"So, which side do you
want?" Mathieu asked. We both stood there next to the bed that hardly
looked like a "double," clad
only in our boxers.
"That one, I guess," I replied, pointing to the side of the bed closest
to the
wall.
I had never been so nervous in my life. All day, I had been expecting
to get picked up by the police or something, and either put on a plane
back home, or sent back to my group. I guess I didn't anticipate that
things
would get this far.
Right after I'd agreed to ditch my group, things started in motion. I
surprised myself -- and I think Mathieu, too -- at how quickly I could
come up with a plan of action on such short notice, especially since
the whole idea wasn't even mine to begin with.
First, we immediately went back to the hotel where our group was
staying to get my stuff. Since they would still be in Paris for the
next couple of days, we had to make sure we didn't run into them.
Fortunately, we had been given a very detailed itinerary of all of our
activities for the entire three week trip, so all Mathieu and I had to
do was
check the itinerary and make sure we weren't in the same place on the
same day. The next thing we did was stop by an Internet café so I could
send an e-mail to my mother and tell her what I was doing. I didn't
expect that that would persuade her to call off the police,
but at least she wouldn't worry that I had been kidnapped by
international terrorists. Of course, I didn't mention that I was with a
really cute -- and really gay
-- French boy.
As for avoiding capture, I figured I'd need a disguise. Unfortunately,
I wasn't that creative, so I just ended up with a ball cap and a pair
of plain black sunglasses. I was smart enough, though, to toss out the
stupid "Pride of America National Marching Band" t-shirt I'd been
given to wear. I was also smart enough to get all of my traveler's
checks cashed before I was reported missing, so they couldn't use that
to track me.
Mathieu then took me back to the dingy-looking room where he was
staying so
we could get his stuff. My mother had given me enough money that we
could afford to stay in a little nicer place than that. Mathieu checked
us into our new hotel -- which wasn't all that great, but it was
certainly better than where he had been staying -- and I made sure not
to make my
presence known to the desk clerk.
The room was quite dark, and the small lamp mounted next to the bed
didn't help that much. It also smelled like stale cigarette smoke. I
wasn't impressed by the earthtone colors chosen
for the draperies, bedspread, and upholstery on the two art nouveau
chairs,
either. Nor was I very fond of the smell of mildew or the bathroom that
appeared not to have been cleaned since the storming of the Bastille.
But
at
least the sheets seemed to be clean, and the room was air-conditioned.
By the time we had completed all of
our errands, it was already early evening, and after the busy afternoon
we'd both had, we were starving. So, we went to a small restaurant near
the hotel to get some dinner, and Mathieu introduced me to some 'real'
French food ... and it was great! I had grilled shrimp with bacon
brochettes, a salad with fried mozzarella balls and roasted tomatoes,
and Raspberries Romanov for dessert. Mathieu also fed me several bites
of the amazing grilled red snapper with herbes Provencales that he had
ordered, and we shared a bottle of Pinot Noir wine. The food, wine, and
atmosphere were all perfect, and I thought I'd died and gone to
culinary heaven.
Back at the hotel, as we were climbing into bed, it finally hit me what
I had done. Sure, I was scared, and I realized how much trouble I was
going to get into ... but I didn't regret it. I realized the only thing
I would probably regret would be if I didn't go through with it. I
didn't want to look
back on my teenage years and wonder why I had
never done anything adventurous. I'd been nothing but an angel every
day of my life, and now I wanted to know what it was like to be damned.
But that didn't stop me from feeling extremely nervous when I also
realized that I was lying in bed with an incredibly hot, practically
naked boy. It wasn't the first time I had done that, having slept next
to my best friend, Joey, during numerous sleepovers. I'd been nervous
then, too, but that was because I was afraid that I'd do something that
might cause him to figure out that I was gay. But now, I was in bed
with a boy who I knew was
gay, and who I knew was
attracted to me ... and I was most definitely attracted to him. And
hence the present predicament ... what was I supposed to do about that?
Fortunately, I didn't have to worry about that for long, as I felt
Mathieu pull me close to him. He wrapped his arms around me, and I
melted
into him completely. The sensations of his soft, smooth skin pressed
tightly against my body, his warm breath tickling my neck, and his
fingers tracing slowly up and down my back were almost too much to
take. When I felt his soft lips press against mine and then part,
allowing his tongue to snake its way gently into my mouth, I thought my
entire body was going to explode.
At first, I was worried that I would be a horrible kisser, but soon
discovered that being with another boy like that just felt so ...
natural. My body, mouth, and tongue reacted almost instinctively to him
as our kissing and rubbing grew more and more intense. The room was
completely silent, except for the slight slurping sounds as our lips
and tongues explored each other hungrily.
As we attempted to devour each other with our mouths and hands, I could
feel Mathieu's erection pressing hard against mine, and it turned me on
even more, knowing that only the thin fabric of our boxer shorts was
separating us. At that point, my whole body was trembling, as if
every muscle was in rebellion and every nerve ending had been
erotically charged.
"Please make love to me," Mathieu whispered huskily into my ear.
"Okay," I managed to gasp, almost out of breath from our
make-out fest.
If I hadn't already been so turned on, it might have occurred to me
that I was still a virgin, and this would be my first time. I'd taken
to kissing without much of a problem, but actual all-and-out sex was
likely to be a bit more complicated. Not to mention, it probably
deserved a little more consideration, especially since I'd just met
Mathieu that day. I mean, I didn't want him to think I was easy or anything.
But try rationalizing that to a horny sixteen-year-old who
was already practically naked and had a hot seventeen-year-old's
tongue shoved down his throat. So, I did the only thing I could do -- I
rolled over on to my back and waited. I got the impression that Mathieu
was a bit more experienced than I was, so he'd have to take the
initiative
... again. I was a little surprised, though, when he started putting
the condom on my dick instead of his.
"Mon
dieu, chauve à col
roulé!" Mathieu exclaimed, sounding surprised.
"Huh?"
"Your penis ... it is ... uhhh ... not cut," he explained. "I thought
all American boys had their ... errr ... prépuce ..."
"You mean 'foreskin'?" I asked.
He nodded.
"No, not all," I replied, with a grin. I guess I wasn't the only one
with preconceived ideas about other cultures.
When it was all over, and
after Mathieu had smoked a cigarette (I even had to take a few puffs to
settle my overcharged nerves!), we lay in bed
together, snuggling ... well, it was more like me clinging on to him
for
dear life, like a lost puppy dog. Someone should have told me that sex
brought a lot of new emotions along with it, because I went from
thinking that Mathieu was just a really hot guy to being quite
attached. But did he feel the same way? I mean, did the sex really mean
something? And why in the hell was I turning into a bundle of nerves
over this? It was just sex, right? Well, really fabulous sex, actually!
It wasn't exactly how I had pictured my first time being, either. At
the beginning, it
was definitely more awkward than I had expected; but
we gradually got comfortable with each other, and it turned out to be
incredible. I
was glad that we did end up doing it that first night, because that
meant
we could do it a lot over the
next three weeks. After realizing how
great it felt, both physically and emotionally, and how sweet and
gentle Mathieu was, it would have
sucked to have waited until our last night together, and only had the
opportunity to do it once -- or at least as many times as I could have
managed in one night. And considering that I would probably be grounded
for the rest of my life once I got home, who knew when the next time
I'd get the chance to have sex would be?
****************************************************
The next morning started off so ... French. We had coffee and baguettes
at a small café next door to the hotel, as I listened to
old
men arguing with each other in an unintelligible language while they
read the newspaper. Elegant-looking women, wearing large hats and
carrying shopping bags, walked past us on the sidewalk, chatting
cheerfully. The sky was
a brilliant blue, and the sounds of traffic and car horns filled the
air. Yet amidst all the hustle and bustle, everything still seemed so
... relaxed.
And even though it was only our second day together, I already felt so
comfortable around Mathieu. He was so laid-back and easy to get along
with, the exact opposite of me. Maybe it was a kind of "hero-worship"
thing -- I wished I could be like him, so care-free and spontaneous. I
was sick and tired of being a boring stick-in-the-mud. Maybe spending
the next three weeks with Mathieu would help me to change that.
Of course, since I'd never been to Paris before, I wanted to see all of
the typical touristy places. Mathieu had obviously been to all of those
places one too many times, but he happily agreed to take me. He made an
excellent companion, too. I had no doubt that he would do well at the
Sorbonne, considering how damn smart he was, and all of the neat little
tidbits of information and history that he told me about each of the
places we visited. Things you probably would never get to hear from a
tour guide.
I was certainly glad to have Mathieu around when it came to navigating
the Paris Metro. It was very convenient for getting around the
congested city, but a little
confusing at first. Of course, that could also result from the fact
that, being from a place
like Kansas City, I'd never been on a subway before. All of the
transfers and figuring out the cost of the fares was enough to give me
a headache. I was so fascinated, in fact, that one time, I leaned out
over the tracks to look down the darkened tunnel to see if I could spot
the train coming, only to almost have my head knocked off my shoulders
by the subway train as it roared into the station. Fortunately, Mathieu
yanked
me back in time, and properly chastised me for being such an idiot. At
least, I think he chastised me -- he spoke so quickly, and in French,
that I couldn't be too sure of what he was saying. But he sure didn't
seem happy.
One thing I really liked about the Paris Metro, though, were
all of the performers and artists. Some
of them were absolutely
dreadful, but some were really good. It was hard to believe that doing
that was their livelihood, playing music or painting in the hopes that
passers-by would toss some money into their instrument cases --
although most of them seemed to be
very happy with what they were doing. Like Mathieu, they seemed so
laid-back and ... free. I envied that freedom. Of course, part of that
might have just been my own self-projections, and perhaps they weren't
really as happy as I imagined them to be ... but I still liked to think
that they were.
As we explored Paris each day and evening, I was coming to see why it
was popular with artists. There was so much inspiration there.
Everything, from the people to the countless styles of architecture,
the scenery, brilliant
sunsets, the lights that illuminated everything in the city at night,
and just the whole atmosphere of the city -- it was so ... alive. I was totally blown away by
some of the places we went to
see, such as Notre Dame, the Eiffel Tower, the Arc de Triomphe, the
Basilica of the Sacré-Cœur -- which had the most breathtaking
view of the city -- and the
Hôtel des Invalides, which houses Napoleon's tomb.
It all seemed larger
than life. The sights, smells, and sounds of the city converged to
overwhelm the senses. It was one of the most amazing things
I'd ever experienced. And having Mathieu there with me to share in it,
and
seeing him smile every time I gaped in wonder at something new, made it
even better. He seemed to be excited that I was excited, and that just
made me even more excited.
There was just so much to see, yet Mathieu seemed to know exactly how
to
make the best use of our time. I was especially awe-struck by the
Louvre. It was one thing to see the Mona Lisa in a
book, but it was an entirely different experience altogether to see it
three feet in front of you, as large as life. There was definitely
something mysterious and slightly disarming about her smile. It was as
if she knew something, some kind of secret that no one else did, and
she found it to be amusing. And my being such a huge fan
of The DaVinci Code made
traipsing through the maze of passageways and galleries all the more
exciting, imagining that I was on my own detective hunt. Hey, I was
only sixteen. A kid should be allowed to have a little fantasy
every now and then, right?
But even better than visiting the big tourist attractions were the
simple things, like taking slow, romantic walks through some of Paris'
beautiful parks, stuffing my face with chocolate crêpes, and, of
course, the shopping -- every gay boy's dream! One of my more memorable
(and less glamorous) moments was late one night, walking through the
Greek section of town. I had bought a Gyro sandwich to eat. After
taking only a few bites, I was suddenly accosted by a one-eyed homeless
man.
"Un morceau, s'il vous plaît,"
he pleaded with me.
Needless to say, I freaked, and started shrieking like a little sissy
girl. Barely speaking a word of French, I thought I was being mugged.
"He just asked for a piece of your sandwich," Mathieu explained,
chuckling.
Relieved that I wasn't about to be robbed, I ended up giving the rest
of the sandwich to the man, although I quickly grabbed Mathieu by the
arm and hurried away. I didn't want to stick around for any "thank
yous" or anything like that. It was a terrifying experience.
One day, Mathieu took me to visit the grave of
Jim Morrison, the lead singer of the Doors, who happened to be buried
in a Paris cemetery. I didn't see what was all that special about going
to look at some gravestone, but Mathieu insisted it would be worth it.
After taking the Metro, and then switching to a bus, we finally arrived
at the old cemetery.
I was astounded when we got to Jim Morrison's grave and found hordes
of people there, with a single, bored-looking police
officer on guard. The entire grave was covered with cards,
letters, flowers, and even joints! I almost jumped out of my skin when
some French guy next to me lit one up and offered it to me ... with the
police officer standing right there! Fortunately, Mathieu declined for
the both of us. It was certainly an interesting sight, and I managed to
take quite a few pictures of the whole scene.
We even stopped a
passer-by and asked her to snap a photo of Mathieu and me, standing
together in front of the grave. I was a little stunned when Mathieu
wrapped his arm around me and planted a huge kiss on my cheek, but the
woman who was taking the picture didn't even flinch. Maybe I had a lot
to learn about French culture and acceptance. In fact, whenever Mathieu
put his arm around me, or held my hand as we were walking down the
street -- which took some getting used to for me -- or even gave me a
peck on the lips, no one seemed to notice or care. It was such an odd
feeling. I never would have dared do something like that back
home, but things were just so different here. Perhaps it had something
to do with Paris having a gay mayor! But I liked that feeling. I craved
the affection. And it all made me feel so ... free.
We eventually got tired of walking around the city, going to all the
usual tourist traps and museums, so we decided to take a bus trip out
of the city to visit some of the nearby palaces. Although the Loire
Valley or Dordogne were the most well-known for their beautiful
palaces,
Paris
also boasted several amazing sites, such as the famous Versailles, home
of
Louis XIV. Our first
stop was Fontainebleau, reputed to have once been the home of Napoleon.
It was a beautiful sprawling complex, with breathtakingly ornate
gardens.
The inside was even more incredible, with more rooms than one
could possibly imagine, all lavishly decorated, with ornate carvings
and stunning artwork. You could literally feel the history in that place, and
almost sense Napoleon himself walking those same halls. I
wondered what it would be like to live in such a magnificent palace. I
wanted to stay even longer, but Mathieu insisted that there was much
more to see.
Our next stop was even more incredible -- the Château de
Chenonceau, which was constructed during the 16th century on the river
Cher for the king's mistress, Diane de Poitiers. Mathieu explained to
me that she was a larger-than-life figure in French history, and still
a benchmark of beauty and intelligence in French culture. I loved
Fontainebleau and Versailles, but this
place was simply awe-inspiring, with its magnificent beauty and
dreamlike quality. The forecourt, demarcated by moats, resembled a
medieval castle. As we walked along the piers of a former fortified
mill, we came upon the monumental entrance. The château itself
straddled the river, which you could walk across through the grand
gallery, built by Catherine de' Medici. The view through the eighteen
large gallery windows was absolutely stunning.
I loved hearing all of the interesting
little historical tidbits that the tour guide mentioned as we walked
through the many rooms. But,
unfortunately, there were many parts of the château that were
inaccessible to the public. I hated when they did that, because those
were usually the best places to see. Of course, being the good boy that
I was, I would normally just have shrugged it off and gone on with the
tour.
There wasn't anything I could do about it, anyway. Mathieu, however,
had
other ideas. We waited for a few moments until the tour guide had led
the group into the next room, then Mathieu took me by the hand and led
me up a set of stairs that was roped off.
After walking through a maze of hallways, praying that we wouldn't run
into a security guard or someone from the maintenance staff, we found a
small, dingy-looking study. The antique furniture, although covered
with dust, was gorgeous, and I could only imagine the value of the
hundreds of old volumes that filled the wooden bookcases. I
could have done without the ladders, tarps, and paint cans that
littered
the room, but it was still definitely cool. After spending a few
minutes looking around, running my fingers across the priceless
furniture and books, and staring appreciatively at the paintings that
were hanging on the wall, I was ready to head out. I was sure we were
bound to be caught snooping around where we weren't supposed to be.
Apparently, however, Mathieu had something else in mind.
He pushed me gently up against one of the bookcase-lined walls and
pressed himself up behind me. I could feel his warm breath against my
neck, and his erection poking against my butt.
"Je bande pour toi," he
whispered huskily in my ear, as he began rubbing his hand along my
shorts-covered bottom. "Je veux te
sauter."
"Huh?" I asked, my voice cracking.
"I said I am hard for you. I want to fuck you," he replied.
"Uhhh ... I don't know if that's a good idea right now, Mathieu," I
replied nervously. "I mean, someone could walk by here any time, and I
didn't bring any condoms with me."
"No one will come up here. Trust me. And I brought this," he said,
pulling a condom out of his pocket and showing it to me.
Feeling him pressed up against me, his breath tickling my neck, I
wasn't in much of a position to resist ... and I didn't want to. There
was something thrilling about doing it where we could be discovered at
any time, not to mention we were going to do it in a famous French
castle!
Needless to say, I was putty in his hands, and I enjoyed every last
moment of it. I had discovered, though, that I tended to get a little
loud when I was getting fucked ... okay, I admit it, I screamed,
although it was most definitely in pleasure, and not in pain. I just
hoped no one heard us.
*************************************************
After about two weeks traipsing all
over Paris with Mathieu, I was beginning to get a little confused. I
wasn't really sure what I was to him, or what he was to me, for that
matter. At first, he was just a cute boy who was showing me around
Paris. Then, the relationship quickly took on a sexual element. The
idea of being "boyfriends" seemed highly impractical, since I was only
going to be in Paris for another week, and then Mathieu and I
would be separated by an entire ocean. So were we just "fuck buddies,"
then? I didn't like the thought of that. I didn't want to be anyone's
fuck buddy.
But it didn't feel that way. Mathieu didn't treat me like he was just
using me for sex. He treated me so well, took care of everything I
needed, and was just so sweet and romantic. That
didn't seem to me like what a "fuck buddy" was. At any rate, I was
definitely starting to develop feelings for Mathieu that I wasn't
expecting. I just didn't know how he felt, and it seemed kind of stupid
to even bring up the topic, since we both knew that this couldn't last,
whatever it was. But it was so difficult not to be enamored of his
sweet, sensitive, and romantic nature ... and did I mention the
incredibly passionate, wild, yet gentle sex that we had every
night? I was really scared of falling in love, though. I mean, I guess
you don't really get to choose when it happens ... it just sort of
does. But I knew that if I let myself feel that, I would end up getting
my heart broken.
Maybe there was no need to talk about it, though. Perhaps I
should just enjoy
each moment, and not worry about what every little thing meant. And
each of those little moments was perfect. For instance, one day, late
in the afternoon, we were sitting together, sipping espresso on
Montmartre Street, watching the people walk by, taking in the sights
and sounds of the bustling city around us. Mathieu started drawing a
picture of the sunset on the paper tablecloth. I was shocked at how
talented an artist he was.
When he was finished, he tore off the
section of the tablecloth that he had been drawing on and gave it to
me. For some reason, that small gesture touched me deeply. It was
totally spontaneous and off-handed, yet seemed so romantic and genuine
-- a special gift from Mathieu to me, something no amount of Euros
could buy, and symbolized the relaxed, care-free, yet intense
relationship that we had developed over such a short period of time.
It just made me fall for him even more.
And then there were the late night walks we took down the
Champs-Elysées, holding hands, looking in the windows
of all of the
chic boutiques and world-famous shops, like Cartier, and wondering
aloud how it would feel
to be able to wear some of those horribly expensive things. When I
would start spacing
out and daydreaming, Mathieu would suddenly tickle me, or
goose me,
and then take off running down the street, daring me to chase him. In
some ways, it was childish, but what was wrong with acting like a child
from time to time? And chasing after him down the Champs-Elysées, with the
brilliantly illuminated Arc de Triomphe in the distance, I once again
felt so ... free. He had opened up something in my heart, something so
new. It was like some kind of drug, and I never wanted that feeling to
go away.
During our last week, we spent most of our time wandering around some
of the lesser-known sections of Paris, giving me a chance to see what
"real" Parisians were like. The summer sun was hot, and I got to enjoy
the view of Mathieu walking around shirtless, his smooth, flawless
bronze skin and beautifully toned body covered with a sheen of sweat,
reflecting the bright sunlight. Not even Michelangelo's statue of David
could
compare to the perfection I saw in Mathieu. He truly was one of the
most beautiful boys I had ever laid eyes upon. It kind of made me
wonder what he could possibly see in someone like me.
Anyway, he took me to the Quartier du Marais -- the "Swamp Quarter" --
which was home to the new Opéra Bastille, and also happened to
be the "gay section" of the city. The area was criss-crossed with
narrow streets, vestiges of the medieval layout of the city, Mathieu
had explained. I had never been to the "gay section" of any city, so I
couldn't really tell if the one in Paris was different from any others.
But it was interesting, with lots of gay-friendly shops. Mathieu also
took me on a romantic walk along the Canal Saint-Martin. It was a quiet
and peaceful place, lined with trees and beautiful buildings, and
seemed somehow detached from the hustle and bustle of the rest of the
city.
Mathieu even took me to meet some of his friends, several of whom were
also gay. At first, I was very
nervous. I was expecting to be treated rudely because I was an
American, thinking I would probably be personally blamed for the war in
Iraq,
American cultural hegemony, and all of the other supposed "evils" of
America. To my surprise,
though, when we went out for coffee and chatted with his friends, no
one even mentioned politics. They just talked about the
typical things teenagers tended to talk about, like their friends, what
they'd been doing for the summer, which universities they'd like to
attend, which new cell phone model they wanted to buy, and which famous
model was getting diddled by which sports star.
They were even kind enough to speak in English with each other -- even
though they were all native French speakers -- simply out of
consideration to me. I was stunned, to say the least. Almost all of my
preconceptions about the French had been washed down the drain. I
didn't even manage to get a whiff of strong body odor from them!
Mathieu's friends thought it would be a good idea to take a day trip to
the Normandy American Cemetery and Memorial. So, the next day, one of
Mathieu's friends came to pick us up in his car, and we headed out on
the
one hundred and seventy mile trip toward St. Laurent-sur-Mer. The
cemetery and memorial were breathtaking, both somber and exquisitely
beautiful. I took numerous photographs of the semicircular colonnade
and
reflecting pool, as well as the bronze "Spirit of American Youth"
statue.
With the help of one of the tour guides from the information
center, I even managed to find my grandfather's grave. Although I'd
never met my grandfather, seeing his final resting place was very
moving, and I even shed a few tears. I couldn't thank
Mathieu
and his
friends enough for taking me there. To my surprise, which I was
beginning to see was simply due to my own ignorance, they all seemed
humbled
and reverent as we walked around the grounds. These were our friends,
with whom we had fought and died for the same causes, side-by-side.
Sure, the politicians on
both sides loved to bicker with each other and stir up conflict. But
when it came down to it, these were our friends. They had been since
the time of the American Revolution, and still were today. Politicians
were politicians, wherever you went. They didn't represent the "real"
people, and I had found that the French were nothing like what I had
been
expecting.
Eventually, though, it was time to head back to Paris for my last few
days with Mathieu. Once we got back to the city and bid farewell to his
friends, we decided to just walk around, stop at some small
cafés, and chat. I knew my time there was
drawing to a close, and I was going
to be very sad to be leaving not only Paris, but especially Mathieu. I
knew for sure now that I had fallen completely for him. It didn't seem
fair that I could meet such a wonderful guy, and
there be no chance that we could ever really be "together."
"Austin, I've had a great time with you these three weeks," Mathieu
said shyly, as we were once again sitting at a sidewalk café, sipping some wine, and nibbling on some cheese
and baguettes.
"Me, too," I managed to say, with my mouth full.
"I mean, at first, I just thought you were a really cute guy ...
and I guess I was sort of hitting on you. I didn't actually expect
anything to happen," he admitted. "But after getting to know you,
I felt something ... different."
"I know," I replied, blushing. "I feel the same way, too. I just
don't think there's much we can do about it. I'm leaving in just
a few days."
"Oui, mais je t'adore.
I really like you, and if it wasn't for the fact that we live
so far apart, I would be honored to be your lover," he said softly.
The way he said that sounded so heart-felt, so sincere, and I
had to wipe a few stray tears from my eyes. We had met by chance.
Fate apparently had brought us together, and it seemed so cruel
that after finding each other, and realizing our feelings went
beyond just physical attraction, we now had to be separated. And
the chance of us ever getting back together was practically nil.
Mathieu planned on going to the Sorbonne, and I had to go back
to Kansas City. On the bright side, though, falling for Mathieu
had helped me get over my crush on my best friend, Joey, even
if he did have the sexiest nose on the face of the earth.
"I wish we could, too," I said, placing my hand gently over his
and giving it a tender squeeze. "But I guess it was just written
in the stars. You've opened up a whole new world to me, and showed
me things I've been blind to, or too scared of, for a long time.
That's made it all worth it."
Yikes! Where in the hell did
I learn to speak so eloquently? It must be something in the French
water or something!
Mathieu just nodded and smiled shyly, shedding a few tears of
his own.
It just so happened that it was pouring outside on our last day
together in Paris, so we decided to spend the whole day in the
hotel room, talking, snuggling, kissing, and, of course, making
love. I was a bit surprised (and relieved) that we had managed
to evade the police for an entire three weeks. But a bit of luck,
and good planning, seemed to have paid off. Ever since I had sent
that e-mail to my mother, I had refused to check my messages,
because I was sure that there would be at least fifty messages
in my inbox, no doubt telling me that I would be grounded until
I turned eighteen ... or forever. But it was worth it. Any punishment
would have been worth it for the amazing things I had learned
and experienced during my three weeks that summer with Mathieu
in Paris.
The following day, when Mathieu accompanied me to the bus station
where I would catch a bus to the airport in Brussels to meet back
up with my group, was extremely difficult. Neither of us wanted
to say good-bye, and we both cried for quite a while. We exchanged
phone numbers and e-mail addresses, and I hoped that we could
at least stay in contact. He may not have been my "boyfriend,"
but he was one of the best friends I'd ever had, and he had completely
changed my life. There was no way I would ever forget him or the
incredible time we spent together. And, deep in my heart, I knew
that I would find a way to see him again, no matter what it took.
And he made the same promise to me. Of course, promises made between
two young, slightly naive and love-struck teenage boys have always
been meant to be broken, but I could still dream, couldn't I?
Once we said our final good-byes, and shared a last, long, passionate
kiss, I boarded the bus for Brussels. After several hours driving
down the highway at breakneck speeds, the bus finally arrived
at the airport. As soon as I got in the door, I noticed my group
over by the check-in counter. The director immediately spotted
me walking toward them.
"Where in the hell have you been, Austin?" he chastised me.
"Just hanging around," I replied enigmatically.
He eyed me suspiciously. "I hope it was worth it. You're going
to be in a hell of a lot of trouble when you get home."
"Oh, it was definitely worth it," I replied, with a wry grin.
