“When I grow up, I want to be a French woman.” This thought pops into my head as I stroll through Saint-Germain on a nondescript Tuesday morning, observing parisiennes “of a certain age” commencing their daily routines.
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Author: Marina Khorosh
The Story of Paul the Australian
NB: This story is one of those random discoveries that happens when a French asshole steals your phone in the supermarket (yes, hence the Instagram hiatus) and you are forced to resort to your prehistoric iPhone 4. While randomly scrolling through your old notes and feeling bad for your former ex-boyfriend-obsessed self, you suddenly stumble across a refreshing surprise in the form of a never-before-posted DD story. Hence, here is the story of the Australian, circa my first year in Paris.
Ah, Paul. I still sigh when I think of Paul. I would like to call him “The One That Got Away”, except that in reality, I have come to realize that Paul and I never stood much of a chance.
The Fixer Upper
A couple of weeks ago, I met a guy. Upon first glance, all the boxes appeared to check off: tall, cute, educated, gainfully self-employed, good family values, upper intermediate English (a coup in France). Our chemistry wasn’t suffering, and we worked in the same industry, always giving us something interesting to talk about. Considering my usual luck, or lack thereof, pas mal.
However, as we got to know each other, the issues began to emerge. Despite his conventional upbringing, he appeared to have a very low understanding of chivalry, was still mildly obsessed with his ex, and generally presented himself as a bit of a sloppy mess. On one night, my friend and I found him around the corner from the neighboring La Perle, looking distraught. It almost seemed like he had been crying! Blinking away the tears, he refused to divulge the source of his troubles. Ten minutes later, we saw him back at the bar, blissfully flirting with two blondes, his problems seemingly forgotten. He then proceeded to follow us to another bar, where he alternated between a pensive and a bored pout, speaking only when spoken to.
Street Style From the Eyes of an (Allegedly) Straight Male
Editor’s Note: The idea for this post came to me the other day while standing in line for the Elie Saab show, watching a gaggle of people, mildly resembling insane asylum escapees, practically performing circus routines in an effort to catch the attention of street style photographers. Suddenly, a refreshingly straight male appeared à la Prince Charming, handing me my show invitation, passed along by a very generous friend. Looking around the normally serene Tuileries gardens, he turned to me and muttered something hilarious and British that was quickly left forgotten. However, the main message was clear: what was mind-bogglingly cool to the fashion set was simply mind-boggling to normal straight males.
While I did not recruit the Brit for this endeavor, I did manage to solicit the commentary of a very entertaining male French friend, who, despite knowing way too much about fashion, still remains sexually attracted to the opposite sex. Without further ado, here is his take on some of the more “unique” street style looks of the fashion month.
The Secret Art of French-Girl Lingerie
Once upon a long time ago, my best friend met her Parisian future husband at Pastis in New York City. One week later, he presented her with her first gift: a set of Agent Provocateur lingerie, accompanied by a bouquet of roses and a bottle of champagne.
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How To Talk Dirty Like a Parisian (Wherever You Are)
Two months after I first arrived in Paris, I ended up at the Oberkampf apartment of a boy who deemed it romantic to feed me frozen carrots en lieu of dinner. Sometime in the midst of our post-veggie make-out session, he suddenly paused, looked me straight in the eye, and whispered seductively: “Je te désire.”
At that moment, I had to do everything in my power to hold in the snort that was threatening to explode frozen carrots and cheap wine all over his pleather couch. For some reason, the sound of a French man trying to talk sexy to me was possibly one of the funniest bedroom encounters of my life (second only to the time I could not locate my skirt at some hipster’s house and had to go to the office in tights and a trench coat.)
