. Or paper towels. Or wipes. Or anything resembling sanitation.

God. Dammit.

Feeling less turned on we headed back to the bar for another round of drinks. We found a spot to sit on the edge of the dance floor and do some people watching. The tall blonde from earlier was still tearing it up, but my eyes kept being drawn back to one person on the floor: Grace Jones.

Okay, it wasn’t actually Grace Jones, but she had a definite similarity. Very tall, close cropped hair, ebony skin, and she danced like she was the only person in Paris. She also changed her outfit every hour, and the current one had her very nice tits fully out for the world to enjoy. 

It’s important to know that I have a phobia of the real Grace Jones, so this view was pulling my emotions in different directions. Yin and yang. Pleasure and pain. Richard and Lauren.

My sexy wife had my attention as well, and before long we were doing a little necking and my fingers were deep in her wetness. I was focused on my beautiful woman but she later informed me that we had quite a few eyes on us. Love it.

The crowd seemed to have thinned over time and we saw the area over the dance floor was completely empty. We seized the opportunity. 

My cock was in her mouth and she undid the top of her dress to let her amazing boobs go free. 

Yes yes yes yes yes.

After some teasing and fingering and making out I sat on the bench and she pulled up her dress to lower herself onto me. Public sex is so fucking hot.

But then I saw them. With the dead eyes. The zombie horde with cocks in hand. Where the fuck did they come from? Before I knew it one sat down right next to me and started rubbing her hip. No asking permission, no eye contact, no hesitation. I swatted his hand away so he got up and left. 

Three more stood right behind her, stroking themselves. Another sat down on the other side and reached out to grab her tit. Get that shit out of here.

A few more were standing over us with eager eyes. One guy in a sportcoat flopped down on the bench and slurred something loud and French, and then laughed heartily at whatever he had said. 

I hadn’t even gotten started and I had already defended my wife from at least four or five different hands.

All systems: shut down. Full stop. No more erection.

I pulled her dress back down over her ass and she tied up the top. I was done with that place. We paid our tab and headed outside to wait for a car to get us home. It was here that one of the single guys, who was actually respectful in his distance and actions, made his last ditch effort to get our attention, even telling us what hotel he was staying at. No dice, mon ami. 

The ride back gave us time to decompress and compare notes about the semi-sexy ordeal we just survived. We agreed it was time to get in Lauren’s box and book one or two more trips to Desire. Give me that rooftop under the stars, por favor!

When we got back to our tiny French apartment we laughed about the club and fucked like we had just come home from the war. No audience, just amazing sex.

The fantasy of a Parisian sex club had been on our radar for more than 15 years. Did it live up to expectations? No. Did we get to enjoy some hot public sex? Also no. But will we cherish the memory because we made the best of it and felt highly connected through the debacle? Absolutely.

C’est l’amour!