Singled Out: The Continental Lesbian

So I am in France, back home, after a decade stuck on American soil. I don't know how it finally happened but it did. Actually I take it back! I do know how it happened.

Quite simply, I booked my trip the minute I miraculously got my immigration papers straightened out. And because I am a consummate workaholic, I decided to transform this French traveling parenthesis into a business trip. Thank God for this mobile desk called Mac-book and for my international -frontiers free - assistant also known as the Internet. -I'm just saying!

Surely I was not about to call this a vacation! I mean seriously -- who in their right mind considers going back home to their family a vacation? Not I!

Anyway, I made a quick stop in Paris to salute the city that witnessed my crazy adolescent years, attend a handful of work-related meetings - to put a face to the names I have been working with for years - and most importantly, experience the homo scene in the world-renown "Le Marais."  

The goal, evidently, was to find me a super sexy Frenchy to possibly take home, either to my temporary Parisian pied-a-terre or back to LA (I know I'm a hopeless optimistic, but better to aim high than not to aim at anything at all). Needless to say, in the "getting lucky" department I scored a perfect zero, meaning I got absolutely nothing, nada, niet, zilch!

 But in all honesty, it wasn't like I was blown away by the catalog I got to peruse. Admittedly, I am annoyingly highly selective, but I swear I had every good intention, for once, to lower my standards -- up to a certain point that is! I mean, I was already dealing with an inhumanly freezing cold temperature dropping below zero and was not ready to do the same vis a vis the quality level of my potential femme fatale French connection.

Gay Paris...not so much! Strangely I found myself being courted by men more than women. I have to brag here, but the indecent proposals kept pouring left and right like bees on honey. Aww, if only I were straight I would have for sure been in men a go-go haven! Of course to please my self-inflated ego, I consciously developed a case of lesbian amnesia and reciprocated the flirting favors for vanity sake.

But back to my commiseration about the dramatic penury of hot sexy Parisian women who like women in the likes of me. I never once resigned myself to sealing what fatally seemed to be my tragic fate. And because the laws of attraction always work their magical wonders no matter where you are in the world, at the very last minute, against all odds, I got what I was asking for - sort of!

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On the eve of my adventurous trek further up in the northern region of Europe to the continent's Capital, namely Brussels, I was cordially invited to partake in an intimate, uber typical, Parisian soiree.  Unlike LA, "typical" did not involve a booze binge or redundantly mind-numbing conversations about Hollywood and celebrity gossip.

Enter (fashionably late) Catherine - and I am using her real name because not only are the chances of her reading this column slim, but even if she did, she frankly wouldn't give a rat's ass about it.

As tall as the Eiffel Tower and muscularly imposing in a butchy feminine kind of disturbing way, Catherine bears an uncanny resemblance to Brigitte Nielsen - of course very much featuring the extravagant nonsensical "fi fi fu fu" theatrics of the "Flavor of Love" reality wannabe star. I had never seen anything like her - a nut case in all of her splendor!

Halfway through the dinner, and lots of Chardonnay later, psycho - now endearingly addressing me by the loving term "lesbo,"  decided to challenge me to a truth or dare game. Admittedly, it was more of a "dare or dare" battle of the lesbos -- I mean egos. Clearly, as straight as she professed to be, she was also ridiculously attracted to me. While it seemed to startle her immensely, I, on the other hand, found it profusely amusing. Perhaps now would be a good time to mention she's a fisherman - as in she fishes codfish for a living.

 So guess what was her first dare for me? BINGO: a one-minute French kissing session with none other than her (allegedly) non-gay ass. Mind you, there were seven of us at the table including bozo "The Great Dane." But evidently that didn't deter me from obliging - gaming obligations required.

I then stood up, leaned over the table, firmly grabbed her by the collar and pulled her towards me. No need to paint the details of what followed. Let's just say she was certainly seeing "la vie en rose" for the remainder of the evening. Not only that but she miraculously shut up and immediately ceased all of her dizzyingly psychotic fishing for compliments shenanigans.

As for me, well I am surely glad there are other fish in the Seine of Paris!

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