I suppose we all have those moments when hormones go a little wonky and we act impulsively and out of character. I had one of those moments the other day, when I turned into quite the brazen hussy on the metro.
I was seated on the Line 4 when I saw a VERY handsome older gentleman step on the train at Barbès-Rochechouart. No joke. Gorgeous. Like Robert-Redford-resplendent.
This impeccably-dressed man-a-licious specimen then came over and, instead of striking up a conversation as a normal human being would do, he strategically repositioned himself so that he could stand over me and stare directly down my shirt as I remained seated.
I’m not sure what came over me, but this was when I looked up at him and said, “So do you like what you see?”
He was taken aback, so it took him a good while to respond with “Euh, yes, I suppose that I do.”
I refused to let this gloriously good-looking man off the hook. “Well, do you intend to do anything about it then?”
At this point, the poor thing was pretty tongue-tied.
I stood up so that my face was inches from his. (To be more precise, my face was inches from his chin, since he was deliciously tall — definitely part of his appeal in this barren wasteland of diminutive Parisians.)
After some stammering, my unfortunate victim (who, to avoid my expectant gaze, was still staring down my shirt, by the way) finally came out with, “Well, now that you mention it, I’d love it if you’d have dinner with me sometime.”
Of course, I replied, “I’d love to. My name is Hélène.”
I gave him my number and alit at the next stop.
I know that he’ll never call. Probably a good thing.
In this city, a man of that age is guaranteed to be married. It would certainly explain why he was so eager to ogle my boobs but so reluctant/incompetent about taking action.
Besides, I obviously traumatized him. I imagine that it’s a little emasculating when a female basically forces you to ask her out.
But at least no one can ever say that I’m not proactive about my love life.