a quiet weekend

The weekend was quiet. Only Saturday night was of any consequence, and I hardly think it musters up to my usual level of lunacy. The sun was setting in the early evening when we charged through traffic around Republique, screaming at other motorists, while trying to make our way with speed towards Place Concorde. We had a date with a "peniche" (haha, houseboat all you gutterheads!) for 19:00. After several passes around Pont du Concorde, we honed in on the secret exit on the right side of the canal and found our boat.

I was with some friends, well-dressed and extremely suave, but in truth, I was waiting for my gay boyfriend. When fashion matters, a GB must be there. Since Thibault is my current GB of the moment...

But I don’t know if the boy reads my emails. The invitation clearly specified “glamour” and “elegance.” He came attached to two characters: Samko and Denise. The first was a rather skinny adolescent-like Polish boy with an atrocious Cockney accent and a Bros haircut, platinum bleached hair with dusty roots sprayed into a rectangle on top of his head. He was dressed in punk rock t-shirt and extra-ripped jeans. Denise was a gorgeous Mexican Lolita, with puffy red lips, grey-ish kohl-outlined eyes, skinny rock t-shirt, Champion shorts and extra extra high high-heels. A knockout. Thibault came in black t-shirt and black jeans styled like an extra for a G’n’R shoot, minus the hair. It was full-on rock’n’roll.

So they slid onto the boat, oiled by vodka fumes, and proceeded to up-end the whole project. In truth, I loved every second of it. I loved their ne’er do well attitude, the sexiness of their lack of inhibition, the growl hidden in their throats. If anyone was in disguise that night, it was I.

(I was wearing a slinky shiny brown sleeveless jersey dress, styled like the Chloe roman-inspired line from last year. Roman ballerina sandals and tiny silver chain + Chanel spraypainted bag completed the look... blah blah blah... chicos quoi)

But a look is still a look. It was still left up to me to flash my lacy knickers at the passing bateau mouche. Afterwards the boys couldn’t stop flashing their bums too… but I like to think my delicate aristocratic rump is much more preferable as vision to some white hairy rocker ass.

We ran off the boat when we got bored and skidded all the way to a party in the 13th. There, after much sneering at the DJ waving his hands underneath a waterslide, I phoned my husband, who was working, and caught a taxi with him home.