Naughty Paris

“Maybe some women aren’t meant to be tamed. Maybe they need to run free until they find someone just as wild to run with them.”
— from “Sex and the City,” created by Darren Star

One sunny Friday morning (okay, 11am isn't morning for everyone, but it is for us freelancers who go directly from working at our computers to bed at 2am), I met up with the lovely ladies Carolyn and "Mademoiselle B" (not her real name) for a bit of pre-party shopping at Démonia, one of the city's best-known naughty toy and outfit stores at #10 Cité Joli, 11th (just off the Rue Chemin Vert, M° Pere Lachaise).

Look for the "D".

“Beyond the beauty, the sex, the titillation, the surface, there is a human being. And that has to emerge.”
— Jeanne Moreau

“In the movies, Paris is designed as a backdrop for only three things: love, fashion shows, and revolution.”
— Jeanine Basinger

“The aim of life is to live, and to live means to be aware, joyously, drunkenly, serenely, divinely aware.”
— Henry Miller

An e-mail from "Garry" (garrycs69@eircom.net):

You are 2 good looking ladies but I think you need a bigger picture on your web

Site as it is way too small and I am going blind trying to figure out which one

Of you I find the sexiest.

“Only the united beat of sex and heart together can create ecstasy.”
— Anaïs Nin

“Cities have sexes: London is a man, Paris is a woman, and New York is a well-adjusted transsexual.”
— Angela Carter

So a New York Times "journalist" hears that all of the hip Parisians have been to sex clubs and she decides to go.

But name-dropping alone doesn't mean you're hip enough to see human sexuality up close and personal. If you define yourself as a "married with two children" and "old", want to be in bed by 1:30am, and the sexiest outfit you own is made up of "boots and jeans" (not that they can't be sexy, but c'mon, not one sexy dress?!!), then Les Chandelles isn't for you. In fact, I'd say Paris isn't for you, but I'd like my mom to visit someday!

Just look at this disaster of an article, written by a woman who can't stop giggling at adults having sex, who totally freaks out when another woman touches her leg. Shame on you, New York Times, for giving American woman such as bad reputation!

THE TALK: Échangiste Student

By NATASHA FRASER-CAVASSONI (NYT)
Published: February 26, 2006

As a city, Paris has always had a reputation for being naughty. But lately, its ooh-la-la factor has been kicked up a notch, as swingers clubs have become the dernier cri among the smart, young set.

If this sounds a little too ''Eyes Wide Shut'' to believe, I can identify, because at first I couldn't quite get my ''married with two children'' head around it. Then I started to make a few furtive calls. Almost all of the hip Parisians I know had been to such clubs (''but don't use my name''). And then, at a recent dinner given by Louis Vuitton, all anyone wanted to talk about at my table were les clubs échangistes.

''So, what are they like?'' asked my neighbor, who happened to be Gillian Anderson's hunky husband. I was about to admit that I had never ventured inside one, when a curly-haired film producer barged into our conversation. Tigger-like (sans tail), he kept us enthralled with his latest échangiste escapade. He and his girlfriend were having sex, leaning against the club's wall, ''when suddenly my back went,'' he revealed. The cartoonlike image of them falling into a flop-sweat heap on the floor made me burst out laughing. Not everyone else was as amused.

Les Chandelles on Rue Thérèse was recommended as being the most fashionable of its kind -- a kinky Bungalow 8, if you will. However, when I mentioned going there to my husband, he was appalled. ''What a grotesque idea,'' he said. Perhaps, but I am a journalist, and this is the latest trend, I feebly tried. ''So is burning cars,'' he snapped. (It was just after the riots outside Paris.)

Although my husband was fairly (read: extremely) annoyed, I was determined to go with a man. Since going with another heterosexual male could be grounds for a divorce, I hit on a close gay friend, a well-connected fashionista who knew the ropes. He agreed to escort me on one condition: ''You must promise to respect Les Chandelles's dress-code policy; i.e., you have to wear a skirt and heels.'' Not a big deal, unless you are moi, who lives in boots and jeans.

We decided to go on a Saturday since, according to my friend, that's the most exciting night. But in hindsight, I wonder if Friday isn't better, as Saturday, it seemed, was amateur night -- full of people like me, merely dabbling in some wilder weekend entertainment.

As soon as he picked me up, he squawked about my being too chic. Instead of the standard leather or vinyl, I had suited up in a Karl Lagerfeld taffeta jacket, a Rochas velvet skirt and a pair of satin Manolo heels. ''You're too buttoned-up,'' he said.''So was Catherine Millet,'' I replied, referring to the author of ''The Sexual Life of Catherine M.,'' who by day was a well-respected member of the French art world but by night was a raging nymphomaniac.

When we rang Les Chandelles's dungeonlike door, a man with rubbery skin and a stringy, black ponytail slid a hatch at the top and then slammed it shut. ''You see, you're too chic,'' my friend teased. But then the door opened, and we were welcomed inside and informed that we had to conform to the club rule that ''those who arrive together have to leave together.'' (This presents a problem if one member of a group is having more fun, which happened to a girlfriend. ''We had to wait hours,'' she said, because her companion was excited ''by all the threesomes going on.'')

Most of the regulars skip the restaurant, which is pricey, and go directly to the club, where there is a complimentary buffet. (The $87-a-couple entry charge also gets each person one free drink.) We opted to dine with the owner, Valérie, in the restaurant upstairs. Valérie could easily fit into Christopher Isherwood's Berlin. Her black hair was in a bob, and her makeup was dark and vampish. That night, she was dressed in a black Blumarine dress that was cut low enough to reveal a heaving bosom and short enough to show her coltish legs all tricked up in stockings and garters.

Valérie opened the club with her husband at the time in 1993. ''It was built around the idea of desire,'' she said. The name came about ''because it was easy to remember and wasn't overtly sexy.'' (There's also a French expression, tenir la chandelle -- ''to be left holding the candle'' -- which implies that one is left behind watching instead of joining in.)

Although Les Chandelles isn't reserved for private members, there is a strict door policy. ''If someone isn't sexy enough, we turn them away,'' she said. ''But we turn them away with love.'' Whips, dog collars and leashes are also forbidden. ''This is not an S-M club. We're only into seduction and sophistication.'' And when it comes to sex, Valérie considers herself an expert: show her a couple going at it, she said, ''and I'll tell you what kind of life they've led.''

This played in my head as I tried to navigate the winding stairs down to the club. The staircase seemed to go on and on. Was it because my Manolos were killing me, or was it the growing anticipation? When we finally arrived, the club reminded me of the kind of cellar club you find in a chic resort like St. Moritz. On the right was a crowded disco. The leggy women, mostly in tight, short skirts, were extremely pretty and young, and so were their partners. ''You and I must be about the oldest here!'' my friend said with a snort.

Since it was 11:45 and still early, we took a tour. The buffet was laid out against one wall, offering fruit, chocolates and gâteaux filled with cream. The Moroccan-style sitting room cum boudoir was curtained off from the main salon, which, when I peeped through, looked set up to swing. Couches lined the room; Kleenex cases were intermittently nailed up on the red walls. We passed an alcove where we witnessed the peachy thighs of a young blonde being caressed by a large, hairy hand. After checking out the bathrooms and the showers, which were pristine and full of the latest designer fragrances, we headed for the far salon. There were no windows, so it felt more carnal. But nothing lustful was happening yet, so we returned to the disco area.

Then it happened. As Carla Bruni crooned over the speaker system, we turned our heads to check out the cute bartenders, and when we looked back at the dance floor, everyone had disappeared. ''It's started,'' my friend said rather ominously. We rushed to the rooms. Two couples -- still fully clothed -- were groping and moaning in the first salon. In the hallway, there was a weird odor that I hadn't noticed before. ''That's eucalyptus,'' he said. ''It's good for absorbing bad smells.'' Then I noticed that everyone seemed to be speeding toward the windowless salon. When we finally got a look, there was a mass of writhing bodies. Suddenly, I had a fit of the giggles. I was reminded of the teenage parties of my youth and that particular moment when the parents would leave, someone would turn off the lights and everyone would roll around on the floor, French-kissing.

''You can't laugh; people will be insulted,'' my friend hissed. But the more he urged me to stop, the more I laughed, until I finally had to leave the room. When I returned, I sank down on a sofa. A heavily made-up brunette sat down next to me and placed a manicured hand on my knee. Calmly, I took her hand off and slid away as she was sliding closer. This cat-and-mouse game continued until I got up to leave, almost tripping over my heels in the process.

Although my pal seemed to chase after every groan, frantically hand-signaling for me to follow, I started to become bored. It felt asif I were stuck in a never-ending Hammer House of Horror film, where B-list group sex tended to be the norm. It was 1:30 a.m., and I really wished I was in the comfort of the marital bed. At around 2, I managed to drag my friend away from his fascination, looking at a pert pair of male buttocks bobbing up and down. Driving home, we discussed the experience.

''You were shocked, weren't you?'' he said.

''Yes and no,'' I replied. ''I found it hard to believe that couples in love would put themselves through that.''

But in his opinion, I had missed the point. ''Swingers are seeking sex, not love.'' Yes, that must be my problem.

“Lust’s passion will be served: it demands, it militates, it tyrannizes.”
— Marquis de Sade