can't touch this
Two young men are yelling after us and following us down a street in the Latin Quarter. They want to talk. I make it clear that we don't, no matter how much they claim to love blonde hair.
"Yeah I've grown a pair of balls," I tell her, "big fucking hairy ones."
I turn around and yell "Non!" To the two young men, quickly getting on my nerves.
On the metro a sweaty man in a baby blue shirt sits across from me with his briefcase. His eyes molest me as I make an effort to avoid his glare. When the person seated beside me gets off, he moves into their seat. His arm brushes up against me several times and I keep shifting away. I feel his eyes run down my face, along my body, and down to my feet. His smell makes me nautious.
I decide to get off early. I make sure he's not getting off, and jump off at the last minute, just in case he's planning on following me home. I just don't like the smell of him, and every alarm in my body is going off.
Don't get me wrong, I love men. But there are nights when I feel threatened by them. Flirting is fun, but avoiding agressive men isn't. I've stopped taking chances.
In the streets two different men ask me for a lighter, I avoid small talk, walk away quickly.
Later my phone rings.
"Bon soir, it's Micheal," a young man who's calls I've been avoiding, "do you want to come to a club tonight?"
"No, I'm busy."
"Do you want to do something tommorrow?"
"No, I'm busy. Look, I can't see you again. I leave in a week and until then I'm very busy." My voice is firm and my French fluent.
For the first time, this overly persistent young man gives up.
I pour myself a vodka tonic to celebrate, and realize that yes, Paris has changed me.