Something from my French life

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.

France. My first steps

One of the most important values in life is your own home, your place. This is what I did not have abroad. And without a place everything is bad. There were wanderings, first living with someone, then in rented rooms. In general, I would call the disgrace of the West these microscopic closets, inside of which everything was located - in one corner behind the screen there is a toilet (or often just outside on the same floor), in the other corner there is a kitchenette, i.e. cooking stove, with or without a curtain. And these "closets" for living were strangely called "studios". At first I thought that the studio is a huge space for an artist and that I don’t need this at all. It turned out that this is exactly where I will have to live for many years. And you had to pay for such miserable "studios" from a third to a half of what you earned...

At first I lived in this area. Metro Jules Joffrin:

Babette met me at the railway station, he lived in such a studio for a couple of years. And, apparently, he was happy. That was his makeup. Even now, decades later, he is happy, God grant him health and strength!

It is also good that almost immediately upon arrival in Paris I began to work. In this regard, I can say that I was lucky.

But what were my first impressions? Babette first took me to Pigalle, a street lined with porno cinemas, sex shops, and other entertainment venues. He took me to one of these cinemas, where there was a hall for homosexuals. But the faggots also visited the hall for straight people, where straight sex was shown on the screen. There sometimes guys jerked off, and queens tried to sit next to such a person. There were also special booths in the area, where people entered, put the purchased token in the slot and watched porn. There, too, gays loitered to catch the moment of lust and grab someone’s erect dick. All this did not attract me, although at first I also used to go there for some reason.

Gay bar "Central"

Finally I was shown bars and nightclubs. You go to a gay bar, you order a beer. And you stand. At first, it was a curiosity for me - how is it, a bar for faggots, full of people, not a single woman! And after all, there are windows of houses opposite, from which everything is visible, and they know what kind of institution it is. But very soon I realized that no one here cares who does what.

In the bar itself, no one paid attention to anyone, did not get acquainted. There were also quite attractive types, but, as it turned out later, their emphatically masculine appearance was an illusion. There I noticed such a mimicry of men - most had cropped hair, they were unshaven, wore leather jackets. In fact, they were all passive or, so to speak, of the Western type, i.e. "first I fuck you, and then you fuck me." Or not at all had clear sexual interests.

One day, back in my early weeks, I plucked up the courage and went to these places alone. Sat at the bar and ordered a beer. Suddenly, a handsome mulatto with a mustache sits down next to me and starts a conversation. Immediately offers to go to his house for the night. I agreed. He drove me in a convertible sports car, we raced at high speed along the avenues and illuminated underground tunnels - it was spectacular, already breathtaking! Well, I thought, how lucky I was!

We went to bed. And then bullshit began. This mulatto mustang's dick could barely get hard, he raved about some fantasies that it would be nice if he was fucked in the ass and he was fucking someone at the same time ... His hole was like a bottomless pit. We tormented each other like this all night, without actually doing anything. Just rubbing and kissing and fingering up asses. In the morning I returned home broken and disappointed.

Another time, I also met a guy in a bar. He lived nearby, in the center. We came to his place. It turned out to be the same sad story. He had to be whipped with a whip, flogged with a belt and threatened with murder. “You, Russian”, you came to me, you will kill me here now ... ”he muttered.

Caricature masculinity:

Babette decided to visit a night bar with me, it was called "BH" (bar homosexuel). The bar opened around midnight, and we had to stay there all night, until the morning metro, because paying for a taxi at night to return was then beyond our means. We went. Same situation. People stand with glasses of beer or other drinks. They don’t talk to each each other, because they are afraid to tie themselves up with a casual and unnecessary acquaintance. The bar had a darkroom, where people went from time to time. In this dark room they groped each other, felt each other upUP. In general, decent people did not go in there, those who squeezed in were mostly desperate faggots and size queens. There was also a toilet where they also stood and smoked. It was there that in a cubicle, standing up, I was fucked by an Arab guy. Wow. At least there was something.

Otherwise there was nothing but sheer sadness. As a rule, Arabs were not allowed into such nightclubs, because they were seen stealing, but, lo and behold, I got one, and that's okay.

I remember that it was very disgusting to go home after such a sleepless night in a crowded subway carriage when all the people were going to work.

Very quickly, I realized that there was nothing for me to do in these establishments for gays. Sometimes I went there just to drink beer and sit in friendly ambiance. But I no longer counted on any meetings in numerous gay places. I completely forgot about them.

As expected, the Turks, Arabs and other southern peoples helped out. In all the eleven years of my life in France, I have not met a single Frenchman! In general, all these eleven years spent in France did not leave any impressions in terms of dating and fucking. I had friends at work from Russian immigration, I drank with them, we discussed the “destiny of Russia”, well, some fucking took place with random southern immigrants whom I met in random places.

I felt longing for the past, for what was lost. My sexuality is somehow strongly linked to the ethnic and cultural context in which I grew up. It is impossible to tear it out and move it to a new place. I was fully aware that in all respects life in France is better, that Russia/USSR will lag behind forever, that in France there is respect for the human person as a basic principle, I saw and appreciated the beauty of France. But what do I have to do with all this? What am I doing here?

To live there, one must grow up in this country, one must not only speak excellent French (which is impossible), but one must also think in French. Otherwise, French society will not accept you. It is necessary, by the way, to make love the way they do it.

I left Russia in distant times, even under Soviet leaders. I remember how the French news announced that now there would be Gorbachev. One day I got very drunk in a bar - it was in the spring of 1985 - and got lost in the very center of Paris. For a long time I wandered, as if in a maze, then I stopped in despair on a completely deserted street. Then I turned my head back and saw a huge illuminated portrait of Gorbachev. It was an advertisement for a new issue of Paris-Match magazine, its cover. I stood with the picture of Gorbachev against me for a couple of minutes.