It’s starting to get really hot in the dungy Parisian club, and I can feel my shirt sticking to my sweaty back. The boys and I go over to the bar to order another round. He turns to me and says something in French, something he knows I won’t understand. The sentence is too complex, and the vocabulary is nothing they’d teach me in college. But maybe it’s his body language, how he got closer to me with every syllable uttered, or his facial expressions, how his eyebrows rose with excitement after certain words, or his eyes, how he looked at me and then down at my jeans. I may not understand what he says, but I know exactly what he means.
Excerpt, Confessions of a Boy Toy
Photo: Gerard Estadella
