In Hot Pursuit

It was a habit of mine to smile at strangers. I loved the rush it provided. I would make eye contact with a stranger, and stranger, and if he or she held my stare for long enough, I would smile a toothy, coquettish smile. Most of the time, I reserved my most potent, my most suggestive smiles, for attractive, effeminate men beyond the confines of my neighborhood, but I also liked to smile seductively at straight men. Just to freak them out.

In my conservative, Bethesda neighborhood, nothing ever came of it. I would smile at joggers, at bikers, at people in cars, at neighbors. Some of them would smile back. But Bethesda is an expensive and residential city. Most of the people living in my neighborhood were old, married, and straight. Gay men willing hand out one million plus for a house are usually drawn to apartments downtown, near the action. Not the hole of civilization in the middle of trees that is Bethesda. So most of the people I smiled at just thought I was a friendly neighbor, and not a predatory gay man looking for some fun.

Fortunately, everywhere isn’t Bethesda.

One year, my mom planned a trip to Paris over spring break. Knowing that Paris is a big city where everyone leans towards dressed aggressively fiercely every day and where I’d have enough freedom to wander the streets alone, I packed my fiercest, and by that I mean my tightest, most revealing, clothes. I remember what I was wearing the day it happened: a gray, short-sleeved Henley that buttoned down to the halfway point between my nipples and my naval, tight black jeans and black, canvas one-stars. I was wandering aimlessly with a French cigarettes at my lips, soaking up the city sun and exploring Le Marais, the epic gay neighborhood in Paris. Gay clubs with names like Boi and GlitterBar lined the streets, immaculately groomed men walked arm in arm and rainbow flags hung erect over the sidewalks, matching the rainbow sticker present in almost every window display.

I felt at home

I felt as if I could walk however I wanted, talk however I wanted, flash my naughty little smile and have everyone around me flash one back. So I did. Every time I would see a man walking alone, be he attractive or not, I would smile at him. Just to see how many people would smile back. Almost everyone did.

And deep down inside, I knew that I wanted someone to follow me. To want to feel me. To fuck me. I knew I would never act on it, but I just wanted to feel the fear of someone shadowing me, expecting something, anticipating. So I kept playing my little game. I smiled at all sorts of men. My smile was a whore who showed herself to anyone and everyone. Then I came to an intersection, took a last drag of my cigarette, dropped in on the floor, stomped on it, pivoted and then stood still. I noticed a large, black African man next to me. He was at least six eight and it would take four skinny me’s, lined up dick to butt, to be as wide as this man. He wore a yellow puma tee-shirt, stretched tight over his massive frame and powder blue jogging pants.

I liked the challenge that locking eyes with him presented. He was enormous, imposing, intimidating. He could’ve crushed me with one first, like King Kong. Nailed me right into the cement and left me there to die. But I loved the danger, so I looked over at him, then he looked down at me, then our eyes met. One second passed, then another. I prepared my mouth for what I knew had to be a load-blowing smile to make him glance away. But he beat me to it. He smiled. His fat, Angelina-Jolie-during-an-allergy-attack like lips parted, revealing a brilliantly white smile. I unleashed my smile, which had been brewing on my face for some time and kept staring into his eyes. At that moment, at that precise second, where time felt like molasses, where it became thick, gelatinous, tangible, I knew I was fucked.

He was the first to break eye contact. As soon as he looked away, I exhaled, I felt like I had been flushed out, cleansed. I turned around to see what black man was up to but he was gone. He had dashed around the nearest corner. My heart rate slowed. It had just been another staring contest. But I couldn’t be. I was still swimming through pudding. It was too intense to just be a meaningless sidewalk wink.

I walked a few more blocks and then pulled out another cigarette. I stuck it between my lips and I felt my pockets for a lighter and. I remembered that I had used my last two matches on my previous cigarette and I had no fire. I stopped in the middle of the block, looked up to see if anyone was smoking, which no one was, so I turned around.

And there he was. Black man. Ten feet behind me. Stopped. This hit me like a Swiss ball to the head: not really painful, but disorienting. My heart began to pump like a randy pubescent boy in the dark and I drew a sharp, audible breath. I turned around a began to walk, faster than I had before.

Slow down! You don’t want him to know you’re nervous. You want him to think you’re playing him like a pro.

I took the cigarette out of my mouth and stuck it in my jacket pocket.

Fuck! I don’t want it to break. Wait, whatever, I have a full pack and you needn’t provide I.D. in Paris. Is he still behind me? I want to turn around so badly and see. What if he reaches out and touches me. His great big black hand would thump down on my shoulder and my knees would unquestionably buckle. I wouldn’t be able to deal with that. It would like level ten trauma. Shit, are my ears red? I’m so pale; the redness of my ears must be a dead giveaway. Just. Breathe. Breathe.

I really want a cigarette. What am I supposed to do about a lighter though? I can’t stop. I’m too scared to stop. I can feel him projecting his intractable sexual energy onto me and I’m scared silly. I don’t even know where I’m going. I have to join mommy in like half an hour and I’m being pursued in unknown territory like this guy’s prey. First and foremost, I need to get inside somewhere. To find a safe haven.

I dashed into a Brasserie, which was like a combination bar and tobacco store. I stepped up to the counter and examined the merchandise for a while. As I passed my eyes over the rows and rows of cigarettes, I couldn’t stop thinking about what might or might not be awaiting me outside.

Okay, I’ve bought myself some time. Perhaps I can chat with this charming woman at the counter for a while. Hi. Smile, don’t forget to smile. Smiling tends to endear me to people.

Can I have a lighter please?
A small one.
What colours do you have?
Can I see them? Sorry for being so picky.
I’ll take the highlighter blue one.
Thanks, you too.

Our interaction had been painfully short. Turns out there isn’t much to say to a middle aged cashier.

I turned around. Thump. Swiss ball. Afrikanman was leaning against the exterior doorframe, smiling his perennial smile. The smile, which I once craved, which I once saw as a casual sign of lust, as a deep yet ephemeral connection with a total stranger, I now damned to hell and wished gone. And yet as I tried to blink it away, it only got closer and closer.

Don’t talk to me. Don’t talk to me. Don’t talk to me. Please, sweet baby Jesus, don’t talk to me. I’ll just say I can’t speak French. He won’t try to convey the message if I don’t speak French. Or maybe he’ll like that. Some people love foreigners. Maybe I’ll just ignore him. But if I ignore him he’ll pull a hammer out of his sleeve and pound my brains in. I mean, if he doesn’t pound me with a hammer, he’ll pound me with his gargantuan dick. Both options were equally unattractive.

I scooted out the Brasserie, flitting by him, and continued hastily along the sidewalk towards where I had been coming from. I walked and walked and walked, I passed hundreds of strangers, praying that a familiar face would materialize in the crowd, someone in whom I could find solace. Nothing gave. I came to a stoplight. I was going to ignore it and catapult myself across the street, but the cars roared out of idleness and into motion before I had the chance. I boldly turned around, to face my hunter and bite the bullet, but he was absent.

I guess he had lost my scent and been drawn to one of the many other pretty young things, all playing the same naughty game.