I entered and saw at once all was odd. Where was the lavender? Where was the lovely? Loaded with lockers, lacking a hot tub, the room was dim, dank, and functional. Testosterone chose the décor so sweat stains didn’t show, and from the télé turned to sports to the vanities equipped with manly-looking man-things used by grooming men, this changing room clearly was meant for well, men.
And yet, there they were: Women. The Parsiennes flaunted their inner French girls like they had the day before; they paraded around queer-fear-free in brassieres like pasties and thongs if not sheer then small. Awfully.
“Entrez, Madame,” said one, as I lingered at the door. The French girl had just contorted herself into a contraption of an electric-blue bustier, a towel on her head. “Oui, oui, Madame, come in. You’ve found the right place.” I wasn’t so sure. No toilet stall announced itself after my first look around, so I would have to strip and change into yoga clothes in full view of a man-cave full of catnip. My priggish panties! My not-hot bra! Never mind. This wasn’t anything some serious French lingerie acquisition couldn’t fix. Plus, it was no lace off their merry widows if, in front of the Frenchwomen, I got naked like the place had caught fire and I had better move fast or die. Which is how I did. But in the process? It was astonishing. There I was, whipping off my clothes and slipping into Spandex, and nary a glance went to my uncomely undies. I was a blur, sure. But snug in their absolute disinterest, smug in their elusive distance, the Frenchwomen paid my flash of breast and briefly bared behind no mind. Whatsoever. Wow, self-satisfaction must be catching. In the presence of such total nonchalance, I felt for one wild, nude moment…well, nude! It was awesome. I wanted more of it.
Day 3. I arrived at Espace Vit’Halles, today to try the weight room. “Bonjour,” bid the big-grinned monsieur, as expected. He then directed me to the ladies’ changing room…on the second floor. The second floor? Seriously? Yes. The door marked “Femmes” had moved from the man-cave back upstairs; it opened again on the lovely lavender space filled with Frenchwomen changing.
Encouraged by my undressing success of the previous day, I was shy but excited to unveil my treasures. I had gone shopping. At the lingerie shop on boulevard Haussmann, I could find nothing frumpy whatsoever in a French granny panty; neither was there a single serviceable bra that would just do the job – as if such things in Paris existed. So standing before the display of wares both naughty and nice, a woman I didn’t know spoke up.
“I’ll take the panties in slinky pink with their matching bra of ruffles and bows – yes, those,” she told the shop’s assistant. I was stunned to discover it was I, myself, not just speaking but also pointing to items so cute that even Mademoiselle had to approve – endowed as she was with come-hither hips and considerable cleavage. This choice was so surprising that it meant only one thing. There was a French girl in me – in me! – and she had been roused by ruffles.
Back at the gym I beheld this bold foreig-ner with cool suspicion and moved to the farthest corner of the changing room. There, I could undress apart from the purring cats and expose my newly-purchased pizzazz in relative privacy. I claimed a locker and settled-in on a bench.
My American fears still lingered, but my new French bra of unabashed vavavoom? It almost busted out of my blouse to shout Here I am! And how my slinky pink French panties were pleased to sashay free of my jeans with a little wiggle of joy. Just then, the door. A man announced himself.