Paris Pride report

Yea Gay Pride! Here in Paris, we were safe from all the wedding dresses. Because we're living under a regime that's something like Thatcher or Reagan twenty years too late. And weddings seem out of the question. But people needed a party. We were at the Bastille, where the march ended up, when Act-Up Paris (yes, they're having trouble, but they still exist) tried to stop the government party's homo delegation from entering onto the square. They sat down and started screaming at them, booing them. That was refreshing. Even though S, our companion for the day, and for a fair portion of the night, thought there had to be a question of tolerance. I scoffed. Yeah, but tolerance for the UMP?

I was in my leather. Even tho it was darn hot whenever the sun came out. Magnet for cameras. I mean. It could have also been the fact that there were three of us. People seem to like to look at that. Four actually. Because S has a friend from Quebec. That he met up with, too. Who kept taking pictures of us. We would march. Throw an arm around whomever of us happened to be beside us at that moment. S's friend broke away to go to the movies at some point. And then we were three. And every once in a while we'd stop. And stroke each other's nipples. Chatting all the while. One nice little three-way kiss. On the bridge on the way to the Bastille. S is really very handsome. You remember him. He's the one who emerged with T² and W² when we were waiting for them at the Cox. He and T had chatted that morning and decided we should meet up to march. Good idea. Because I'm really very proud of that. Of the sex we've already had. The chats we've had since then. The sex we ended up having last night. The fact that it emerges from everyday sexual rhythms that are syncopated by drinks. And conversation. And art. The fact that S knows T² and W². And a couple of other friends and acquaintances. We don't have a refined political stance to be affirmed. Just living. Just living and showing that we are. I'll be happy to throw myself behind whatever worthwhile political push/agenda comes along. But while waiting for that. I'm going to work on just living and showing that we are.

Which last night ended up involving the police. After the march. We were pooped. Went to a café. Sat with S. Chatting. More than we had before. Then. At ten to eight. T's phone rings. A neighbor had noticed someone suspicious in our apartment. Had called the police. Who had stopped the burglar with two of our computers, our two ipods, and a pair of Adidas. So went to the police station. To file a complaint. Poor guy. Junky. Must have really needed a fix to climb into our 6th floor window like he did. Apparently from the outside. The neighbor was witness. Very straightforward process. Three hour or so interlude at the police station. S had said to call him. That we'd get a bite to eat. If things didn't take too long at the police station. At 11 pm. We emerge from the métro. S waiting for us. Homemade pesto at home. Wanna come? S came. More chatting. Longing for San Francisco. S. He has an A. Long-term. Getting to know A through S. All S says about their time together. A should have gone to San Francisco. 17 years ago. But met S. Canceled San Francisco. They went there together a few years ago. Loved it. The spaces. The weather. Some sighing. Talking about it all. Before T went to the bathroom. And S jumped on me. And we loved and fucked into the night. Lovely gay pride, really. Just living.