Shape

Bastille Day

It was the second to last night of the Paris leg of our trip. My best friend, Nyla, and I were meeting our friend from home for drinks at this little cafe by our hotel. The night was balmy and I was wearing my new ruby red lipstick and my jacket draped over my shoulders—I was feeling myself. 

Our friend, Harrison, was always late, so Nyla and I ordered drinks without him. We were going through a weird white russian phase, so we got two and drank them in minutes. The sugary high mixed with the warmth of the air made me totally relaxed, and I laughed at everything Nyla was saying.

I saw Harrison round the corner—short, blonde, athletic build. Cute, but not my type. He turned around and said something to someone behind him. 

“Who’s that?” I whispered drunkenly to Nyla.

“Oh my god! Ian!” Nyla got up and walked over to the tall, lanky brunette boy standing at the entrance to the cafe patio. 

Harrison had run into Ian, a friend of his from a club baseball team, at a museum that day and had invited him to drinks with us. Ian was funny. He had a gorgeous smile, and a sort of twinkle in his eye. He knew a ton about music, and we talked about my obsession with a new album that had just come out— too embarrassing to mention which one it was. This was 2015 so Young Thug was involved. 

We talked for like three hours, and then all agreed to call it a night. But the plan was to meet up for a picnic the next day, and then go out for Bastille day. 

“I thought you wanted to come here to hook up with french guys!” Nyla whined as we left the picnic. She was annoyed because Ian’s hot friends all had girlfriends. 

“I’m sorry but we’re going tonight.” I declared.

The picnic had been fun, but I was so nervous in front of Ian. He had an effortless cool about him—totally unflustered by everything. I was, and still am, the complete opposite. Everything rattles me. I had worn my jacket draped over my shoulders again, and he had commented on it. 

“It’s Europe baaaaby!” I had responded like a total dipshit. 

That night, Nyla and I split a burger from room service and took shots from a cheap bottle of vodka we had purchased the day before. We were obsessed with our hotel. It was so, so tiny, and boutique-y, and just like so adorable and perfect. 

We invited the guys over to drink at the hotel bar before going to a party for Bastille Day. The hotel bar had maybe one other person in it, and the jewel toned velvet chairs were sparkling in the dim light from one chandelier. I was in heaven. 

Nyla was wearing tight black jeans and my new black leather top. I was wearing blue jeans and sparkly green top that I loved. Ian looked so good in a button down blue shirt— I still have our snapchats from that night saved — and he played us music in the bar as we all sang and got buzzed and ready for a big night. 

As we were walking to the subway, I felt Ian walking behind me. 

“I want him…” I whispered to Nyla.

“Be more obvious…” she sneered back.

I felt a hand on my lower back, and turned around. Ian smiled at me, and I blushed back. He moved his hand down to my ass and just kind of kept it there for a second. 

“Do you have a subway card?” He laughed.

“Um…I…yeah…” I managed.

On Bastille Day, a ton of firehouses in Paris shut down and host huge parties (which makes me wonder who puts out fires on Bastille Day????). We arrived at one, but there was a monster line. 

“Let’s cut!” We all basically decided in drunken unison. 

Somehow (I have no recollection of this part), we dodged a security guard and slipped into the party. There was a huge movie screen playing Finding Nemo, and electronic music blasting. Young people were everywhere, dancing, singing along, drinking champagne out of mini bottles. It was electric. 

“Cheers!” I squealed to the group as we banged our plastic cups together.

“To seven years of good sex!” Harrison laughed.

I locked eyes with Ian. Oh god…

We eventually left the firehouse and walked to the next party. This one was on a boat on the Seine. It would have been super romantic had I not noticed Ian flirting with a gorgeous girl in a purple dress. I didn’t like this party. 

“I wanna go home…” I whimpered to Nyla. 

“Hold on this guy is grabbing me a drink.” She waltzed over to the main bar, clearly with other priorities. 

I sipped my drink and took in the view of the deep turquoise water. Honestly, what did I think was gonna happen? We were both sharing hotel rooms anyway. 

“How’s your night going?” I turned around. He was standing there, looking hot. Ugh.

“Um, good.” He smiled at me. I felt ballsy. I tilted my head up toward his and looked at his lips. 

He leaned in and kissed me. My back was against the railing of the boat, and his hips pushed into mine. His lips were soft and tasted like whiskey coke, and I could feel myself getting wet as his tongue reached deeper into my mouth. I grabbed his torso gently, and tugged at his shirt. 

“Wanna go back to Harrison’s hotel room? They’re going to stay with Nyla.” He said.

“Nyla agreed to that?” I scoffed, and looked over across the bar to find her. She winked at me, and I was reminded why she was my best friend. This was going swimmingly. 

He grabbed my hand, and we made our way to the street. The sun was starting to rise—it was like 4:30am now. We crossed a bridge to the hotel. We shared little kisses and squeezes along the way, enjoying the fresh morning air. I twirled around for him—“It’s Europe baaaby!”

As soon as we closed the door to the hotel room, our hands were all over each other. I loved kissing him. He was very commanding, but not overpowering. There were two twin beds in the room, so we picked one and flopped down. He put his hands on my neck and back, and grabbed my breasts and kissed them. I was still drunk, so every sensation felt like it was buzzing with energy. 

“Fuck” I whispered as his hands found the zipper to my jeans. He pulled them off and palmed my ass with his strong hands. 

“I want you so badly.”

My inhibitions were gone. I kissed him hard and felt him push back harder. We rolled around, and I started grinding my pussy into him. 

I wanted to skip everything, for him to just fuck me right away, hard and fast. I wanted us to go crazy, but I knew it would be better if we drew it out slowly. I pulled away and took a breath. 

I lowered myself to the edge of the bed and he followed me. I unzipped his pants, and his cock sprang loose. Wow. I slowly put my mouth on it, and pushed it deep into my throat. I coated it in my spit, and fucked it with my lips. He groaned. I was so wet and turned on by his cock pulsing in my mouth—I needed it inside me. 

He pulled me up onto the bed and carefully took off my underwear. He rubbed around my clit and then dipped two fingers into my soaking pussy. I moaned. “Yes, like that.”

He went in and out until I was squirming on the bed, begging for him to fuck me. 

Ian got on top of me and, in one swift motion, pushed his cock into my pussy. It felt unreal. I remember looking into his eyes and moaning at the same exact time. We couldn’t take it anymore. He fucked me fast and hard, and I was losing control. The whole situation—being in Paris in the early morning in a random hotel room—was truly out of a dream. I felt the buzzing sensation build up in my pussy, in my torso, and slowly reach my head. 

“Fuck me harder.”

I felt the climax coming, and he kept going as waves of pleasure crashed over me. Almost right after I finished, he pulled out and came all over my chest. I was on another planet. What the fuck had just happened?

After we recovered for a few minutes, I put on an Amy Winehouse song called “Cherry Wine.” He had never heard it before, and said he loved it. We fell asleep to Amy, and he walked me home a couple hours later. 

“Bye Ian.” I kissed him lightly. 

“It’s Europe baaaby!” He said as he walked away, throwing his arms into the air.