Sunset in the 16th

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Sunset in the 16th
In the very bourgeois 16th arrondissement in Paris, one will find a melting pot of kinky contradictions. Skinny women in designer dresses with small dogs carry the latest Louis Vuitton bags by day, while by night large white vans containing prostitutes pull up to the curb on Rue Marbeau, awaiting well… never mind.  My studio happens to be located just above such a street. Each night I am offered my personal X-rated view. The exchange goes something like this: man in designer suit with greasy slicked back hair approaches van window. Man in the driver’s seat with the sunglasses and black leather jacket rolls down window. Words are exchanged. Man in designer suit with greasy slicked back hair opens the back doors of the van and lets himself in. The windows of these vans are tinted very dark, and so I have yet to see an actual prostitute–though if these women bear any resemblance at all to what French men are seen about town with and seem to find attractive, the prostitute has long dark hair that flows out and around her skinny frame, revealing a pair of small, almost non-existent breasts. This is quite the shift from Los Angeles, where the ideal woman is the exact replica of Barbie. She is tall, has long blonde hair, big blue eyes (green are acceptable), large breasts, a fake-bake tan, and trouble standing upright; LA guys like it this way.  Je ne suis pas une pute.  I, myself, am tall, have long blonde hair, blue eyes and breasts that may appear larger to the naked eye than they are in actuality; in Los Angeles I am seen wearing sunscreen year round to prevent the formation of a tan, and am forever trying to persuade my colorist to go darker, darker, darker.  I never wear skirts. I live in constant fear that I will be mistaken for an “LA girl”. This is a concern shared by many blonde native San Franciscans. One would think, since physically I am the direct opposite of a woman that French men seem to be attracted to, that I would be safe from harassment and naughty looks. Au contraire…I am stalked in the métro on a daily basis, whistled at on the streets and winked at in bakeries.  Why is this–aside from the fact that I’m a tourist therefore and easy target? Cable. Most French men have televisions wired for cable and are well connected to the internet. This allows them to view American television shows, movies and pornography. Virtually every American porn flic stars a girl who fits a physical description somewhat close to mine. I am, therefore, treated with no respect and like a girl in one of the late-night “picture shows” who never stands upright. As a result, I will probably be in therapy for the rest of my life. Je ne suis pas une pute. In the US we have very strict rules against this kind of behavior. Laws there prohibit sexual harassment, though here, in gay Paris, this kind of sexual aggression is a common sport for frequent male métro riders. Do they expect to get a date out of their provocative eye-twitching? Pardon me, laid? Or are they just pointing out that they think that they know the kind of woman I am because I happen to have been born with blond hair and breasts? The answers are:  all of the above. Incident 1: Nuit Blanche, a celebration in which the monuments in Paris are open all night: I go out with some of my friends to a party and wind down the night in a small café. It is 12:20AM and I have to leave before the métro closes and I will be forced to walk home. I say goodbye to my friends and start towards the Odeon métro station.  While I am crossing the street, a tall dark man with a burgundy button-down shirt and black dress shoes with tassels on them catches my eye and starts harassing me in French. I pretend I don’t hear him and keep walking. He follows me across the street, down the stairs into the métro station. I tell him to leave. He doesn’t because, as he puts it, he’s in love with me. The train arrives, I get on, he gets on and continues to stare at me all the way to Chatelet.  I look around for someone who might be able to help me, but I notice that all of the people in the car are men who are either winking at me or offering me a seductive smile. We arrive at Chatelet. I get off the train, he gets off the train, he follows me to change onto the second train. Again, I beg him to leave but, he doesn’t because he’s in love with me. One hour later he has followed me all the way to my métro stop. I refuse to leave the station for fear that he will follow me home.  I start screaming. No one will help me. I walk up towards the ticket booth and scream even louder. Finally he leaves. Incident 2: Two weeks ago, I am on way to meet a friend from the States for a café at St.-Germain-des-Prés. When the train arrives I am fortunate to be in front of the great mob of people and am able to snag a seat. Ten minutes later I become aware that the man sitting next to me with the scar on his chin and the big silver skull ring on his right index finger is trying to lick my earlobe. I give him a dirty look and stand up. Incident 3: Five days ago, lugging a large rug home from Habitat, I board the train at Montparnasse. Five teen-aged boys with large puffy black jackets board the train behind me. Fifteen minutes later I feel a hand grab my ass; this is followed by another hand on my breasts. I am being felt up by thirteen-year-olds. I maneuver the rug over my shoulder and “accidentally” hit the boy behind me in the head. He cries out. I jump off the train before they can follow me. Last night, I’m riding the métro home quite late and…surprise, surprise incident four: a sketchy man wearing a jean jacket and a gold chain around his neck, who is very,…
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