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His hand went to my thigh, above the knee, and he looked dreamily at me.
I didn't try to remove his hand, which told him all he wanted to know.
His clothes fit him like a glove, including across the bulge at his crotch. I would be there, with this dark and sultry hunk, at least as long as it took for me to finish my coffee.
The young man's cup was refilled when my coffee arrived. We couldn't communicate with each other in other than hand signals and the occasionally mutually understood word.
He was French and I was American and had unexpectedly and on short notice been transferred to Paris.
It would be months—possibly never—before I'd be able to converse in the language, although I did have a facility for learning languages and knew several.
Jacket Lost It was the first time I'd worn the jacket and I'd lost it.
I had other jackets, but when I'd gone out the day before, I'd decided this one would be best to wear, and I was right.
I'd even bought an expensive cashmere neck scarf to go with it in a bazaar in New Delhi that was of a color I thought would match the coat and that, victoriously, had done so perfectly.In turn, he admired my Gucci polo shirt, saying "Gucci?" with a question mark, and I nodded and smiled and said "Oui," which was about the extent of my French vocabulary at that point.It was a soft grayish-green wool, woven in an intricate pattern and with leather inserts of nearly identical color as side panels, elbow guards, and wrist bands. It was much too nice to give to a charity organization in its nearly new condition.But it had come from my father, who had had it made in Oslo during his stint there as the military attaché at the U. I knew my father must have carefully picked it out, as he was as style conscious as I was.
I wasn't sure—at least then—when he motioned, with a twinkle of his eye, the act of pulling the shirt over my head, that he was propositioning me.