I love Paris...exhibitionism

Transferred from myspace:

I love Paris in the spring time,
I love Paris in the fall,
I love Paris in the winter,
when it drizzles,
I love Paris in the summer,
when it sizzles....

After a few cocktails last night I came to a conclusion about blogs and why people write them: exhibitionism! Deep down, we're all exhibitionists and blogging is the easiest (and most discreet way) to go about it. Face it, we all want to be seen and heard, and blogging gives us the opportunity to do so without stepping out of our protective little world. I had my own thrilling, real-life exibitionist moment a few years ago in Paris that gave me a unique insight on all this. I didn't realize I was on exhibit in the begining, but when I did, I did nothing to stop it, and found it quite exciting.
Our hotel was a small one on a side street near the Gare du Nord, and so typically Frech it lacked only a mime in a striped shirt and red bandana to make it look like a movie set. The innkeeper completed the feel by wearing a beret, smoking like a chimney and stroking a black cat sitting next to him on the counter. Our room was on the third floor with two sets of French doors (I wonder if they just call them doors?) that opened to what was more a ledge than a balcony, but afforded us fantastic views of the bustling street and cafes below and geranium draped balconies and stovepipe chimneys of the apartment building across from us.
It was an unusually warm September and our hotel, like most in Europe had no air conditioning (air conditioning is the crutch of the American), so we kept our French doors opened to keep the room cool. After a day of sight seeing and trying desperately NOT to be the "dirty American" (living in Europe a few years it's easy to see how Americans get this reputation-nasty little buggers we can be), we went back to the hotel to shower and rest before a typically late Parisian dinner. During our rest, things began to get amorous (as they do in Paris) and it wasn't too long before we were stripped of clothes and frolicing on the bed. At some point, I turned my head towards the French doors and caught the eye of a tall, dark haired man standing on the balcony of the apartment directly opposite our room. My first reaction of course was one of shock, but he tilted his head to the side and smiled slightly and all my reservations fell away. I know I should have been mortified at being "caught" but I wasn't. I liked it. A lot. I actually enjoyed this stranger watching me in the act of sex. It was exhillerating! The sex became even more exciting. I became more aware of my body and what I was doing. I was starring in my own little play and the show was hot. I was a sex goddess! I was an exhibitionist! What an amazing thing. When it was over and we were both still slick with sweat, I looked over and the stranger was still standing there, still smiling, and drinking a glass of deep red wine, which he raised in a salute before turning to go inside.
Of the sex I've had in my life, this one encounter is one of the ones that truly stands out in my mind, and I find just thinking back on it can turn me on. I certainly don't want to be watched every time I have sex, because that would just be exhausting, but having someone read my musings is an easy way to exhibit myself. A safe way because I'm not really there. You're looking into my mind without looking into my eyes. Exhibiting, while hiding. Being on display without being on display. Exhilerating.
I wonder what ever happened to that cheeky Parisian on the balcony. I wonder if he often watches the hotel across from him and catches other tourists in the act.

I love Paris in the spring time....