Sex In This City: Looking For Love In The City of Lights

Under Lock and Key:  Seven Minutes Presents Conversation 101 at La Coupole It was open season at La Coupole; everyone was on the hunt.  No one was hiding it–in fact, most people were smiling about it.  And as soon as the bullhorn sounded, singletons were running from the gate at full force: people were on a mission.  The evening works as follows.  Each participant is lei’ed with a tacky cloth necklace (in the way that college freshmen sometimes carry their dorm passes. The “necklace” carries dangling paper cards (read: advertisements) and a tiny lock for the women and a key for the men.  Once you enter through the restaurant’s doors, you are left to your own devices in the meeting orgy and are most likely to be assaulted by the door vultures straight away.  Here the man initiates the dance, making his attempt at opening the woman’s lock without forced entry; it is a terribly overt metaphor.  But more often than not, he will succeed at a full turn, in which case the ladies are escorted to the ‘prize table,’ where they receive a card with a number that enters the lady into a lottery for a plane ticket to New York, a digital camera, or DVDs.  Then the lady is given a new, closed lock and thrown back to the wolves to be victimized again. There are no rules, limits or time constraints when meeting members of the opposite sex: it’s greet, turn, success–otherwise it’s on to the next.  Interruptions are frequent, la politesse française too dated for the terms of this American-style evening.  The crowd was primarily young; attendees were anywhere from 20 to 45.  There were scruffy-haired, lithe 20ishes whose collars stood on end and clothes draped on their waify stances while others ran combs to hide bald patches.  The Miami-Vice suit, jacket with a Euro-black tee underneath, seemed to be the outfit of choice for the men.  Women were in cocktail dresses, suits, jeans, all looking for love.  The crowd was bougeing.  People were approaching at O’Hare speed.  My first was a man who made his way around our little conversation circle, turning keys without luck until he got to me.  There were cheers and a “yippee;” he then gallantly took my arm, and off we went to wait in line to receive our lottery stubs.  We laughed at the silliness of the evening–he said it was his first time attending an event like this, and we had a pleasantly lame conversation about what we do.  He was in his mid-thirties, glasses, not much taller then me, and not much to remember.  When we got our new equipment, I had to cut the cord on the conversation and luckily was swept up by another man in a matter of seconds and the same process was repeated, for better or worse, again.  I made friends with a studious lawyer who loved talking about New York and was amazed at the facility with which Americans get on with one another.  We danced un slow to “Hotel California,” and he quite gently held my hand and pressed the other in the small of my back while we glided through other couples laughing about the ridiculousness of the evening. We made our way to the bar.  The majority of men were clutching their free-drink ticket, waiting to savor the moment when their “7 minute” fruity cocktail arrived, and avoiding pulling out their billfolds.  Lawyer man kindly bought me a drink as we stood and talked about his studies at NYU.  But there was a constant influx of people cutting in, either in search of love or another lottery ticket, making a love connection not without struggle. The act of insertion was an intense moment where fixated eyes watched as the key, dwarfed between the man’s fingers, is either clumsily guided into its potential womb, accompanied by a nervous laugh, or confident stroke with defiance and a smirk.  “Guess it’s too big,” one man said after striking out.  There were groans of disappointment and gasps of excitement throughout, a sense of accomplishment and satisfaction when there was success.  The man initiates, takes control and is able to freely walk away from the situation and continue to sow his wild oats elsewhere in the room. Throughout the evening, I had been coyly eyeing the cool, pale gaze of a Latin-looking individual who reminded me of a Persian cat with his quiet way and fragile frame.  It turns out that it was his friend who used the old key tactic to introduce himself and then did the hand off to his friend, the old bait and switch.  He was a violinist and a portfolio manager, graduate of the prestigious business school INSEAD, but what are you doing here, I thought.  He came along for the fun of it, on the suggestion of his friend.  We had a drink and discussed interests, our favorite bars and clubs and musical tastes.  But there were distractions, others who wanted to try their luck, and the music was too loud.  So we went to the dance floor and swayed to une chanson française as he held me close. But by midnight the crowd grew desperate.  Solo stags were on the dance floor hungrily eyeing those who might be leaving their dance partner, keeping to the beat of “Return of the Mack” in hopes that they might pick-off the weaklings or those fatigued by the night’s events.  The waters had become sharky, and people were giving one another the once-over before making a move.  It was time to call it a night; so I said my good-byes and handed the Persian cat my card.  Thanks to the métro strikes, I ended up splitting a cab with a waiter from Le Bar à Huitres next door in order to get home.  And when I did, the Persian cat called to make sure I got home safely and suggested another time when we might meet for a drink.  I am tempted.  The evening was billed as an “American phenomenon;” the press attaché kept reiterating that this kind of event was wildly popular in New York, which, IMO, remains to be seen.  But are the French really willing and open to this kind of meet and greet the way that we Americans are?  I think they might be.  In this environment, the male machismo of initiation and control allows the men to feel comfortable in their captain’s chair.  Here in France “Latin rules” still grant the…