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This is a question Stalked

Have you been stalked? Or have you done the stalking? Is that you in the bushes outside with the nightvision goggles?

(, Thu 31 Jan 2008, 15:40)
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Hey, it actually fits! Here's one I prepared earlier.
This post is not suitable for children or the short of attention span. It contains scenes of a sexually raunchy nature, literary and cultural allusions, one mild drug reference, foreign words and is free from all apologies for length.

It may, however, contain nuts.

* * * * *

“On va au cinoche ce soir?” someone asked. We were sitting around in Nass’s room, fat-chewing and breeze-shooting in a Banlieu-stylee.

Nass was my best friend at that time; we’d met the previous summer in Nice, travelled back up North to Paris together, where I’d stayed a week or so at her place in Colombes, then back to London where she stayed with me for a week or so, before we went off grape picking together in the Langeudoc region. When we’d met first in July, I spoke passable French, could ‘get by’ and even follow part of a conversation between French people, but as Nass didn’t speak a word of English and liked to talk, by the time we separated after the grape picking in late September, I was not only fluent, but had picked up a fair amount of Parisian argot – that’s slang to you lot – as well as a distinct Parisian accent. I was a born again Francophile, listening to Renaud, reading Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir in the original…I was starting to think things to myself and even dream in French.

But this was the following spring, and I’d taken a long weekend break from temping in London and was staying with Nass. She was great; about 4’ 11” high, stylish in an ethnic, artless shabby-chic kind of way, Algerian parents, John Lennon glasses, teeth like a young Shane MacGowan but a smile like sunshine breaking through clouds. She was talkative and opinionated and fun and could become serious but was hardly ever moody. She was full of life and game for a laugh and she was my copine, my frangine. Of all my ‘friends of the opposite sex’, she was the bestest friend and as neither of us remotely fancied the other, we could safely share a tent without the least problem. I loved her like a sister and would have defended her to the death.

Anyway, back to the day in question. “Alors, qu’est-ce q’on fait ce soir?” There was a bunch of us sat around, and there’s no way I can remember them all but Nass’s best friend Titine (that’s Christine) was there and Gilles, who was a conscientious objector. Not sure exactly how conscientious he was exactly, bearing in mind his fondness all things cannabis related, but he was definitely an objector: he had opted for the ambulance service rather than going into the army for his national service. I seem to remember that this was no soft option – may have meant serving twice as long or something – but it did mean he didn’t have to cut his hair, which seemed important – though choosing not to wash it either was less understandable.

Nass was living in a ‘foyer’, and by this I don’t mean she crashed out where the doorman and the lifts were. It was a kind of hostel; the best way to describe it would be to say that it was a hall of residence for young people that weren’t students. Brilliant idea, don’t know why we don’t do it here. Post-18, can’t/don’t want to live with your folks, can’t afford your own flat, want the company of like-situated people, want a canteen and laundry on hand, don’t need much personal space, willing to share a bathroom with a few others? All this and the support of tres sympa social worker type wardens on hand to help you out with personal problems looking for work, claiming benefits, etc. etc. This is why I can’t remember who else was there, people came and went all the time.

So, the cinoche – what’s on? When I heard that ‘Brazil’ was playing, I convinced the gang to go see it. Now, being good b3tans, I’m sure you’re all familiar with it, but this was Paris in the spring of 1985, and the film had only come out the year before in the UK. I remember seeing it for the first time, shortly after sitting through the much anticipated version of Orwell’s ‘1984’ with John Hurt and Richard Burton and thinking how very much better ‘Brazil’ was at portraying an alternative present dystopia. Anyway, I talked them into it and we trooped off into the heart of Paris on the French version of Network SouthEast, Colombes being outside the reach of the Metro. There must have been between half a dozen and a dozen of us I suppose, all talking 19 to the dozen as young people everywhere tend to do.

We were a bit early for the film so went to a café for beer or coffee or whatever and a cigarette of course – Paris, café, coffee, ciggie – I was smoking Gaulois Blonde probably, a very fair substitute for Camels at a quarter of the price and in a nice blue packet. We chatted away about this and that; I don’t know about Ireland, not having been there, but I always found in France that the craic was good.

On to the film. We shambled in with much noise, laughter, pushing and shoving and I settled down for a couple of hours of English language (with French sub-titles). I don’t know about you at the cinema, but I like to have my elbows on the arms of the seat and will usually fight for my rights. This time, although I’d bagged them as soon as I sat down, the girl sat on my left insisted on insinuating her elbow onto the same arm-rest, bad form or what? It was very uncomfortable so I gave way gracefully and settled down to watch the film and was soon lost in Gilliam’s wonderful creation. The only annoyance being constant shifting from the girl in the next seat who couldn’t seem to get comfortable.

Film over, we all trooped off back to the train and headed for home. When we sat down I found myself opposite, and thereby almost knee to knee with the annoying girl from the cinema, although, in the light, I realised that woman was a better description. She started chatting to me about this and that, and she managed to keep my attention despite the fact that she was wearing a vest t-shirt under her open jacket which gave me a pretty good idea of the hilly landscape which lay beneath, especially as there was a goodly amount of cleavage on show. Thinking back, I’m pretty certain she was leaning forward and may have had her arms closer together than normal too. In fact, although I can remember the view of her chest, I can’t actually remember any of the conversation…funny that.

It transpired that Therese – for that’s what I’ll call her – was actually the warden for the hostel, or one of the team anyway, and when we got back, we all went to her room. This was a bit bigger than the others and it also had its own bathroom en suite. We were squashed in next to each other, along with about three other people on a low futon-type sofa. I was plied with vin rouge and the next thing I remember is Therese leaning in very close to me and asking huskily, right in my ear, if I wanted to take a shower.

Now, you lot know me – I’m no genius, but I’m no thickie either, but for some reason, I was being very slow on the uptake that day. I’ve had a few years to think about this and can only put it down to the fact that at that time, I would have considered anyone over the age of, say, 25 as ‘above the radar’ if you know what I mean. Now you can argue about age difference all you like and what’s old and what’s young, but at that time I was 21 and Therese was 30. By my reckoning that made her 50% older than me, or to put it another way, an ‘older woman’. Anyway, eventually, I cottoned on; I didn’t take a shower but I did consent to a one-to-one practical tutorial in French Kissing – Advanced Level. I believe that around that time, the room emptied as our guests filed off to someone else’s room.

As soon as the door closed behind them, Therese got me to help her turn the sofa into a bed and then pulled me down onto it. I managed to get my DMs off in the time it took her to completely disrobe and then she began helping me off with my clothes while kissing me in some pretty intimate places. Her breasts were revealed to be as fulsome and lovely as I had imagined, her figure was trim, her ardour was high, we became acquainted. Pretty soon, she assumed what I was to learn was her favourite position: lying on her back with her knees spread wide, but with her feet somehow tucked under her bum, thereby raising her hips up a little, presenting Little Che – who, belying his moniker, was vastly engorged, rigid as a pool cue and, if I’m not much mistaken, giving off a low hum as he twitched playfully in time to my racing pulse – a clear target to aim at. Still, I hesitated.

“Baise-moi” she breathed, as her fingers reached down to part her lips for me, looking for all the world like an Egon Schiele painting come to life. I didn’t need asking twice so, after positioning Little Che for the ‘off’, I propped myself up on fully extended arms, the better to enjoy the view, then set the Little fella to work, teasingly slowly at first, not too deep, feeling his way, savouring every sensation, easing him into the warm, wetness, deeper with each forward movement, as her intoxicating scent arose, mixing with my own sweatiness. Once I’d ‘pulled up to the bumper’, I slowly increased the speed, still teasing, but when her encouragement became urging I fell to with a will, and we began the journey towards that distant goal in earnest. My arms began to ache so I lowered myself onto my elbows for a second wind, pumping and then thrashing, as if riding towards the finish line, five furlongs out…and as the crowd roared us home, I passed the post just ahead of her then slowed to a canter, a walk and finally stopped, smiled down at her smile, kissed her gently, withdrew, kissing her breasts before rolling off, sweating, dripping and spent.

We sat up with a sheet pulled up to cover our cooling bodies and enjoyed a post-coital smoke and a glass of wine. The second time was as good as the first. Little Che and the bollock brothers rose manfully to the occasion and, if it was a 2.5 mile-er rather than a straight mile sprint, it was a close enough finish to please the crowd. I’d had an each-way bet on myself so was happy enough to come in second place by a length.

The next thing I knew, it was morning. I was lying curled up on my left side, with Therese curled behind me, her warm breasts pressed against my back, her right arm draped over me and her gentle fingers exploring and encouraging Little Che’s ‘salute to the sun’.

“Bonjour,” I said, turning onto my back and half sitting up against the pillows. I pulled Therese towards me for a cuddle but quick as a flash she threw her right leg over me and straddled my thighs. Then, steadying herself on my shoulders, she sat up and forwards and as smoothly as a spaceship manoeuvre, located the capsule in the mother-ship’s docking station before sinking back down and fully engaging.

This time, I let her do all the work, while I played with her marvellous tits, making her nipples stand out hard and proud, lifting them up and flicking my tongue across them, but after a while I became distracted by the action down below and gave it my full attention, even assisting a little by reaching behind her, grasping her arse and bucking up and down against her thrusts. After, I held her close while Little Che slowly softened inside her and she sighed deeply and told me that I’d really better take that shower now.

Off I sauntered to the en suite. As I turned on the light and caught sight of myself in the mirror over the sink, I gave myself a mischievous wink and a grin, before turning on the shower taps and stepping into for a good old rinse off, making sure I got all the gunk out of my nether hairy region. Poor old Little Che thought that round four was on the cards, especially as I vigorously dried the old chap, but though he swung jauntily as I made my way back into the bedroom, and I could see Therese contemplating a return match, I safely reached my black cotton briefs, pulled them on and up, tucking the lad away with mingled regret and relief. On went 501s, t-shirt, socks and DMs, I picked up my jacket and with a brief kiss, I was off with a promise to meet up in the cafeteria in 15 minutes.

I was only a tiny bit sheepish as I knocked on Nass’ door, but I needn’t have worried. As I pulled on a fresh t-shirt she explained to me what had happened the previous afternoon. Therese had asked her if the two of us were an item, when Nass said ‘no’, she’d asked if I was attached, when Nass said ‘no’, she asked if Nass would mind is she made a move on me. Nass said ‘be my guest’. She passed the word around everyone except me and we were thus shoved together at the cinema, train, sofa etc. I wasn’t sure what to think.

We went down to breakfast and when Therese came in, fresh as a lily, she monopolised me, asking what my plans for the day were. I didn’t have any, “Can you meet me at 1pm in front of the Pompidou Centre?”


“I’m not on duty tonight, so I’ll have to go back home [chez moi] this evening.”

“Oh,” I said naively, “do you live with your parents?”

Her face went through several unreadable emotions and then she laughed, “No! I live with my boyfriend.”

* * * * *

We met that afternoon and Therese took me to a small hotel in the centre of Paris. As we walked along, she put her arm around my waist and I noticed how petite she was – no more than 5’ 1” and how terribly French somehow, with her bobbed hair, casually smart clothes, careful make-up, cigarette, firm round bum. At the hotel, she paid for a room and we performed the now familiar ballet, though this time with her lying across the still-made bed, her head hanging over the edge, showing off her magnificent boobs to their best advantage.

We probably went somewhere for a coffee afterwards, and she probably gazed adoringly into my eyes as I lit her cigarette with my zippo, then probably held my hands and promised to write.

I left Paris early the next day with promises to return and went back home to London and a series of undemanding, underpaid, unskilled temping jobs. I think it’s fair to say I was feeling pretty smug and I was certainly in credit at the wank bank for a change. Therese wrote; she sent me a card which said ‘Je craque sans toi’ on the front and had words of endearment inside. She also suggested a trip to Berlin in the summer.

This was looking promising. I was still getting letters from Ursula [see: ‘beautiful but bonkers’] and there was also another girl in Tubingen that I was quite keen to see again thanks to the best one-night-stand of my life the previous year. If I played my cards carefully, I could bonk my merry way across Germany in the summer.

* * * * *

Woody Allen said once: “How do you make God laugh? Answer: Tell him your plans for the future.” Little did I know that during a temp placement as a filing clerk at a family planning clinic, Cupid would be lying in wait for me, and rather than the usual cute little bow and arrow, he’d borrowed Detritus’ crossbow. I’m still – 23 years on – reeling from the blow and will possibly never recover.

* * * * *

I’d already agreed with a friend to spend another weekend in Paris – he had friends there too – so off we went, though I probably bored him to tears with talk of Xena (the future Mrs Grimsdale) on the overnight ferry journey. I’d only had three days work at the clinic and had only managed to meet up with her once since then but I was walking on air none-the-less.

Predictably, as soon as I stepped over the threshold, Therese dragged me off to an unoccupied room and proceeded to give me an appetite for breakfast. Being perceptive, she could tell that, although one of my organs was fully engaged in proceedings, my heart was clearly not in it at all. Over breakfast she got the full story from me. I told her that I couldn’t come to Berlin, that I couldn’t write to her any more, that I couldn’t see her again – and total unfeeling selfish bastard that I was, I have no idea now how she took it.

I returned home and began my serious pursuit of Xena. My supporting role in a minor French farce was over and memories of Therese faded from my mind like morning mist in the sunshine.

- FIN –

* * * * *

I know you lot like a happy ending, and may be feeling a little let down just now. Sorry, but it doesn’t always work out that way, though if anyone were to ask “So, Che, how was it for you?” I can safely reply “Great. It was really great.” I only hope that Therese’s memories of those few months are as fond as mine are; I do know that they will be very, very different.

What I can also say is that with age comes wisdom of a kind. Although I enjoyed telling that story, and I hope, you enjoyed reading it, what I now realise is that the story I really want to read is Therese’s story. As I never asked her a single question about herself, her life, her boyfriend, her family, her hopes and dreams and fears, I’ll never know if I was a revenge fuck, just one in a long series of flings, the one true love of her life, all of the above or none of the above.

If any of you talented lady posters wish to take up the challenge to tell “Therese’s Story”, then I for one would very much like to read it [are you there Chickenlady?].

…and now dear b3tans, I will roll away from this post, sweating, dripping and totally spent.
(, Thu 31 Jan 2008, 15:51, 20 replies)
Bloody hell..
I'll save this post for when I get home.
(, Thu 31 Jan 2008, 16:01, closed)
For fuck's sake!
Proust has nowt on you.
*click* for duration.

Et, pour moi - oui: j'ai lit de Beauvoir en français aussi. Faut-il brûler de Sade? Peut-etre non - mais je voudrais brûler de Beauvoir.
(, Thu 31 Jan 2008, 16:03, closed)
it was a tough decision
whether or not to read this epic. and I'm glad I did.

always enjoy your tales of times in other countries. makes me kind of wish I'd done a bit more of that sort of thing, then perhaps I'd have some stories to tell on her rather than commenting in a slightly naff way on other peoples'
(, Thu 31 Jan 2008, 16:09, closed)
You Bastard Grimsdale
Ladies and Gentlemen, we have a winner.

Exotic travel? Check
A heartbreaking love story? Check
References to Orwell and of course the cruelly underrated "Brazil"? Check
Chic locations in Paris intertwined in the plot? Check (stitch THAT Da Vinci Code)
A frisson of well written Franco-smuttiness? Check (stitch THAT Da Vinci Code)

I can just imagine the film version complete with subtitles and gratuitous French nudity, so hence a *click* from me.

*goes off to reread smutty bits*
(, Thu 31 Jan 2008, 16:11, closed)
I just can't believed you have pre-typed QoTWs!
(, Thu 31 Jan 2008, 16:13, closed)
Is it just me
or is it rather warm in here all of a sudden?

(, Thu 31 Jan 2008, 16:24, closed)
great tale
but "as smoothly as a spaceship manoeuvre, located the capsule in the mother-ship’s docking station before sinking back down and fully engaging."

thats fucking hilarious!

um, where's the stalking bit? i'm a bit slow, see...
(, Thu 31 Jan 2008, 16:41, closed)
an epic story
only a soupçon of stalking though ;o)

gets a clicky though

length? I'd say
(, Thu 31 Jan 2008, 16:41, closed)
I will rise to the occasion (especially having been the 'older woman' more than once...Thank goodness you posted this on the first day of qotw! It'll give me a few days to think up "Therese's story"...but I can't promise to include much in the way of French conversation - I can just about get by in a shop or restaurant and that's it. Nonetheless, I'll have a crack - and of course the required 'artistic erotica' will be included....
(, Thu 31 Jan 2008, 16:42, closed)
I did French A-level and would be happy to provide the requisite badly-translated dialogue for you. Just send me the smut.
(, Thu 31 Jan 2008, 16:46, closed)
Right, I'll start thinking up Gaulois and vin rouge based smut!
(, Thu 31 Jan 2008, 16:49, closed)
Thanks guys and gals
Granted, the spaceship was a little lame, but I think the 'each-way bet' more than makes up for it.

Can't wait for 'Therese's Story' - gaz me if you need any details.

And I don't usually do them in advance, but it was a nice quiet week and I wanted to tell the story - only just managed to shoe-horn it in. She did stalk me, but only for an evening before she bagged me.
(, Thu 31 Jan 2008, 16:52, closed)
This is really lovely
(apart from the dirty bits will ensure your entrance to the fiery pits of hell - you heathen) I would love to hear Therese's story. I might write one myself.
(, Thu 31 Jan 2008, 19:19, closed)
the mother-ship line...
...deserves the click alone!
(, Thu 31 Jan 2008, 20:08, closed)
Bravo mon ami, Bravo!
(, Thu 31 Jan 2008, 20:57, closed)
What a lovely story, and well told, I was taken there for a while, as must you have been when writing it!
Gets a bit Razzle in places, but still manages to be lyrical, most enjoyable!

Not much stalking like, but I'll let you off, took me back to my travels around Europe in the mid to late '90s, whenever I have a shitty time due to the less desirable elements of the current English cultural environment I get whimsical for this part of my past life and dream of getting away once more (altho youth and selective memory always puts a more glamourous sheen upon such recollections). Was nice to get away to your similar past for a few minutes.

Cheers, may Therese's story be all you would wish it to be...
(, Fri 1 Feb 2008, 9:03, closed)
Dude, write a book about this stuff.

That was a cracking read. I would have preferred it if it had been me and not you telling this story, however. I've known a handful of French girls and another 20 of their calibre would not have gone amiss prior to meeting my lovely Anglo-Welsh missus, to whom I have accidentally made a vow of lifelong (actually takes me a good 30 seconds to remember the word!) faithfulness. Of course, affairs and flings being customary and essential to French happiness, we could probably swap with a French couple. Alas, I only know one French girl now, and she fancies my wife.
(, Sun 3 Feb 2008, 19:29, closed)
Not only was that a really shit story, I fail to see the relevance to stalking.

Maybe before you embark on writing such wank, having a wee look at the main theme for the QoTW might not be a bad option.
(, Mon 4 Feb 2008, 15:15, closed)
nudge poke etc

(, Mon 4 Feb 2008, 20:44, closed)
Great work!
Who cares it's light on stalking? Not I. *click* :) Nice to read a well written and inspiring tale amongst the horror this week!

Also - Where do you get off, Poofly? You're hardly a master of storytelling, I wouldn't go around throwing stones if I were you...
(, Wed 6 Feb 2008, 20:55, closed)

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