For almost a whole year, 1987, I lived right in the center of Paris, on rue du Faubourg-St. Martin, near the Chateau d'Eau metro station.
Rue du Faubourg Saint-Martin in Paris:
On the same street, a few houses away, was the famous gay bar “Moustachu”. But, oddly enough, I never went there, I even forgot about its existence. What should I do there?
Meanwhile, many Turks and Kurds lived in this quarter, there was a whole street with Turkish shops and tea establishments, where there was always a backgammon table in the middle. They did not try to find new acquaintances there, because there were people who knew each other or relatives gathered.
Kurd:
Once on a day off, I went out into the street and I just exchanged glances with one guy of 19-20 years old. It turned out that he was Kurdish. In this case, the initiative was on his part (a rare case). I invited him for a cup of coffee at a nearby cafe. He knew three words in French, I knew three words in Turkish. This is how we explained. He was probably sent from Turkey by some relatives or fellow villagers to work in their semi-legal Turkish shop. He had zero money. We went to my place, immediately undressed and went to bed and he fucked me in the ass. Without any conversations and questions. His body was good, his ass was hairy, his cock was of a decent size. After that, he began to visit me regularly. And even stayed overnight. In such cases, we fucked even in the morning. Then he stole something from me, I don’t remember what, either a camera or money. Such incidents took place more than once, so I don’t remember exactly what he stole. After that, I stopped seeing him.
Turk. Driver.
Another time I met a Turk. He was a man in his thirties, a truck driver. Athletic figure. I invited him to my place. He also spoke a mixture of French and Turkish words. He wanted to leave me before the subway closed, because at first he did not understand why I invited him to my place. And I cunningly changed the clock, kept saying that it was still early, early, and then “suddenly” it became late, the metro closed, and he had to go to bed with me in the same bed. Only when touching me did it become clear to him that it was possible to fuck, and he said: “well, let me…” (or something like that). After that he started coming to me on weekends. Together we went out for a walk around the city, sat in a cafe on the terraces, drank coffee. And then we would come back to me and fuck. He had no one in Paris, except for some of his countrymen.
Our relationship ended stupidly. Once he came to my place, and some assholes began to beat hard on the door. I hadn’t even fucked with them, we just met in a pub. The Turk did not like it very much, he made a remark to me, as far as he could do it in French, pointed out to me that I was behaving incorrectly, and I did not see him again. That's what I'm sorry about. Was a good friend.
Later I lived in a suburb close to Paris. In the suburb, near the metro station, there was always a cafe where I went every time I returned from work. In other words, I had a permanent "my cafe". Sometimes I lingered there for a long time ... There was even a place in the cafe at the counter, which others did not occupy. Over time, I already knew almost all the visitors by sight, they knew me too. In France, the society is masculine, and ordinary cafes are dominated by men, if not exclusively by men. I noticed that in this case there was a “phenomenon of a prison”, a closed male community, when men begin to look at men, show interest in each other. More than once it happened that the bartender suddenly brought me a beer or other drink, explaining that "this is from such and such who treats you."
This is how I met some people in ordinary bars (I must say, not very often) and fucked. They were mostly Arabs.
Arabs either ask for money or steal something, but Arabs fuck. And to fuck a man in the ass is their norm. Or a variant of the norm, if you like. By the way, Arabs kiss. Unlike our random Caucasian fuckers, Arabs kiss if they fuck with men, for real.
It is easier to communicate with Arabs. There are no those endless, unnecessary and superfluous “sorry”, “thank you”, which the French say automatically and without any reason, and which is sometimes terribly annoying. (Why endlessly thank and apologize?)
That's all my impressions for 12 years of living in Paris, in the world capital, one might say.
Sometimes I returned home in Paris from somewhere late, when the subway was no longer running, or I went out when I couldn’t sleep to look out for someone, and the streets were all deserted, I alone rambled... Some kind of surreal sight! I kept asking myself - am I really the only one who needs it the most, the only one who is so preoccupied, are they all well adjusted, settled, prosperous and fucked to satiety in this huge city?
Paris
In Russia, meanwhile, there were changes. Almost all of my employers moved to Russia or their activities were transferred there, and it was hopeless to look for anything new in France at my age. Yes, and I didn't want to. All that was left was to live on welfare. And I didn't want that.
So it was time to return.
