marmaduke wrote:Oh! I love tarty! I met my first French tart on a school trip 60 years ago. Around twenty, she was petite, very pretty, exotically painted and perfumed. I instantly fell deeply in love with her. I can see her still.
Sadly, and unaccountably, the ragged lines of disturbingly jolie young things dangling Gitanes from their lips under Pigalle gaslights have disappeared entirely.
How times have changed! And, very definitely, not for the better. ?
Agreed. For years now, prostitution has been criminalised in France of all places, and the guilty party is the
punter - if you pick up one of the few remaining streetwalkers in Paris and go to her squalid room for a poke, you run the risk that the Gendarmes, as a break from the hopeless job of policing the city's outer suburbs, will have lain in wait for you, in which case the least you can expect is to be put on some fatuous rehab course to help you mend your ways.
This is very bad news unless you are a German brothel owner just across the border in, say, Trier, where French dudes can easily drive to exercise what should be their natural right to pay for pussy.
Being sleazier than you, marmaduke, I was not a Pigalle man but preferred the clothing district at Rue Saint-Denis.
In the 80s and 90s I was there three or four times a year. Many housewives seeking drink money, a handful of young druggy chicks and some fantastically old birds that Voltaire must have shagged.
Cheap and very quick - once in the room she would demand the cash and hand you a condom - you were expected to be hard in seconds or she would get impatient. Not a problem as I was hard 24/7 in those distant days.
Then she'd sit on the edge of the bed, tug tights and panties off together (a turn-off), point her heels at the ceiling, hold the backs of her knees revealing cellulite thighs and a huge hairy beat-up vagina fascinatingly different from the tight little apricot between the smooth legs of girlfriend-back-home, and expect you to plunge and have done as quickly as possible.
Almost never a BJ - one wondered why the tarts in Soho called this 'French' when their
cousines across the water were so reluctant to gobble the knob.
It was a dirty thing to do and therefore a very welcome change from romantic relationships with beautiful girls one's own age.
Never got ripped off there. At Pigalle I had the queasy feeling that you might turn down an alley with one of the cuties and have a Corsican pimp slit your throat and sodomise your corpse before dumping it in the Seine.
All in the past now. And nothing, of course, to do with the subject of this thread, for Lovita is a properly-brought-up modern miss, who had not even been born the day I first snuck off into the Rue Saint-Denis...
Posted: Wed Apr 03, 2024 6:11 am
