Sex and Chocolate


Yeah, I bet that got your attention.

It certainly got mine.

I was heading toward Charles de Gaulle Etoile, Metro Line 2, this evening and I passed what may be my favorite Patisserie and Boulangerie.

It smells so good.

I wrote a poem about it yesterday:


Patisserie in Your Pocket


Sex that tastes of chocolate and bread.

Smells of wood burning at dusk, cold

wind tries to tussle underneath.  Red

cheeked, ruddy nosed, I try to hold


you in my chest, tight, like nesting

birds after the sun has gone to bed,

close as the saucer to my resting

cup cooling after foamed hot milk bled


from silver canister to bowl.  Jazz

soiree in my heart dances still

with you and we never pirouetted, has

that thought occurred to you, will-


fully distant, ghost of breath haunts

me yet, even in Paris, in a café, it taunts.


I walked past the boulangerie, I do not stop.  I have nothing to partake there any longer.  And I thought of him.

“Glad I didn’t take you to ‘Flour and Sugar’,” in a text to me after our first date.

I do not eat either.

I quipped back, “at least you didn’t take me to ‘Vodka and Cocaine'”.

I was unexpectedly hit with the smell and all the good meals I got to have with him before heading over here.  And I had a brief scent bath walking past the boulangerie and it came unbidden, that is what sex would be like with him, it would be like how bread and chocolate taste together.

Some one who has lived here in Paris longer than I exclaimed out loud, “what?!  Bread and chocolate?”

Ah yes, a good baguette torn apart warm from the boulangerie wrapped around a dark piece of good chocolate, may be the best thing I have ever eaten.

I have no hankering to eat it again, I rather like how I look without the excess weight that a lot of bread and chocolate will do to me.  And, no don’t ask me if I can have it in moderation.

No, I cannot just have one cookie.

That is rather like asking, “can’t you just do one line of cocaine?”


I have also had that question asked, which makes me chuckle.

Not so much.

However, I do like the way bread smells baking.  It has to be in my top five smells.

1. Wood burning on a cold night.

2. Warm bread just pulled from the oven, brushed with melted butter.

3. Coffee steeping

4. Bacon frying in a pan

5. Lilacs on a warm night

The boulangerie of which I speak is not just a regular bread bakery, it is also a patisserie, so it also has tartes and cookies and chocolate cakes and sugar crumbled fairy star-dust, and it is striped pink and white and has bright red awnings.

It looks like a confection.

I walk by it about two, sometimes three times a week.  It is near the Anvers Metro stop and when I go to Charles de Gaulle Etoile–which will basically drop you right off at the Arc de Triomphe–I go past it.

Even closed it wafts sugar sweet chocolate drop dreams onto the sidewalk.

I imagine that is frequented often, it just smells way to good to not be, plus it is catty corner from Square D’Anvers which has a children’s play area in it and is mobbed daily with nannies and au pairs.

Then there is the something that takes my breath away, seeing a man and a little boy this morning walking hand in hand toward the park, both buried deep in their mufflers, it’s getting cold here (it might snow this weekend!), the little boy had a pastry wrapped in white paper clutched in his mittened hand and there was a smudge of chocolate on his nose.

I could have just scooped him up and licked his nose.

Papa might have been a little taken aback.

The French, they take their chocolate very serious.  There is a specialty chocolate shop (there are chocolate shops everywhere) I pass on the way to the St. Sulpice Metro line and they have hippopotamus heads carved, life-size, thank you very much, in cacao in the display room.  And the original picture, which shows a huddle of hippos, is propped in the front window.

I wonder where the other hippos went?

Swimming in a chocolate lagoon.

How come the Simpson’s never go to Paris?  I could see Homer dancing a soft shoe shuffle through the arrondissements with  a beret and a striped shirt and chocolate smeared all over his face.

I so digress.

The smell of the boulangerie reminds me of the Mister, and it makes me think not of eating bread but of having a sleep over.

Damn it.

I do not believe there will be any sleep overs here.

Not when my room-mate is sitting in my room with me reading online news about Syria.

There is no privacy here.


Ah well.

Not that the French men who have approached me have been exactly available.  Although I was flirted with quite a bit tonight as I hit the Metro going to Etoile.  He sat down next to me and he was definitely attractive and he smiled and said I was “tres charmant” very fuckable.

Um, I mean, very charming.

He said a few other things and he was flirting and I had to go and of course, I had been thinking about bread and chocolate and sex, the sex that never was, and I must have been oozing hormones.

He got off at the same stop as I, which is not actually unusual, it is a really busy stop with a lot of connecting lines that run along it, and he followed me up a set of stairs and then he turned left and I ducked right.

And promptly got lost underground.


I am not really remiss that I lost the man in the crowd of the underground, but I am a little over the longing for some one in another country, another continent–it smacks of a pattern that I have had for a long time and I am not interested in having it any longer.

Time to let that go to.

Time to be here fully.

I can still enjoy the smell of the boulangerie, then walk by and get on my way.

I gotta go Mister.

I have got a book to finish.




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2 Responses to “Sex and Chocolate”

  1. MD Says:

    hey, are you familiar with Lee Miller’s work (Man Ray’s muse)? Her photography may be of interest. (I certainly loved the recent exhibit I saw!) ❤

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