Low life1 p.m. on a sunny winter sunday in Paris. We'd decided to stroll to Les Halles and have lunch there. From his place, this meant walking all of Rue Saint Denis, one of the red-light districts. At first, the street was empty. Soon we came across the first hooker, then another two, and more. They were chatting in groups, the Africans, the Russians, even some French, enjoying the sun after a dreary week. They looked pointedly at him as we walked by, holding hands, and I felt him tense. It's funny, every time I've had to come by this street with a guy, even once with my brothers, they're ill at ease. Not because they despise the working girls or anything, not because of the meat-market atmosphere, but because (I think) of a feeling of collective guilt as a male of the species. Well, maybe the guys I know are pretty decent, then? He started to walk faster, then stopped in his tracks and pulled on my hand, making me stumble into his arms. He looked at me, looked around a bit sadly, and he kissed me. Long. Deep. A bit desperate. Then he hugged me tight, nuzzling my neck. I must say I was more puzzled than anything: this from Mr Undemonstrative himself? He lifted his head, looked into my eyes and smiled. "Let's go, I'm hungry." Copyright (C) 2003 by Alienor, All rights reserved Inspired by "Low life", by Sting
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