Saturday, April 11, 2015

La Male

Airports remind me of the cronic state I'm in, the antiseptic limbo in between a dream and a nightmare. Not quite lost but never a place where I truly feel at home.

"Spring came with you" he says when he picks me up at CDG, wearing midnight blue and lavender. Paris smells the way I remember it, not from spring and cherry blossoms but a Gaultier-esque vulgarity. Its beauty is raw and impertinent, nothing like the dignified elegance of Rome or Milan.

The first time I came here was with Chloe, she wanted to fuck one of the PSG soccer players after watching the World Cup on TV. It worked better with the artists in Montmartre, even though they lacked money to buy us drinks and jewelry. We tried opium and red lace lingerie and promised each other that for the later it would be the first and only time.

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