I had one gig in Berlin that felt and feels like an hallucination. My client stayed on New York time when he traveled, so he wanted me to fly to Berlin to meet him at 2am each night for three nights. I got by on three- and four-hour naps spaced about six hours apart, so I’d wake up, roll out of bed and stroll through the city until my body screamed for sleep. Then I’d head back, nap, wake up and embark on the ultra-feminine regimen that typically transforms me from into the hired girl that I am. Then I’d engage in some S&M-tinged play in the middle of the night, while the rest of Berlin slept (well, most of Berlin), until my client felt satisfied. I’d silently tiptoe back to my room, strip down, and sink into another few hours of sleep. And then I’d do it again.

That Berlin trip was tough. The client was the quintessential Republican.

*

The other night, I had to forego my plans to revisit Les Chandelles and went to the Opera to see the ballet production of Orpheus and Eurydice, choreographed by Pina Bausch. The extraordinary thing is that the performance was set to Gluck’s 18th-century opera, and both dancers and singers shared the stage. But what’s most striking about the performance was how spare the production was. The storyline was epic, the opera was eighteenth-century and full of flourish, but the set, costume, and choreography were all very clean, even austere. And a bit dark. Very German. The movement was stunning.

By the end of the production, my feet were shot. I’d been wearing stiletto boots for two days and I’d worn the heels down to the steel spike so that I clacked against every surface. I developed blisters somewhere on the Left Bank, those blisters started bleeding sometime on my way back into the Marais, so hitting the ballet that evening was tough. I bandaged my feet and slid them into the stiletto’d fuck-me heels I’d brought for the gig, and it took all my composure and a fistful of Tylenol to walk without a limp. After the performance, I was ready to hail a cab, get back to my room, and get the heels off my bruised feet.

While I was battling the fur-clad elderly for the attention of oncoming cabs, I met a boy. I wasn’t really in the mood to chat since I really just needed to get out of my shoes, but he was charming. And good-looking. And I’m shallow that way. He lured me into a cafe for some wine.

He looked great. He was somewhere in his thirties, a writer. Parisian. Dark-haired, a little scruffy. Kissable. Had a large silver band on one of his thumbs and it distracted me when he talked. I’d asked him if he’d heard of Les Chandelles and he hadn’t. I let the subject drop.

I didn’t sleep with him. I thought about it, but I was too eager to get out of my shoes, take a long bath, and decompress. I thanked him for the wine, took his number, and hailed a cab back to the hotel. The moment I flung open the door, I kicked off my shoes, stripped down to my underwear, and stretched across the bed with a kilo of clementines, a small plate of raspberry macaroons, and a bottle of wine. I stared at the ceiling for about half an hour.

Sometimes I need to be alone.

I made my way to the Bibliothèque Nationale to see the L’Enfer de la Bibliothèque exhibition – an exhibition of sexually explicit texts from the Renaissance to the present, preserved in the library’s dramatically named ‘Hell’ section – and I felt a little too sensitized to be there. Usually, I’m in a detached, analytical mode when I visit shows like this, but this time I was just overstimulated and distracted. I caught a brief glimpse of a film clip from the 1975 adaptation of The Story of O, and I had to look away. I was throbbing.

I have a train ride this morning, where I’ll probably read for a bit, and then close my eyes to relive a few moments from that experience. It’s sexually frustrating, particularly when my body is keyed up and ultra-responsive to sensation, but it’s still worth enjoying those memories while they’re still fresh. Eventually, they lose their texture.

I was looking at the one on the right.

I’ve started doing this now, snapping quick shots of strangers with my phone as I check them out. Unfortunately, I do this quickly, so the shots are usually blurry. I snapped a few tonight in the Marais, but I was too hasty and they came out as flat streams of color.

I arrived in Paris this afternoon and it felt good. It always does, even though my French is rusty and makes me a clumsy conversationalist. It’s just one of those cities that always feels right to me. New York is another – the moment I arrived in New York, I couldn’t leave. And I think I feel at home, here and there, because I feel anonymous. And because Parisians are as permissive as New Yorkers are indifferent.

“It’s the devil’s city,” said my dinner companion tonight. “In Paris, they don’t care. You can get away with anything.” He’s lived in Paris for years.

And I like that. I’ve never tested this statement but I think I should. So in that respect, I shouldn’t suggest I know Paris. I haven’t stayed here long enough to peel back the layers, and if there’s anything I’ve learned from living in different cities it’s that they change for you over time. They open up the same way people do, so that the initial impression – the tourist’s impression – is all flash. Over time, if it’s an interesting city, it starts to unfold. Additional layers reveal themselves.

My friend also said that my hotel happens to be near Paris’ best club echangiste, or sex club, of which there are several. He also told me that, like New York, the best events are private.

I’ve learned that clubs here have someone called a physionomiste – literally, a physiognomist – who stands at the door not just to make sure you’re dressed well, but also to make sure you’re the right kind of person for their scene. Like a bouncer, but not.

He said, “You could be the most beautiful woman in the world and still get rejected. It isn’t even about looks.”

“So, what is it about?”

“I have no idea.”

I’m curious to see if this is true. And I’m curious to see if physiognomy plays into any of this.

*

To get here, I took the TGV, the high-speed train that connects Paris to Lyon. I sat across from a man with nice wrist cuffs. I noticed because my eyes always fall on the wrists.

We had matching iParaphernalia, and after I finished tapping away at my computer, I shut it down and closed my eyes. Then I felt his foot tap against mine.

My first thought: Let’s not be greedy with the leg-room, Pushy.

I closed my eyes again and turned up my iPod. Then I felt his foot brush the outer edge of my foot. This time I decided to ignore it, figuring he was mistaking my foot for something else. Then his foot moved up just slightly, and with that, I couldn’t think about anything else. Suddenly, my foot was the most sensitive part of my body – I was reliving flirtation, middle-school style. I wondered if I should feign sleep. Or maybe respond with a counter-attack. And then I started thinking, “Well, where does footsie actually go?” It’s a limited game and I’m pretty clumsy with flirtation. I have the nuance of a billboard.

So once he slid his foot up my leg, I needed to cut it short. I straightened up, removed my headphones, smiled, and then scooted out of my seat to go for a train-walk. It felt best to leave it at that, with his toes pausing mid-calf. When I returned, he smiled back. We both put our headphones back on.