Either way, by the time afternoon arrived, my body had loosened. The tightness in my chest eased. I’d walked to the café and back without checking over my shoulder.
And when the invitation came from Amaya—an address, a time, a single line of text?—
Go, if you’re curious.
—I didn’t think about danger.
I thought about momentum.
I thought about becoming.
She offered no explanation. No context. Just a pin dropped in a neighborhood I hadn’t explored yet and the unmistakable hum of something unspoken underneath it.
Curiosity had become my most dangerous trait in Paris.
By early afternoon, the city felt restless. Bright but unsettled. The kind of day that made your skin feel too thin. I walked instead of taking the metro, letting the rhythm of my boots against the pavement steady me. I practiced French under my breath. I passed lovers arguing softly on corners, hands tangled even as their words cut.
Paris didn’t separate intimacy from daily life. It layered them.
The building was unmarked. No sign. No plaque. Just a heavy door standing slightly ajar, as if undecided about keeping secrets.
I hesitated on the threshold.
This is ridiculous, I thought.You don’t even know what this is.
Then I remembered Élodie’s voice—You follow the invitation.
I pushed the door open.
Warmth hit me first. Then sound.
Not music. Not conversation.
Breath. Laughter. Low, unguarded noises that made my stomach drop before my brain caught up.
The space inside was dim, lit by lamps instead of overhead lights. The walls were brick. The air smelled like skin and wine and something faintly sweet. People were everywhere—standing, sitting, sprawled across furniture like gravity had loosened its grip.
And they were touching.
Not hidden. Not performative.
Just … present.
A woman straddled a man on a low sofa near the wall, her hands in his hair, their mouths moving together in a slow, unhurried rhythm that had nothing to do with being watched. Nearby, two men leaned close, foreheads touching, laughing softly as one traced lazy circles on the other’s wrist.
Someone brushed past me, naked under an open coat, completely unbothered.
I froze.
No one looked at me like I didn’t belong.
No one rushed to explain.
The shock wasn’t the sex.
It was the absence of shame.
Back home, desire was something you packaged carefully—behind closed doors, behind jokes, behind rules. Here, it simply existed. Unapologetic. Untranslated.
