Ventured into the infamous Pigalle district yesterday to visit three so-called fetish shops near The Moulin Rouge. You'll read all about it in the article I'm writing for ErosZine, so I shan't say much here. When I arrived, I called The Frenchman immediately to tell him where I was because I had changed my plans and the Pigalle is not the safest area. He fretted the whole time I was there, even though he knew I could take care of myself. Suffice it to say I found a decent crepe stand there, and shortly thereafter I was solicited. (Because, you know, if you're a female wearing a long leather coat in the Pigalle, you must be a hooker, right?) Still, I was thrilled to see that historical district, johns and all.
I wrote in the morning a bit before I left, adding a mere 500 words to the book, and worked on the article when I got back. About 1000 words altogether, which isn't too bad considering how much running around I did.
Today, I'm writing. Later, I might venture to Montparnasse to sit in the cemetery with Chuck. He can be dead while I can be bitter.
Bitter, with no absinthe. The shame!
