An American Homo in Paris (2 page)

This homo’s been dumped.

I wish I could say it’s all for the best or make some pithy comment, but the fact is, being dumped sucks. Being dumped in a foreign country where you don’t have a job, can’t legally get a job, and don’t speak the language? Well that’s some extra-French flavor to the suckitude.

I don’t know when Aaron stopped typing “LOL” and started typing “MDR” instead… I don’t know when him thinking my accent was cute turned to him being embarrassed to take me places. I don’t know when I started resenting him, and I don’t know when he stopped loving me.

I’m going to have to think of a new title for this blog. I sucked it up and called my mom— yeah, I know, total adulthood fail, but without a work visa, there’s not much I can do here— and she’s sent me money for a ticket home. I leave tomorrow and have about a million layovers, so I’ll update when I can.

I’m more than homesick. I’m heartsick. No selfies today.

Benj

Comments:

Boyluvsboys
: Does this mean you’re single? J/k. Sorry bro, hang in there.

CarrieandMike
: BENJI! OMG, I just saw your YouTube video and came straight here. CALL ME!

****

Au-Dessous de la Tour Eiffel

Ziri watched surreptitiously from his perch behind the café counter as the American with the laptop wiped at his eyes and jabbed the backspace key furiously. He had a thing for Americans— tourists especially. All wide-eyed and awestruck as they selfied their way through his city. And this one had a rainbow patch on his backpack, skinny jeans, and the body of a god.
Ouf.

There was something exhilarating about seduction on a deadline— about knowing you only have a few days or a few weeks together and making the most of it. All the sweetness of falling in love with none of the long-term care and feeding of a relationship. It was more intimate than a club hookup, but about as uncomplicated. This one though— there was a fragility in his posture that was warning Ziri to handle with care. The way the chin trembled under day-old scruff. The way he alternated between glaring at his computer screen and trying not to cry. Maybe he was too fragile for the kind of whirlwind romance Ziri preferred.

But
maybe not.

“Ah,
merci
, Ziz.” Hélène bustled into the front of the café from the back and kissed Ziri’s cheek. “Was it busy?”

“Not too bad. Your American is still crying at his computer, and a few Germans came by and cleared out the rest of the pastry. I got three papers graded, and I pocketed the tips.”

“
Bon, ben
.
My
American?
You
barely took your eyes off him since he walked in. Go on, go say hello.”

Ziri tugged at one of her blonde ringlets. “You shouldn’t encourage me.”

“Why not? He looks like he needs a friend. And you look like a starving man at a feast.”

Ziri shoved the papers he was grading back into his case and swung it over his shoulder. He made his way over to the American and sat down across from him.
“Ça va?”

The American looked up, clearly startled. So handsome, but his blue eyes were rimmed in red. He really had been crying. “
Ça,
um.
Oui, ça va
.” He wiped at his eyes again and sniffed.

“Canadien ou Américain?”
Ziri was pretty sure this one was American, but easing into small talk was probably the best way to handle a man who looked like he’d break down in tears any moment.

The guy swallowed.
“Américain,”
he said decisively. His lower lip steadied, and he offered half a smile. My god, what would a real smile from him look like? Suddenly, Ziri really wanted to know. He switched to English— he got the feeling
“ça va”
and
“Américain”
were probably not far from the limit of this guy’s French.

“What’s your name?”

“Benji.” He stuck out his hand, and Ziri shook it. It was smooth and firm, larger than Ziri’s hand. He held the handshake just a little too long, until the American let go.

“Um…” Benji’s eyes widened and he looked around, obviously panicked and not knowing what to say. Finally, he spoke, in English. “Am I loitering too long? I can order another coffee…”

“No, no, don’t worry about it.” Ziri smiled. “I don’t even work here. I was just helping my cousin.” He gestured to Hélène. “Like a sister to me.
Moi,
I’m Ziri.”

“Your English is really good,” Benji blurted, then blushed.

“Thank you. I teach English. So, Benji, what brings you to Paris?”

And just like that, the bravado failed and the American— non,
Benji
— Benji’s face fell. “Oh, god.” He buried his face in his hands. “He left me.”

That explained the crying.
Merde.
Ziri wondered how much of an asshole it would make him to try to hook up anyway.
A big asshole.
Okay, so sex was off limits. But he couldn’t just leave Benji sitting here, hurting, could he? That would make him a bigger asshole. He was practically obligated to cheer the guy up. He got up and fetched a handful of napkins from behind the counter and brought them back to the table, handing one to Benji, who wiped his face.

“Thanks.”

“Welcome.”

Ziri listened as Benji poured out the story of meeting Aaron in college, falling in love over a weekend, and spending the next eight years together until they came here, to Paris, where everything fell apart. His heart ached for Benji.

“Are you scared?” he caught himself asking, then wanted to kick himself.

But Benji laughed and nodded. “Terrified.”

He reached out and touched Benji’s shoulder.

“Do you want to get out of here? Go for a walk?”

Benji looked up at him, eyes bright and watery with unshed tears. “Why?”

Ziri smiled. “Because there are better ways to get over a heartbreak than sitting in my cousin’s café and crying. You’re in the city of love. Let’s find something to fall in love with.”

“I can’t. I have to get home to pack. I’m flying out tomorrow.”

“All the more reason to take one last farewell tour,
non
?”

“My bag— I don’t want to lug it around…”

“You can leave your bag with Hélène, she’ll take good care of it. Besides, it will take your mind off the
mec
who made you cry.”

Benji opened his mouth like he was going to protest again, then straightened his spine and smiled, wiping at his eyes again. “You’re right. I can sleep on the plane. Let’s do this.”

****

Les Fontaines de la Concorde

Benji threw his laptop into his backpack while Ziri kissed the blonde on both cheeks and said something to her in rapid-fire French— no, not French, something else, something Benji didn’t recognize at all. He liked the way Ziri spoke— his accent a mix of French and British. It was cute. The blonde smiled at him and turned to Benji, speaking in heavily accented English. She had always spoken French to him before, he realized, those times he’d come here to write over the last nine months.

“I’m happy to lock it in my office. Ziri has a key and he can get it for you whenever you come back, even if the café is closed.”

“
Bon, ben
. Let’s go.” Ziri smiled at him, and Benji’s insides did a funny little flop. There had to be worse things than going for a “good-bye to Paris” walk with a handsome French man.

“Hold on. Come here.” Benji pulled out his phone and pulled Ziri close enough to snap a selfie of the two of them. He typed a quick caption, then sent it to Instagram.

Off on a new adventure with a new friend
#AHIP

“What’s that?” Ziri asked as they stepped out of the café and onto the streets of Paris. Benji almost stumbled in shock.

“You don’t know Instagram?”

Ziri laughed. “Of course. I meant your hashtag.” The tower loomed over them, but he steered them east along the Seine instead.

“Oh, I write a blog. It’s called An American Homo in Paris. I hashtag all my instagram posts with that so my readers can find them easily.”

“Nice; so you’re a writer.” Ziri’s approving smile warmed something in Benji. “Was that what you were doing at the café?”

Benji nodded, but he didn’t want to talk about the blog— he’d cried enough in front of this guy.

“What language was that, back there? It sounded like… like nothing I’ve heard before.”

“Kabyle.” Ziri shrugged. “Hélène and I, our families both came here from Algérie before we were born. My mother insisted on speaking Kabyle in the home. Hélène’s insisted only French. So I teach her.”

“You speak three languages?” Benji’s mind reeled. Most people he knew only spoke English. And some of them badly.

“Four, actually. French, English, Arabic, and Kabyle.”

“Wow. You must be super smart.”

Ziri just shrugged again. “Just a knack for language. You’re a writer though— you must have a knack of your own.”

Benji warmed a little at that— Aaron had never respected what he did. Never thought the blog— even when it landed him a book deal— took any talent. When had Benji started internalizing that feeling? That what he did wasn’t good enough? That he wasn’t a
real
writer?

“All I do is tell stories. About myself, about the people I meet. About being queer. Not just the blog though, back in Idaho I wrote for the local paper and freelance stuff for websites. I’d really like a staff writer position somewhere— like for one of the big gay media outlets— but I don’t know if that’s ever going to happen.”

“And you tell stories about being a gay American man in Paris?”

“Yeah, well kind of. It was supposed to be. I mean, to most Americans, Paris is more than just a city. It’s a feeling you get swept up in. It’s romance and risk and love and history.”

“And you don’t find it that way.” Ziri stopped him and gestured around. “You came here to this place— for a man you loved— romance and risk. And look around you— history.”

“Yeah, and it smells like diesel and river water.” Benji wrinkled his nose. “And sometimes pee.”

Ziri clutched his heart. “And New York doesn’t?”

The response was so unexpected, it ripped a guffaw out of Benji. “I guess it does. But I’ve never been dumped in New York.”

Ziri’s smile faded. “I think stories are how we live each other’s truth. What’s the expression in English— ‘wear each other’s shoes’?”

“Walk a mile in someone else’s shoes, yeah. Wow, you totally get what I do.” Benji grinned. “That’s awesome. Aaron never— well, he never did.”

“Okay, new rule. You say his name? You have to do a— oh, what’s the word
en Anglais
? A dare.” Ziri’s eyes sparkled. “Or pay a forfeit.”

Benji laughed. “What kind of dare?”

“When we get to Place de la Concorde, you get in one of the fountains, and you sing a Lady Gaga song.”

“No way.” Just the idea of it made his stomach knot up with nerves. “First of all, I can’t sing. Second of all, I don’t know any Lady Gaga songs. Third, it’s too cold. What’s the forfeit?”

“First of all, all the better— even more embarrassing that way. Second of all, you’re a twenty-something-year old gay American. You know Bad Romance. Third, I’ll warm you up.” Ziri raised an eyebrow. “And the forfeit is a kiss.”

And
that
made Benji’s entire body go on red alert. Yeah, the guy was good-looking, and Benji was single for the first time since college, but he was not going to be the guy who gets over someone by getting under someone else. Benji started walking again, his cheeks flaring hotly. He shouted over his shoulder, “You’re crazy.
T’es fou
. See, I speak enough French for that at least.”

“Maybe I am, but you’re the one who’ll put it on YouTube.”

Benji stopped walking and turned around. Putting it on YouTube made it sound less like a punishment and more like… yeah, a dare. YouTube was the double-dog-dare of the Internet era.

“I can probably manage Bad Romance.”

Ziri pumped his fist.
“Ouais!”

****

An American Homo in Paris on YouTube

Post-Aaron Dare #1

A handsome French man looks directly at the camera, smiling.

“Okay, friends and followers of Benji. I’m Ziri from Saint Denis, and I am Benji’s tour guide for today.” The camera pans left and Benji’s face appears.

“
Salut,
motherfuckers.” The camera pans again to focus on Ziri.

“Okay, so Benji’s boyfriend has left him, booooo, and he’s leaving Paris tomorrow. So I am giving him a farewell tour with a twist. Any time he says Aaron’s name, he has to do a dare or pay a forfeit.”

Benji’s face appears again. “And by forfeit, he means I have to kiss him.” Benji makes an exaggerated expression of disgust.

The camera shakes as Ziri laughs.

Benji continues, “Okay, you guys, if you’re new, go ahead and click subscribe so you can see my humiliation unfold. Regular followers— I know I swore I’d never sing again after karaokegate of 2012, but I sort of already said the A-word, so, here I go…”

The camera jostles, then trains on Benji and zooms out as he rolls his pants up to his knees and takes off his shoes. He shoots the camera a playful glare, climbs into the fountain, and starts to sing.

—SHOW MORE—

BengalLad1989
: My girlfriend think’s you’re cute, but this video is hella gay.

CarrieandMike
: BENJI! WHAT? Aaron broke up with you? That fucker!

Derek A
: Dude can’t sing, but he’s got serious stones

JennyIRead
: I’m totally shipping you and this Ziri guy. Kiss him anyway!

CarrieandMike:
Benji LOVES Aaron. This is serious.

JennyIRead:
It’s a video of a dude dancing in a fountain and singing Gaga. Please. And they’re cute together.
#ziji

—SHOW MORE—

****

Ziri wasn’t even disappointed that Benji had picked the dare. He’d climbed into that fountain and belted out the chorus of Bad Romance like he was auditioning for
France a un Incroyable Talent.
And he’d been amazing— nowhere close to the tune, but amazing. He’d wiggled his hips and pantomimed a microphone, really selling it. You had to admire a guy who put it all on the line like that.