One of my promises to DAY was that I'd take him to the Depôt - the infamous Paris gay sex club / nightclub. You can imagine that it's not somewhere I go to very often (yeah, right).
Anyway, Friday was the night that we'd planned our Depôt excursion. And we had a lovely evening - we started at the usual bar, where we met up with friends (the Fierce People) and had a few drinks. We then headed off for dinner at Paris' cheapest Chinese restaurant. Midnight found us dancing to trashy disco at a Bear's bar in the Marais.
By one thirty, we were about ready to head to the Depôt. And it was about the right time too - any earlier and the place would have been empty, it being a 'late night venue' and all that.
As we paid our money and headed downstairs to the lower bar (and the labyrinth...) I turned to DAY. It seems he'd seen the same thing as I had - and neither of us really knew what to say.
On the dance floor was a wiry, thin guy dancing away to some euro pop. He was wearing a bright white baseball cap and the brightest, whitest sneakers. That was all that he was wearing. Apart from the white at either end he was naked. Dancing away and wobbling his tackle in time to the music.
"That boy looks just like a Q-tip" said DAY. I told you he was funny.
Anyway, after a couple of drinks, we split up for us to each take a bit of a tour of the establishment. This turned out to be less than satisfactory for both of us - the boys touting their erections in the doorways of the cubicles didn't really do it for me, nor for DAY it seems. A bit of a moment with a Mexican later, we met up again and decided to hit the road.
We got home at four and fell into bed and into a coma.
The next day, we walked our hungover asses to Père Lachaise cemetery, where we admired Chopin, Wilde, Piaf and Morrison. The sunshine and fresh air did us good. It was only when we took the métro for the schlep across town to Etoile that it went wrong.
Halfway through the thirty-minute journey I looked at DAY. He'd turned green and there was sweat dripping down his face.
"You ok?" I asked, worried that he'd throw up over the train.
"Mmm hmm" he said. From his mumbled answer I could tell that he didn't need to be talking. That all he needed was to concentrate on not sharing his breakfast with the other passengers.
The nausea seemed to come and go (for both of us) during the day, but luckily it passed in time for us to head out for DAY's last night in Paris.
As we sat eating dinner at the Palais de Tokyo - on the terrace, looking out at the Eiffel Tower, glittering away - I realised that this boy was a keeper, a friend for ever. It's been a short visit, but one that has been so full of fun, laughter, ridiculousness and hilarity.
I wish he lived nearer. As I waved him off at the airport I felt so pleased to have this new friend in my life, but equally I wished that I had a friend like him who lived in Paris. Someone who 'got' me. Someone to share ridiculous moments with. Someone who makes me laugh and who puts up with my idiot-ness.
I've said this before, I know. That despite all the other great things this blog thing has brought me, it's the friends I've made through it that surpass anything else blogging has to offer.
And for that, I praise blogger every day.