the very first time I saw Paris

I was like dumped, with my luggage, out of a taxi, after midnight, in the 13th arrondissement, a couple of weeks before my twentieth birthday; the hotels all being full due to an auto show in town, I was walking the streets carrying my luggage--after maybe forty minutes getting tireder and tireder, feeling more and more dépaysé, more and more lonely and out of place--suddenly I was accosted by a very polite, good-looking gentleman of French-Armenian extraction in his early thirties, who said he knew of a place where I might stay, which was "far, yet not far." And about an hour and twenty minutes after that, I fell asleep with my penis inside his rectum.  

The next several days, using up my ready money, before I caught the train to Grenoble, were dazzling good fun.  Gérard was a tourist guide who spoke four languages, who knew and was friends with a great many charming, witty and interesting ladies, who lived in exquisitely stylish little appartements  in many different parts of Paris, on the one hand--and was lovers, or would-be lovers, with a great many lovely young men just my age, on the other hand.  I saw my first-ever drag queen one evening in the Bar of the Moulin Rouge.  I got to like the taste of champagne and Calvados.  I was  thinking I might be falling in love; and I was perfectly willing to accept, as a pre-condition, that I have a three-way with Gérard and his new 19-year-old, uncircumcised Algerian "Beur."  Why that didn't happen I'll never know.  Could I have been too eager?  No matter.  It was time to go, and I left, having, in a manner of speaking, seen Paris.