Fresh Meat

Salon Stories III

Thierry had been coming to Madame Dubois’ for about six months. He found the whole idea of a salon rather antiquated and slightly ridiculous, but the liquor was free, the “snacks” were exquisite, and he often had nothing better to do on a Thursday evening. Besides, you never knew.

He needed connections—and someone to finance one of his many app projects. Madame Dubois was no Gertrude Stein, but she was a nice lady and friends with his mother. He also liked that casually mentioning he frequented the salon of a well-regarded socialite sometimes impressed new acquaintances.

Tonight he had been excited because Madame Dubois had hinted there would be a newcomer, an American girl who had just arrived in Paris and knew nobody. He had pictured a blonde Malibu Barbie with fake tits who’d be easy to get drunk and schlepp back to his apartment.

So he was surprised when a pale, fragile girl with short black hair showed up. She was actually very beautiful, and within minutes every man had drifted toward the fireplace where she stood, circling her like moths around a flame. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Monsieur Moreau watching them with a sour expression.

There was Moreau again, polishing his ridiculous waxed mustache as if anyone cared. The potbelly strained against another bespoke jacket. He carried himself like an aristocrat despite looking like a provincial lawyer who’d inherited a little money.

He had a Roman nose and dressed well enough, but he was too short, looked as though he wore a hairpiece, and that dreadful Dalí-esque mustache made everything worse. Every time Thierry spotted him, he felt an irresistible urge to torment the man. Then again, why bother? He was too easy a target.

So Thierry devoted his full attention to the new arrival, topping off her champagne even though she had already said several times that champagne gave her a headache. He asked what she preferred, and she said a vodka tonic.

Before she arrived, they’d been discussing the scandal surrounding Madame Pelicot, which beat playing charades or debating whether Michel Houellebecq possessed any literary merit. Madame Dubois always came up with such tired games and questions.

The girl, though, was interesting. She was rather intelligent—for an American. She was quick with a repartee and ignored all his advances, brushing away his hand when he let it rest lightly on her pale, exposed shoulder. She had the most beautiful collarbones.

And her accent was incredible.

He asked her why her French was so good, and she explained that her mother was French and that she’d lived in Paris as a child. As she talked, he only half listened. Something about Woodstock and a poet laureate. Instead, he undressed her in his mind, hoping to find red panties. He had a thing for red panties. They were beautifully slutty. Maybe they’d even be crotchless. He would definitely find out.

But after a quick trip to the bathroom to check his cheekbones in the mirror, he returned to find her gone.

Monsieur Moreau had disappeared too.

He couldn’t believe it.

What a stuck-up, frigid little putain.

Thierry spent a lot of time looksmaxxing. He read every paper there was on skincare, testosterone optimization, and facial aesthetics. He craved and deserved attention.

After the girl left, the soirée ceased to be fun. All the other women were middle-aged and laughed too loudly. They were feminists and terribly academic and accomplished, which he couldn’t abide. Of course, he’d never admit that in public.

He would have to go home and watch porn. A good gangbang. And he was going to get the girl’s number from Madame Dubois. He’d invite her to a bar, fill her with gin and tonics, then show her a side of Paris she definitely wouldn’t have expected.

He caught himself rubbing his hands.

When he got home, he was too horny for porn and rang one of his booty calls. Colette was a single mother. She was a redhead, which he wasn’t particularly fond of, but she was easy. He’d use her and then pretend to fall asleep so she’d leave.

Colette said she’d be right over, but as he waited, he couldn’t get the American girl out of his head.

Julia.

Not a bad name, although he was no Romeo.

When Colette texted that she was outside, he simply didn’t answer.

Fuck them all.

He did seventy-five push-ups, completed his elaborate nighttime anti-aging routine, and went to bed.

Alone.

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THE SALON SERIES:

Part I: A Small Romance - Monsieur Moreau is desperate
Part II: Almost Midnight - Julia flees and fantasizes
Part III: Fresh Meat - Thierry’s Take