opportunity to use to use the ladies’ tub from the time to time, non? It made perfect sense.
“Merci, Monsieur,” I said. Today the ladies would change in the man-cave, so I found the first-floor door marked “Femmes” and entered. Empty. I claimed a sweet spot on the most spacious bench, flipped open a locker and proceeded to undress. Proud, yes proud I was to strip to my second shopping score – a brand-new sheer-lace brassiere and panties frilled in fancy fringe. Both were so pretty they should have been strolling the Champs Elysees. Too bad no one’s around to appreciate them. Never-theless, off they went so I could shimmy into the tight body stocking I wore for Pilates.
Just then, the door. Too late to run, too late to hide; I thought for sure I was about to die. In they came, like kids let out for recess – a rambunctious bunch of buddies with gym bags over their shoulders. I stood stark naked, front and center, as the men bounded in and saw me. How could they not? Tied to the stake of shame, I burned to a shade of true prude pink and felt my inner American frump demand a good explanation.
Didn’t these men see the door marked “Femmes”? Didn’t Monsieur at the desk think to direct them? The herd dispersed around me, the men claiming lockers and dropping their gym bags on benches.
“Bonjour, Madame.” It was the one whose bag landed closest to mine, and whose hunky, handsome self took a seat not three feet distant.
“Bonjour, Madame.” It was the next, who scooted past to stake his spot before the télé turned to a game of soccer.
“Bonjour, Madame.”
“Bonjour, Madame.”
“Bonjour, Madame.”
Too nude to speak, I could only nod my Bonjour Messieurs in reply. If only I had dabbed on a drop of Chanel No. 5! As the legendary Coco herself once said: “A woman who doesn’t wear perfume has no future.” Then again, it hardly mattered if I had been scented by irresistibility itself. To the stripping Frenchmen, who soon had the place bustling with their good-natured fun, I was simply the naked woman among them who didn’t get the message.
Désolé said the front desk monsieur later, begging my pardon for his oversight. The ladies’ changing room was on the second floor and he didn’t think to switch the door-signs until after I had arrived. Meanwhile, in the midst of men as blasé as the plumbers, I felt a queer thing – not fear – come to life. Could it be? Ah, oui. My inner French girl.
Since the people of Paris paid it no mind, why did I try so hard to hide it? Bring on the satin contraptions, France. I’m coming out.
“Pardon? Madame?” The Frenchman sharing my bench brought my attention to the fancy-fringed panties that lay on the floor between us like an unspoken question. I had flung them into the locker but missed. Who would pick them up? Oh my God! I lunged and swooped them into my bag. I may have been wrong, but was that the smallest flicker of a wicked smile? “Très belle,” he said. I dared to believe he meant not the panties but me.
At the launderette on the rue de Passy, Madame de Glasse stood with me at the folding table and eyed my neat stacks of items surely even Chanel had in mind. “A girl should be two things,” she said: “classy and fabulous.” Then Madame said with some surprise, “Mademoiselle,” she said, “like many Americans who come to Paris, you have gotten over your problem, non?”
Yes. Now I’ve got my oh-la-la. And, oh, how even the plumbers of Paris would be proud.