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Purple Virgin

So it was PFW and for some reason I managed to RSVP to an after party.

As I’ve mentioned before I don’t really have many friends in Paris, but this time round I was in luck!!! Will I AM’s doppelgänger (shorter and chubbier) had met me a couple weeks prior and had been texting me incessantly.

Was I romantically interested? Nah, I wasn’t.

Did I think he’d be a suitable plus 1 for the party? You bet your sweet ass I did!! 

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WILL

Met me at a bar beforehand. He was in a tartan coat that was a bit too tight and he wore a chunky grey scarf. He bought us beers which I think in his mind, gave him the right to lecture me on what clothes would suit my body type.

Clearly my flares weren’t doing the bits I thought they were…🤨

THE PARTY

Was at a club called “The Breakfast Club” .

It was busy and dark filled with semi cool people, but nobody I recognised. 

Straight to the dance floor.  Did my own thing- a kind of aggressive shoulder roll whilst shouting ssskrrrt anytime time Travis Scott or Migos played. Will, on the other hand, had stripped down to a wife beater and was body rippling like an extra in “Step Up”.  Oy vey. Found respite in the

SMOKING AREA

Which was a small wooden room, that you wouldn’t of been able to swing a cat in.

People were… talking to me!! Cor! It may have had something to do with me telling them I was there to take pix for a “world famous magazine”, but whatever works, amirite?” 😉

When I arrived back on the dance floor, Will threw his toys out the pram.

“Why weeeir you gone for an oouuhherr!!?”

Jease, not my fault you don’t smoke boyo!!

Then he stormed out the venue and sent me a passive aggressive text:

“Why did u even want me here? x “

Too bad there weren’t violinists at the party.

 

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BREAKFAST CLUB SHUT

And that’s when I met Jen.

She was Canadian and it was her birthday and her friends wanted to call it a night.

“A night? No no that won’t do. You need to stay out!”

So I grabbed her and stood outside with the rest of the crowds wondering where to go next. We followed the majority to Le Montana, an alleged “it people spot”.

It was a black thin building with its name in red lights. 

 

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Jen was wearing sparkly reading glasses and brown hair and a pinstripe top.

She’d be pretty cookie cutter if not for her slightly more “counter culture” interests I learnt she had.

Le Montana was soulless and filled with a “my yacht’s bigger than yours” clientele. After one drink I said

“Let’s get out of here!” 

“We can go back to mine and drink?” she said and I nodded my head yes.

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Jen’s place was off a busy street in the Marais and was a studio.

Her bed was stripped. 

She took no time to go into the shoebox kitchen and serve piss coloured dessert wine  and pita bread. Like going up for communion but nothing like it really.

We drank and talked, mostly about men- the ones who had fucked us over (90%) and God, it felt good to have made a girl friend here!!

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The next thing I said was:

“May I put on a song?”

We sat there listening to it for a bit which was kind of awkward and then she stood up and her face changed and she kissed me.

Straight off the bat she wasn’t a great kisser and when we moved over to the bed she called me a:

“FUCKING WHORE.”

 Yikes! I didn’t really know what to say…

“Oi, nahhh I’m not!” ?

or

“No YOU’RE the whore!! Whore!!” ?

Maybe it was me getting defensive about being called hurtful names, but I decided to fight back, resulting in a weird kind of wrestling match. 

The excitement of this quickly wore off and I just wanted to feel something.

“Do you have a strap-on then?”

She didn’t. Instead she got up to get something and when she came back she put a purple vibrator up me which got stuck and I cried a bit until we got it out.

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THE NEXT MORNING

My mum was due back at 3pm from a trip abroad.

Turned to Jen. She was on the other side of the bed and I asked:

“What’s the time?”

“It’s two forty five”.

I shot out of bed and started to get dressed and as I was doing so, said:

“Ummm…so…like I don’t mean to be awkward, but like, let’s hang out again. Not like that, because I’m not… gay, I mean… I’m not saying you’re not pretty but …ummm…”

She looked at me blankly and tossed me her business card.

LEAVING THE GAFF

10 minutes passed and I still couldn’t open the door. Panic crept in. Got out her business card but the number was Canadian! Fuck! Time was ticking for me to get home before my Mom!!

Had to FaceTime a friend who couldn’t figure out how to open the damn door either. She suggested I buzz a random flat number, and when I did,  a small asian man came down to find me sobbing. He pressed a button emphatically and looked at me as if to say “Open sesame, you dummy!”

ARRIVED HOME

My mum was there, sitting on the sofa.

“Hey Ma… just popped out to get some milk.”

 

FIN

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