Ah yes, the masturbating rollerblader…

November 20, 2008 at 6:38 am (past, plays well with others)

First of all, BlogSecret. Whew. That was amazing. And scary, and fun, and exhilarating, and deep, and cathartic. Nilsa is pretty damn awesome for organizing that whole thing and for letting us all get our secrets out there.

Now on to the important things. Like masturbation. And rollerblading. Or maybe just masturbating rollerbladers. Because LynnAnn asked, and I enjoy fulfilling the whims of perfect strangers. Perhaps that’s not a good way to preface a story about masturbating rollerbladers, but there, I’ve done it.

I’ll make the long part of the story short and the short part long, sound good?

In college I did a semester abroad in Paris (I also did a summer in DC where I never encountered any masturbating rollerbladers, just devious bastards, but that’s neither here nor there). I had two roommates, let’s call one The Roommate I Liked and the other one Superficial, Self-centered Bitch. Nah, she wasn’t that bad. She just liked making fun of people in public for wearing shoes without a red stripe on the sole (read: Prada). Oh and for being fat. So…RIL and I went out one evening. This may or may not have been the night she puked on the Metro and the nice little old French lady (in a hat!) said, “Pleeze, you vil be getting uff zee train now?”, but it was most certainly one of the many nights in which we chose to skip dinner (and maybe lunch) in order to get drunk for cheaper and take in fewer calories. (We were smart girls doing stupid things, it’s not very original.)

We were out, probably in the Bastille, probably at the place that had the slushy drinks in little mini-cement mixers that we never ordered but loved to watch. We drank, we danced, we fended off skeazy men (did I mention that RIL is one of those tall, lovely, All-American girl-next-door types? Seems to attract skeazy French men) and then we realized the Metro was already closed. In the past, this had not been a problem. When the Metro closed, we’d stay out until the clubs closed. Then we’d find an all-night cafe. If SSB had joined us, she’d order her heart attack plate (Steak Frites with a side of grease), while RIL and I allowed ourselves real, honest-to-goodness food. You know, the kind with more than 300 calories. For whatever reason, that night we needed to get home. It can’t have been the night we met the Marines (they guarded the US Embassy in Paris, we were just doing our patriotic duty) and it can’t have been the night we watched the 2000 election results come in while trying to explain the electoral college in French. But whatever it was calling us home, we decided to walk. From the Bastille. To the 7th. Via the place du Parvis-Notre-Dame. I’ve never actually mapped it, but it felt like miles. Miles on feet that had been dancing all night. Miles on feet that were in 3″ peep-toe slingbacks. Miles on cobblestones.

When we got to our side of the Seine and began to work our way south, we noticed a man in a doorway. Wait, wait, wait, backup. While getting to our side of the Seine, I complained over and over and over to RIL about how much my feet hurt. (Strange that I can still remember exactly how much I paid for those shoes, which have since disappeared, and that it seemed like a lot at the time, and that it’s about 1/4 of the cost of the most expensive pair of shoes I currently own.) Complain, complain, complain about my feet. Whine, whine, whine. I’m a peach, aren’t I? I wanted to take off the shoes, but RIL wouldn’t let me. Which illustrates two important things: #1) I was really, really, really drunk because taking off my shoes in a Paris street is not something I’d EVER consider sober and #2) RIL was a good roommate/friend because despite being really, really, really drunk herself, she didn’t let me. So there we were on La Rive Gauche, both still sensibly wearing shoes when, as I said, we saw a man in a doorway.

He was hidden in the shadows, but we could tell he was watching us. Because we are smart girls (despite doing stupid things) we crossed to the other side of the quai. As we got closer, we saw something small and pink in his hands near his crotch. RIL figured it out first (she might look like the All-American girl-next-door, but she went to Berkeley and knows a thing or two about small pink things in crotches). She grabbed my arm and giggled/screeched/whispered so that I’d understand too. We looked back to find the man had moved a doorway closer. We walked faster. He moved a doorway closer again. We walked faster. We realized he was following us. Then we realized he was on rollerblades. He was exposing himself (not very impressive, I must say), playing with it, and chasing us on rollerblades. He was a masturbating rollerblader! Once we saw he was on wheels, we made quick decisions. RIL now approved of me removing my shoes (makes me cringe 8 years later just thinking about it) and we RAN. Ran like get-the-hell-out-of-Dodge ran. Ran like we were being chased by a masturbating rollerblader ran. Thankfully we were both running regularly that semester (which went along with the not eating) and thankfully the masturbating rollerblader didn’t mean us any real bodily harm. Somehow we lost him, made our way home (checking carefully to be sure we weren’t followed), and rushed up the 5 flights to our apartment so I could wash my feet with scalding water and lots and lots of soap.

We considered reporting it, but figured the gendarme would just respond with a Gallic shrug that would not make it worth looking up “masturbating” in French.

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2 Comments

  1. Nilsa said,

    And *this* is exactly why parents should never send their children to study abroad!!! =)

  2. Jess said,

    Oh my god, that’s amazing and horrifying. What a story! And I think you’re right about what the gendarme’s reaction would have been.

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