Original subtitles

Dr. Christina of Sweden was the pretentious name

under which I wrote sex articles for a

Stockholm tabloid.

I was in Paris to do an article

about the sexy and ultra-chic Parisians.

More nonsense, to be sure, but nonetheless it

provided me with a chance of seeing Paris.

Stockholm was quite colorless by comparison to Paris.

It was just as I had imagined it

to be.

Colorful, vibrant, exciting.

I had the address of a small hotel

on the boulevard Saint-Michel.

Of course, I could have afforded better.

My expense account was generous.

However, I wanted to experience the real Paris.

This place was absolutely charming.

It filled me with a delight that I

hadn't known in many, many months.

Everything demanded my attention at once.

The people, their clothes, the architecture, the sounds.

Paris deserved its reputation.

I breathed the air of kings.

Please bear with me as I tend to

lead toward the melodramatic.

In any case, it is no understatement to

say that I was quite excited at being

here.

Even the thought of work didn't dampen my

enthusiasm.

I'd been supplied with the names of a

young French couple.

They were students who shared an apartment on

the left bank.

I was to interview them.

What were their ideas on free love, promiscuity,

pussy, etc., etc.?

Stock questions that would no doubt render stock

answers, which I, in my clever way, would

reword to sound like rather clever erotica.

I fell in love with the little narrow

alleys of Paris.

Each one led to a more interesting sight.

I was fascinated with everything that I saw.

It was rather hard to find the address,

but at last my efforts met with success.

Without a doubt, my timing was wrong.

An interview in my halting French wouldn't meet

with much enthusiasm at this particular moment.

I would have called had they had a

telephone.

Anyway, I wouldn't disturb the little darlings lest

they flush with embarrassment.

I should have left immediately, but I had

not.

Those two brazen young bodies fascinated me, both

as a writer and woman.

I enjoyed

watching their every move.

Eagerly, I anticipated what the love sprites would

do next.

They were superb lovers.

Their intense passion intoxicated me.

Their young lovemaking was like poetry.

Hot, moist, demanding pussy, fulfilled by hard young

manhood.

This was what my readers wanted, and this

is what I gave them.

I watched the two go at one another.

Soon they'd work out together.

An interview would be unnecessary.

All I'd have to do was write about

what I was witnessing.

Indeed, the French were magnificent at lovemaking, so

imaginative.

The darling young French girl was an exquisite

and inventive lover.

She devoured the boy.

I was on fire.

The fact that I was a voyeur had

never occurred to me before.

I'd often shared their pleasures, and I knew

how wonderfully sensuous they were.

Beautiful French lovemaking.

This wild, young, happy, and uninhibited younger generation

of hedonists filled me with envy.

They had cast off all the nonsense about

impurity and the shame of their bodies.

They were healthy.

Indeed, they practiced what they preached.

Better to make love than to kill and

maim on a battlefield.

The jazz

hot, the excitement hot, the pussy hot, oh,

so very, very hot, including my own.

I'd return to my hotel, and after having

made simple yet exciting love to myself, I

began to make notes for my article.

It was going to be something out of

the ordinary.

An article that would shock.

After a good night's sleep, I was eager

to see the Paris I'd read the other

day.

The Parisians

were a sophisticated lot.

I enjoyed my walk along the boulevard Saint

-Michel.

It was everything that I thought it would

be.

How lucky I was to see it.

How happy I was to be young and

in Paris.

Everything that I saw today filled me with

joy.

How wonderful it would be if I could

spend the rest of my life in beautiful,

sexy Paris and not have to return to

icy, cold Stockholm.

My eyes and ears were like those of

a happy child on a pleasant summer day.

The book stalls along the Seine were a

source of great pleasure for me.

Old books, classics, dirty books, even American comic

books.

Even the ice cream was better in Paris.

Everything was better in Paris, including love.

Stop whatever you're doing and come to Paris

right away.

You won't be sorry.

The Seine is dirty and beautiful at one

and the same time.

On its cement banks, you find lovers, poets,

beggars, the rich, freaks, creeps, and assorted revolutionaries.

Oh, what fun to take them all in.

I struck up a conversation with a young

Maoist.

He explained that he'd just seen Antonioni's Zabriskie

Point and it had given his life a

new direction.

He was enthralled by its ending.

Soon he explained he'd like to blow something

up himself.

What a weird person.

Interesting, but rather sick.

Goodbye, freak.

No pussy for you today.

Not with those weird ideas.

You're probably too sick to enjoy it anyway.

I was determined to let nothing spoil this

wonderful Thursday in May.

I hated people who wanted to destroy.

Pity they couldn't channel their destructive urges to

encompass themselves.

Anyway, such thoughts were a waste of time

on such a day.

I was alive and wonderful people were all

around me.

It was a day to celebrate life.

Fuck those who didn't.

I wanted to drink lots of wine and

be happy.

What a beautiful street and what beautiful people.

It was the most fabulous thing I'd seen.

I'd drunk perhaps a bit too much wine.

I was having rather bizarre dreams.

Dreams of a lesbian nature.

Dreams that I'd no doubt put to good

use.

On my way back to the hotel, I'd

witnessed an argument between a French lesbian and

her rather striking girlfriend.

How odd, I thought.

Now, the oddity of it filled my unconscious

thoughts.

My thoughts

raced.

One bizarre thought competed with another.

A beautiful but

rather beautiful creature's name and Suzanne.

Gorgeous names for two gorgeous lesbian creatures.

Such naughty pleasures would have to be shared

with my readers.

My readers devoured articles about lesbians.

They wanted all the details.

All the pink, soft, moist details.

Hell, I was no damn queer.

But I found myself enjoying this sensuous dream.

What would two fantasy images do next?

The wine I had drunk might motivate them

into doing rather naughty, unadvisable things.

What would they do?

Don't stop.

What fun.

What fun.

There were three pairs of hardened nipples in

evidence.

The lesbian

craves pleasure with her own sex.

She enjoys oral sex.

She excites at seeing a pretty face.

This is the sort of thing I would

write.

Four or perhaps five paragraphs about French lesbianism.

Lust in all its more unique forms.

I'd never imagined the things that two girls

could do to one another.

For one another.

This was beyond belief.

Naughty, naughty French lesbians.

Aflame with desire of their own making.

Beautiful breasts.

Shapely legs.

Arousing.

Tantalizing.

Leading to perverse satisfaction.

Alida, wicked and knowing.

Suzanne, the innocent and eager student.

One beauty leads, another follows.

In this fantasy of lesbian love.

This erotic subculture of the lesbian.

How warm.

How foolish.

Without doubt, their wickedness aroused me.

Lesbian bitches moaning with pleasure.

Had kindled a flame long hidden in myself.

Watch out.

You may be queer and not know it.

Next morning, I ate a croissant for breakfast.

And laughed about my nonsensical dream of last

night.

I was no fruit.

Off I went to ride the Paris metro

in search of material of a less bizarre

and disturbing nature.

It was old.

And it rattled.

And the seats were made of wood.

And the cars too crowded.

And I loved it.

There was nothing like it.

I studied the faces of the people.

I gathered in the sounds.

My impressions were wonderfully exciting.

I looked at the people at every

station we passed.

They had marvelous faces.

I exited at the Place Clichy.

The American Museum.

An American, Henry Miller, had written so wonderfully

about Clichy.

Even in the rain, Paris was extraordinary.

The colors, although muted, still retained much of

their vibrancy.

I drank coffee at a sidewalk cafe and

made notes for a novel.

I already had ample material for my article.

Still, the words continued to pour forth.

I loved French sidewalk cafes.

They were entertainment of the sort that was

becoming lost by our attention being constantly directed

at television and motion picture screens.

People are far more interesting.

I was off to see Paris from the

top of the Arc de Triomphe.

The rain be damned.

Oh, what a lovely sight.

What marvelous architecture.

Every place you looked, you saw grandeur.

A superb blend of beauty and elegance.

Everything in the right proportion.

I was on my way back to Paris.

I was on the most famous street in

Europe.

The kinetic excitement of the Chandelier fascinated me.

Such chic women.

Such adorable, lovely young girls.

I was on my way to a place

where I could see more of these saucy,

darling young Parisians.

Here I was.

Enjoying every minute of it.

The two performers were breathtaking.

They took pleasure in shocking.

I must

have been turning into a faggy, lesbian bull

dyke.

Because I was certainly growing excited at the

sight of the gorgeous, enormous tits.

They were sending me messages from the stage.

I was receiving them.

This voluptuous darling possessed the Taj Mahal of

bosoms.

Suck.

I was

somewhat disgusted with myself.

Next thing I knew, I'd be at Pigalle

selecting a piece for a hundred francs.

I told

my little self that I was here to

learn more about lesbians, so I could write

about them.

I needed such an excuse.

They were both beautiful and bizarre.

Everything they did excited me.

I wanted some, too.

I wanted to play, to be naughty.

I wanted some of that 45 inches.

She was a gorgeous piece.

The bartholomew fluid flowed within me.

I kept a straight face.

But underneath, I was seething.

I wanted to devour

those gigantic tits with my mouth.

More.

More.

Yes, more.

Do more.

Do more.