I was so looking forward with great anticipation to my upcoming weekend in Paris.

It was the perfect time of year to be outside of the UK in the city of romance and eternal youth. One of my side issues that filled my waking hours with the seeds of guilt was the need to converse in French with native speakers so I might improve my terrible Midland’s accent, to at least the off chance I might be from somewhere more appropriate in the average French person’s thoughts of an ideal environment.

I cringed each time I saw that little look of disdain when they heard me speak their beautiful language with my horrible harsh vowels. I was beginning to think it would be better if I had been born in Berlin or Frankfurt with all the guttural slaughtering of the beautiful French language with typical German pomposity of genetic superiority. It should be mentioned that I was funding the trip with Daddy’s trust fund for me because the BBC was dreadfully stingy about things like advance payments or compensation for something they couldn’t make a huge profit from.

Of course, I was more capitalistic in my economic appreciation than socialistic although I would never say that in public because most of my friends are of the other persuasion. It almost sounds like I am talking about one’s sexual quotient rather than cold hard cash, but I have found that the all-important factor of “income” is the true barometer of one’s personal success in this new millennium century of instant gratification.

My room-mate Oscar was still in bed and his unclothed bottom was staring me in the face as I brushed my teeth in the tiny bathroom. Actually, we were fortunate to have a bathroom because most of the flats on this street still had a single bath at the end of the hall as archaic as it sounds to the modern ear.

Oscar was a dear and he was terribly prompt in his rental payments that reduced my expenses to a controllable level. Let me hasten to add he was of the segment of the population that preferred the company of their own sex more than the fun of the chase in finding new “birds” to satisfy their base urges.

Sometimes he would bring a “friend” up for a little cuddling and it didn’t dissuade me from a good night’s sleep because I had the bedroom all to myself as part of our agreement. Besides, he was quite good at doing eyebrows and hair-tinting and I saved a lot of money by letting him experiment with my cosmetic needs from time to time.

In my opinion, I was better looking without any of that stuff because I had my peaches and cream complexion and I knew my hair was far better chopped off short and sort of boyish because it gave me a pixyish look that most guys find sexy.

During my university days, I had tried my best to mix in with the crowd and drink the awful beer at the pub and talk about the boring sports games so I could be just another bird in the crowd of smiling faces that doted on male superiority in all things in order to get my fair share of the young lads eager to copulate at the drop of a hat. I couldn’t help but think all they had on their mind with regard to anything dropping was my knickers as they hit the floor. I have to confess I was fairly quick to drop my knickers when it came to such matters because I preferred to be thought of as a social creature and one that got along well with all others.

In all honesty, I would be remiss to omit the fact that I had a shortage of female friends. That should be stated to be qualified to be females found in the same age category. I did have a fair share of older married women that I seemed to have more in common with and I enjoyed having tea or sipping a nice French wine rather than swigging down a pint with the boys.

When I included in that mix that I did generally like to be on top when it came to sex, I guess I was more controlling than your average “bird” with the much-preferred submissiveness that most foreigners ascribe to British womanhood. Lately, I had been so anti-submissive that I drove away any chap looking for an easy lay and I probably scared off my future husband as well.

My father was a real “stick-in-the-mud” type that some people would describe as overly proud and snobbish. I knew that under his gruff exterior, he was really a “softie” at heart and could be counted on to bend over backwards to give anyone deserving a helping hand when one was needed in a time of emergency.

My brother John was a bit of a cunt and I am not being facetious when I describe him in those terms. He was scheduled to be married this past June to a lovely girl from London and he up and left the week before the wedding and headed to his beloved India to play the role of the “good old boy” from the mother country. I knew he had a little club of happy housewives there to entertain him whilst their husbands labored for the government in boring jobs and unhappy lives.

My almost sister-in-law was a beautiful young girl called Diana and she was one of these types that faced any catastrophe with a stiff upper lip. I had never known her to do anything of a shameful nature and she took her rejection with no rancor pretending that John was off doing something much more important and he would make things right and in order at the proper time.

I knew my father was terribly upset over the whole affair and had threatened to “cut him off” for his dastardly behavior.

Of course, I knew my father would soon back off his proclamation at the first sign that his only son John was in any kind of a predicament.

I decided to take the newly finished tunnel instead of flying because the last time when I flew to New York City for my girlfriend’s wedding, I had been rerouted into Boston and we waited in the middle of a terrible snowstorm for transportation down to her wedding location in a place called Port Washington out in the wilds of Long Island a short distance from the downtown area.

We did make it on time, but it was all rushed and when we finally got back for our return flight, we found that all the flights had been canceled for some sort of labor dispute that grounded us for nearly a full week. I missed no less than three exams and had to do make-ups in order to graduate as scheduled and not have to extend it all for another six months and do it with the next batch of graduates like boxes of candy on some cosmic assembly line.

The tunnel was an experience and I found that I was a bit claustrophobic; something that I had never suspected before but I was reasonably certain it was the case because I was determined to take the ferry on the way back and avoid it at all costs.

The drive down to Paris was absolutely lovely.

The flowers were in full bloom and the butterflies were fluttering up a storm of yellow and black and lot of other colors too numerous to mention.

I stopped in a petrol station more to use the ladies and get some of that lovely sparkling water that tickled my tonsils than to refuel because my little two-seater was amazingly good on fuel consumption providing one didn’t try to set a new land record for speeding without getting caught by the police. My approach to driving was notoriously on the conservative side and most of my friends jokingly referred to me as “the turtle” when it came to describing my driving habits.

I had lost my sunglasses and was trying some new ones on, when a loud male voice behind me said,

“Far too Hollywood for you, dear.”

It was my thought exactly as I looked into the small mirror on the counter. A quick glance over my shoulder confirmed it was one of the pair of British lorry drivers that had stopped at almost the same time that I did on the off-ramp down to the petrol station and the little snack area attached to it in the rear.

“It’s better than getting that glare in my eyes when the sun is getting a bit low on the windshield.”

I knew immediately that they realized I was from back home from my plates and I didn’t mind speaking English even though my desire was to stay immersed in the native language as much as possible in order to improve my grammar and my pronunciation.

“Raymond and I noticed your tags and we were wondering what a proper young lady is doing out here in the middle of Froggy town all by her little lonesome.”

It was obvious they were both looking to chat me up because they probably couldn’t speak a word of French and they had absolutely no motivation to learn a single word except “oui” or “non.” I found that sort of attitude deplorable but it seemed to be the going thing these days making foreign travel a bit confrontational when one’s ability to communicate makes travel difficult.

“I am heading to Paris for a conference on human rights. I am not one of the participants and I only record the details for the newspaper back home. Besides, it lets me learn the lingo a bit better and that is a big benefit when my boss is looking for some local color in the report.”

I noticed the talkative one had a name tag that said, “John” and I thought it a weird coincidence he had the same name as my brother but it was probably because that was one of the most popular boy’s names in the UK and it was an “odds-on” favorite when all the bets were down.

“Raymond and I wondered if you would want to join us in the lorry for a little touch of something stronger in your tea.”

I knew right away either one of them or maybe even both wanted to give me a quick poke if I was compliant and the only way they could confirm my lack of ladylike behavior was to ask politely and I had no problem with that at all. It seemed certain to me that if it was only one of them, I might have given my assent, but two against one with me being outnumbered was a bit risky in case they decided to give me a bit of slap and tickle without my full consent. In short, I was tempted but too cautious by far and I declined as graciously as possible.

“That sounds nice to me, John. Unfortunately, I have to be at the hotel by seven PM and I have to stay on schedule. I will be on the left bank at the Hotel Majestic if you want to meet me for a quick one in the bar. My name is Brittany Jones and I will be here for three days and two nights and then I head straight back home for some boring work on obituaries and the like to earn my keep like a proper working girl.”

The two of them promised to meet me later at the hotel, but I knew they would probably hook up with a pair of street working girls and be shacked up faster than a speeding bullet and with a lot more fun.

The traffic was thankfully light and I rolled into the tiny parking lot next to the hotel at a quarter to seven and presented my identification and my debit card for the desk clerk to swipe and charge my account.

The elevator was not working but that was normal for the Hotel Majestic. I had stayed there before and the rooms were tiny, but the beds were clean and the bar was reasonable on all liquid refreshment with no need for “happy hour” because the price was right at all times.

My shower was wonderful even if the water was only tepid and not really hot the way I liked it back home when I took my time. Still, I was tingly clean and fresh and I looked in the mirror at my face without cosmetics and my hair that was so short it was painfully mannish from behind. I wondered what two strapping lorry drivers would see in me that suited their fancy and didn’t expect to hear from them again.

I was astonished to get a call from the desk clerk to inform me that my “two guests” were waiting for me in the bar and would I be free to join them for a drink at their expense. I guess I must have something that they liked or they would have been picking up a nice French girl that spoke enough English to at least tell them how much the evening would cost them and give them directions to their quarters to cement British/French relations the old fashioned way in a nice big soft bed behind locked doors.

I changed my undies from my nanny knickers to a nice pair of French thongs with the tiny cord in the back that just barely covered my brown eye in a ladylike manner. It might never get to that point because I was still a bit leery about the two on one detail, but it was better to be prepared than to be embarrassed by my undies at a crucial point.

It was beginning to look like my little French expedition might be a bit more exciting than I had previously planned but then fate has a funny way of changing when you least expected it in the way that such things often do in romantic foreign places where a girl sometimes just has to have it and there are no two ways about that at all.