There is a place somewhere called Paris And I’m going there on vacation today; A city where every useless worry or care is Forgotten and carelessly tossed away.
I don’t need to see the Eiffel Tower Or pray at Cathédrale Notre-Dame. I’d happily pick a delicate wildflower Or caress a charming man’s arm.
I’d love to stroll through Pére Lachaise, Have a chat at the grave of Jim Morrison. I’d play him some tunes like Jimi’s “Purple Haze’’, Just dishing the dirt with that sexy rapscallion.
You won’t catch me near the Seine for dinner; Much too highbrow and touristy for me. Seat me at a bar with the saint or the sinner; We’ll close the place down at quarter past three.
Mona Lisa is enigmatic in a gilt frame so fine But the thought of the Louvre is a total bore. I’d rather be laughing in a park drinking wine Or sharing a smoke on a bench with a whore.
I’ve got nothing to hide; it’s far from a secret: When it comes to Parisian men I’m a big flirt. The playboys in the square whisper “Come, be my pet” And I purr “Oui, oui, mon cheri! Who will it hurt?”
There is a place somewhere called Paris And I’m going there on vacation today. I’ll give life a sultry lingering French kiss; When I’m in Paris I like to do things my way.
We were driving down iconic Route 66 in our convertible Volkswagen Jetta on our way from Chicago to Santa Monica, California, everything we owned being towed in a small U-Haul. On the floor behind us, sleeping in his carrying case, was our bulldog puppy, Ringo.
We’d been on the same stretch of road for what seemed like an eternity without seeing another soul – nothing but miles of tall corn fields swaying in the breeze. We talked about everything, especially opening our new veterinary practice – a big step but one we were excited about. We even had the name picked out – “Carlyle Planned Pethood”.
Rummaging through the glove box, I came across the White Album. “Hey, look what I found” I said to Doc, my nickname for my husband, showing him the CD.
“Excellent! Put it on, Babe.”
Opening the case, I discovered a forgotten joint, crushed but still viable. “Whoa! Check it out. This CD has a bonus track!”
We lit up, getting higher and louder with each song. Putting on our thickest country twang, we laughed as we sang ‘Don’t Pass Me By’. And then there they were … those unmistakable opening funky get-down notes of ‘Why Don’t We Do It In The Road’. We were grooving in our seats, thumping on the car doors, digging the hell out of that song.
Suddenly Doc pulled the car over and turned up the volume of the CD. He looked over at me, sunglasses lowered on his nose and started singing “No one will be watching us … why don’t we do it in the road?”
“Have you lost your mind? What are you .. some horny teenager?”
“Well, I’m no teenager, I’ll give ya that. But here we sit .. a hot banging Beatles song, my incredibly sexy wife in a miniskirt and plenty of road. Listen .. Paul’s practically begging us to get out of this car and do it … IN THE ROAD!”
Slowly stretching my legs on the dashboard, I suggested doing it in the car.
Doc laughed and leaned over to kiss me, whispering “we’ve done it in the car … a lot. C’mon, Becca! Let’s get down (*kiss*) and dirty (*kiss*) and do it in the road (*long hot kiss*).
Doc has this delicious way of making me melt like ice cream on a hot summer’s day. Pushing the ‘REPEAT’ button on the CD player, he grabbed a blanket from the back seat and we ran to the rear of the car. Laughing, Doc slipped off my panties and I wrapped my legs around his waist as we slid to the ground.
Just as Paul reached the high note, we heard ”Pardon me, folks. Officer Matthew Jackson, Kansas State Police. As soon as you’re finished checking that tow hitch, you best be on your way.” And he walked back to his car singing “Why don’t we do it in the road”.
We sheepishly got back into our car and drove off. Nine months later we named our first son Matthew Jackson Carlyle.
Waves of glorious flaxen hair rippled down her back, swaying and bouncing with every high-heeled, leggy stride she took.
Never one to shy away from attention, especially that of the male population, she confidently waltzed down Fifth Avenue toward Saks, stunning in red Manolo’s and a parchment white dress.
Admiring looks didn’t intimidate her; quite the contrary. They titillated her, challenged her to be more daring and quite a bit risqué. It was all a game and she loved to play.
As she strolled the avenue, stopping to look in this window or that one, she noticed the reflection of a man leaning drowsily against a parked car. Accustomed to men looking her way, she thought nothing of it at first but found herself glancing at the reflection once again. Sliding her Ray Bans a little down her nose, she gave this mystery man’s image a furtive peek. Intriguing.
Repositioning her glasses, she continued window shopping, collecting all the longing glances cast her way and storing them in her bag like so many colorful Easter eggs. Every so often she’d linger at a quaint little shop or gallery, acutely aware of her mystery man shadowing her along the way. Now this is getting interesting. Slowly she removed her shades and gave his reflection a long look.
Why not? Slipping her sunglasses on, she turned around to a vision that caught her breath … from head to toe the epitome of elegance and charm. Black hair, tanned skin, charcoal grey pinstripe suit, crisp white shirt, black and silver Art Deco tie and Italian shoes … not black but the exact color of his suit. Nice touch; the paragon of haute couture.
She smiled. He smiled. She turned slowly, giving him ample time to fall into place beside her.
She continued walking, no longer followed by a mysterious shadow but side-by-side with an intriguing companion. Together they would take the road wherever it led them.
The Elephant's Trunk 