Naughty Paris. Jina Bacarr

around my waist—which seemed smaller—I laced up a pair of tight-fitting pearl-gray leather button shoes with stubby two-inch heels and threw on the gorgeous red velvet cloak. No mirrors, so I couldn’t see how I looked, but everything fit perfectly, as if I’d lost a few pounds. Very strange. I wanted to believe the statue had worked its magic on me, but I couldn’t. Not yet.

      My calf muscles pull, legs tighten in the morning chill, and I walk stiffly across the boulevard toward what I hope is the rue Saint-Honoré. Up in the sky the fading moon ignores me, along with the dark clouds trying to blot out its glow. No storm clouds. No thunder, and God help me, no lightning. No rain puddles, either. But it’s cold, much too cold for an early summer dawn breaking over the elegant edifices of the pink-brick and white-stone mansions. A cool breeze plays with the heavy velvet whipping around my ankles, as if it knows I’m pantyless and wants a peek. I pay it no attention. I have to get some answers, and fast.

      Why did the Marais studio look so different when I came to? Where was the old artist? How long was I unconscious?

      And what about Paul Borquet?

      He couldn’t have been real. I only imagined him.

      I exhale deep lungfuls of air that puff in front of me like smoke. Yet I’m sweating despite the chill. I hear only my own panting, the swoosh of my long cape hitting the pavement as I plod along the cobblestone streets in two-inch-high button shoes with squared-off toes that wouldn’t know a Blahnik from a Choo. I don’t want to accept the crazy notion skirting through my orgasmic-maxed-out brain. Nothing I’ve seen is real, I tell myself. Can’t be. The reality is I’m lying in a Paris hospital, tubes coming out of my nose, my mouth, everywhere, my mother hovering over me while she flirts with the handsome French doctor who assures her I’ll wake up soon.

      Only a bump on the head when she slipped on the floor during an electrical storm, he tells her.

      My mother reacts. You said she was nude? And holding on to the erection of an Egyptian statue? My daughter?

      Yes, Mother. Your daughter, who’s having the sexiest wet dream of a lifetime and I have no intention of waking up just yet. So, let’s get on with it! I want to see what happens next…

      I look to the pavements. A soft sigh escapes from my lips, frustration following, as if my breath catches on a feather and hangs there a moment. I see construction, houses the color of milky limestone going up, streets being widened, as if the city of Paris is getting a facelift.

      I can’t put into words my fascination, but I feel it down to the core of female sexuality. As if I’m the city of Paris and my body, my spirit, my fucking sex life, is reawakening and filling me up with so much energy, so much furiosity I feel my body regaining its suppleness, its curves. I’m lethal, baby. A sex pistol.

      This sensual feeling takes possession of me and won’t let go. I breathe it in. Suck it in, dammit. Power is a thrill ride. Sexual power is a thrill ride in overdrive. So, power up, because here I go.

      I cross the street, the intoxicating floral scent of nature in an aroused state—ask any bee—seducing me. Moisture glistens on the canvas awning of a flower stand. Underneath I see an old woman wearing a tattered black shawl and a long, heavy dark skirt lovingly arrange her roses, lilies and violets. The woman pulls the shawl back from her face and smiles at me. I’m so absorbed in watching her I don’t see the man come up behind me—

      “Pardon, mademoiselle,” drawls the young dandy, bumping up against me. Wearing a polished black hat and evening tails, he weaves past me in complete bewilderment of either me or his surroundings. I wrinkle my nose. The strong smell of alcohol lingers in the air. I assume the slender shape of a wine bottle holds more appeal for him than the curves of a woman. The young man dawdles down the boulevard, muttering to himself, when from out of nowhere a ragged creature with a wicker basket strapped to its back shuffles closely behind him.

      I turn my head, sniffing. Did the air just get heavier with a foul scent? Unpleasant, as if they haven’t washed in weeks.

      Carrying a lantern in one hand and a sharply pointed hook in the other, I watch in amazement as the creature picks several items out of the young man’s coat pocket with its hook then tosses them into the basket.

      “Watch out, monsieur!” I yell out, trying to warn the young man, but he’s too tipsy to realize what’s going on and dawdles on his way without looking back.

      “Mind your own business, mademoiselle.”

      Is it a woman? The voice is gruff, gritty but definitely female.

      “I will not,” I shoot back, insulted. “You’re a thief, madame, or worse.”

      None of this is real, I keep telling myself, so I edge closer, fascinated by this creature.

      “Sassy, ain’t ya, mademoiselle?” Surprised by my boldness, she stands down, shifting her weight under the heavy pack. I judge her to be around forty, but her hunched-over posture makes her appear much older. Swathed in gray-stained rags with an occasional patch of fancy silk plaid showing through her torn muslin petticoats, she has the look of a woman worn out by poverty, but crafty nonetheless. What surprises me are the fine black leather boots on her feet. She notices my stare. She grins with glee. “You like?”

      “Where did you steal them?” I ask her, smirking.

      “Yesterday these fine boots belonged to a fancy lady on the rue Saint-Honoré.” She raises her skirts with her hook and shows off her boots. “Now they adorn Old Mathilde’s callused feet, ma fille.”

      Did she just call me a ho?

      “You may be a thief,” I insist, “but I am not a whore!”

      “Eh, bien? Really? What else could you be with that red Titian hair, mademoiselle?” I flinch when she reaches out and touches my hair, but I don’t pull away. Something about this woman intrigues me, as if she’s a key player in this melodrama. “I’ve never seen hair this color except on a beautiful demi-mondaine, gentleman’s mistress, decked out in fancy feathers and soft silks and smelling like faded carnations and Rachel Rose powder.”

      I make a face. “Don’t ask me what you smell like—”

      Before I can stop her, the creature bumps into me, then rips open my long flowing cape, nearly tearing it off me. My bare breasts peek through the silky material of the dressing gown, my nipples brown and pointy, the apricot-hue giving my skin a natural peachy tone.

      The woman’s eyes widen. “By all the angels in heaven I’ve never seen anyone, not even a dégrafée, unhooked one, running through the streets of Paris in her underwear.”

      I pull my cloak closer around me. “Someone stole my clothes.” I have no intention of explaining further.

      Old Mathilde fiddles with her smooth, wooden rosary beads. “I know, mademoiselle. I’ve been watching you.”

      “Me? Why?”

      When did she hop on for the ride in my orgasmic wet dream?

      Stooped over, her wicker basket heavy with the night’s pickings strapped to her back, she sniffs me. “I followed you through the streets from rue Saint-Merri, past the boulevard de Sébastopol to rue Berger.” She chuckles softly. “You have the smell of sex on you, mademoiselle.”

      I roll my eyes and wet my lips. “You have no idea.”

      She smirks. “Is that artist as good with his cock as they say he is?”

      In the early-morning mist, I can see she enjoys toying with my emotions. “Artist? Who?”

      “Paul Borquet.”

      I grab her by the shoulders, though the smell overpowers me. Think vinegar with dead rats floating in it. “What do you know about Paul Borquet?” My pulse races. “Tell me!”

      “You must have a hot cunt, mademoiselle. All wet and juicy and tight. Ripe for a man to slam his hard cock into and shoot his heavy load.” Licking her lips with her wet tongue, she