She's going to tell me that her name is Chantal and she lives on the Left Bank and then she's going to start discussing de Beauvoir in French.
We go back to her little 6th floor walk up. She has a cat named Alain and a few half-finished - but still brilliant - expressionist paintings leaning against the wall. "Do you paint?" I ask.
"A leettle." she smiles. "But mainly I make love to strangers."
We undress frantically and bury our faces in each other's naked bodies like those who are dying of thirst might bury their faces in the clear waters of an oasis in the Sahara. As I spread her legs and enter her, there is a pounding and kicking at the door. She pulls my hips tightly towards her belly.
"Ignore it and take me!" she whimpers. "It's Jean-Paul Sartre. He's been obsessed with me ever since I fellated him in a little alcove at the Louvre 3 months ago!"