CHAPTER 1

Late Arrival

Back home, I had made it a habit to watch the sun rise and set everyday. I became rather familiar with how the colors of the sky had been affected by the different seasons. Knowing that in the wintertime, the lack of sun allowed me to become enamored with dark skies and during the summer, giving me the chance to stay out longer and enjoy many cloudless days.

Despite seeing hundreds of sunrises and sunsets before, watching the sunsets day start and end in Paris was much different. It felt like time didn't exist. Spend a week here and you'd find yourself never wanting to leave. At least, that's how I was feeling. I had the privilege of waking up to the smell of freshly baked goods coming from the cafe below and falling asleep to the sound of a faint harp being played on the cobble-stoned streets outside my window.

It was like living in a fantasy world I had created in my dreams as a child—a world that was purely mine.

Managing to find an apartment and settle in after staying in a hotel for a couple of days had been my biggest accomplishment thus far, considering I had hopped on a plane without any real living plan. At one point, I had the choice of living at Beaux-Arts de Paris—the university I was attending for my senior year but I only accepted their offer a few days prior to leaving home so housing spots had already filled up at that point.

To call this entire decision of mine, impulsive, was an understatement.

Granted, I only brought one suitcase with me so there wasn't that much of a hassle when it came to moving in. The only things filling my little apartment were a clothing rack, a full size mattress lying in the middle of the den, and a bunch of books stacked in the corner that were left by the previous owner.

Although it looked empty, it was the coziest I've ever felt in a place. It was the first thing that belonged all to me. The only problems I've encountered so far was that there was no hot water and the heater in the den didn't work either. I could've easily called to fix the issues at hand but I wasn't exactly linguistically equipped to talk to the landlord yet about said issues. I sensed a slight temper from him as well and I wasn't going to be another cliche American, pushing his buttons. So I quickly became acquainted with the idea of taking cold showers from here on out, or at least until I learned French.

A tip—moving to a new country where you don't speak the language, let alone doing it impulsively (and by yourself) with no idea how to get around, is not for the faint hearted.

But you know, I told my mother I needed to do this.

"Ah, fuck, fuck, fuck." I blurted out as I checked the lockscreen of my phone, instantly forcing myself out of bed.

Across the screen read—10:43am.

Today had been the first day that I was needed at Musée de l'Érotisme—the day I was supposed to get comfortable with coworkers, the details of my job, and the head director I was meant to assist.

And the six alarms I made, to ensure I wouldn't be late on my first day, had been set to PM, causing me to be almost an hour late.

Shoving my pajamas off, I jumped in the shower, the cold drops waking me up as they hit my bare skin. After a quick few minutes of scrubbing my body, I hopped out and wrapped a towel around me. I then rushed towards the clothing rack where I had set out my outfit the night before to make it easier for me in the morning. At this point, it didn't even matter.

After pulling my clothes on—a long-sleeved black dress with sheer stockings underneath, a crimson coat, and black heeled boots, I rushed to cover my face in makeup to combat the fact that I had only woken up ten minutes ago. Adding a dark shade of red to my lips, I threw the lipstick in my purse and grabbed my phone off the bed, scrambling out of my front door.

Running through my neighborhood, almost tripping a few times, I made it to one of the main streets and called for a taxi. Today really wasn't the day to be wearing anything with heels. As the taxi pulled up, I practically threw myself into the backseat.

"72 Boulevard de Clichy, s'il vous plaît." I spat out.

"Que fait une fille comme toi au musée du sexe?" The driver retorted, smiling at me through the rearview mirror. [what is a girl like you doing at the museum of sex?]

Aside from a few words here and there like please and thank you, I had no idea how to communicate with anyone here and this was no exception.

"I-I'm sorry, I don't—parle français très bien." I replied shyly, knowing well that the grammar of my sentence made no sense due to my broken French. [speak french very well; proper sentence would be something along the lines of 'je ne parle pas très bien français']

"Ah, an American." He looked away, softly chuckling to himself.

I let out a little laugh to play along and ease the tension. My lack of knowledge surrounding the lover's language was starting to become a problem as I ventured away from the familiarity of my cozy apartment and the places that lined my neighborhood; the places I had already become comfortable with this past week.

I checked my phone to keep myself busy and noticed the time—11:18am.

"Shit." I quietly swore to myself. I was now over an hour late to an internship I had dreamt about having for quite some time now. The first impression I was about to make was going to be interesting, to say the least.

Pulling up to the front of the museum, I handed the driver my fare and thanked him. I stepped out of the taxi, adjusting my coat as I took in the building that sat at the top of the steps, similar to the ones of the met.

Musée de l'Érotisme—words that were displayed across the top arch of the enormous columned building as well as several racy statues that lined the front of the entrance.

Hesitantly, I walked up towards the french doors and as I made my way to the top, with only a few more steps to go, I tripped. I swear, the French are out to get me.

Hitting the ground in front of me, I groaned as I felt a shock of pain rush to my knees. My tights were caught on the pavement during the fall, causing a tear and a few minor scrapes. Quickly composing myself, I stood up from the ground and continued walking, trying to dust off any debris that had gotten onto my coat. Pulling my dress further down in an attempt to cover up my torn stockings, I reached for one of the door handles but had already been beaten to it.

"Bonjour, you must be Miss Daniels. I have to say, you're a bit late, ma chérie."

"You don't have to keep apologizing! It's okay, I know you're just getting acquainted with everything and it can be a lot, especially for someone with minimal knowledge of the city." Nancy reassured, her soft french accent leaving me feeling a little more at ease.

Nancy Moreau was the assistant to the head director here at Musée de l'Érotisme. She was the one that emailed me about my acceptance for the internship.

Standing in front of me was a put-together woman. She was tall, fit, her complexion was spotless, as well as being gifted with a symmetrical face, her hair perfectly placed in loose curls, and she smelt of what I could only describe as: rich sex.

She basically radiated the kind of energy of a girl next door. From the pale-colored bodycon dress that cinched her waist to the matching blazer that sat on her shoulders—she was the epitome of high-class.

A lifestyle I only dreamt of living.

"Would you like a drink while we wait? Mr. Thompson is in a meeting right now." She asked as I followed her up a grand staircase and into one of the sections of the floor, where we were met with a bar. It took up the entire front half whereas the other half was dedicated to erotic photography.

"White is fine." I answered, as she held up a bottle of Pinot Noir and Chardonnay.

"Meilleur choix. Here you are." She said as she poured a glass and handed it to me across the bar.

"Merci beaucoup," I smiled, taking a sip and leaving a lipstick stain around the rim of the glass. "Am I allowed to look around while we wait?"

I nervously asked, as I didn't want to seem like I was expecting too much, especially considering that I had been more than an hour late. It was just that, curiosity sparked in me when I noticed a familiar set of images towards the back of the room and I wanted to look into it.

"Oui, oui! Excuse my rudeness, I'm so sorry—let me show you around this section and then I'll give you a proper tour once we're finished with Mr. Thompson." She winked as she came out from behind the bar counter, walking into the gallery.

"Here we have everything that is photographie érotique, you'll see pieces that date all the way back to the start of the renaissance as well as contemporary pieces that were created by some of your colleagues. The spectrum of pieces is quite broad on this floor," Nancy explained as she took a sip from the tall glass she was holding. "I imagine you wish to have your works scattered across these walls one day, no?"

"I mean, who wouldn't want to have their art displayed in a sex museum?" I looked at her, letting out a soft laugh. Nancy laughed along, looking down at the gold encased watch on her wrist.

"Ah! Mr. Thompson should be rounding up his meeting, I will go find him and tell him that you've arrived. Feel free to continue looking around, there's so much more for you to see and experience here." Giving me yet another wink, she hurried past the bar and disappeared into the hallway.

I continued to walk around and take in the nature of the art that surrounded me. Everything from polaroids depicting the lifestyle of BDSM to raw images that illustrated every sexual position you could think of and more.

Every kink you could imagine had played a role in each of the pieces as well—this place was purely, uncensored sex. A place dedicated to exploring every aspect of sensuality, at its finest.

Reaching the back wall of the room, I was brought face to face with the sole reason I had fallen in love with everything art had to offer: Raimondi's I Modi. The surviving album of engravings dedicated to the sixteen pleasures; the positions.

Erotic art created during the early ages—a true primitive art form. A piece of work I could never get tired of looking at.

As I've been to many museums back home, I knew better than to touch the art, especially authentic art. However, something told me to run my fingers across the intricacies of the piece in front of me, convincing me that the only way I was going to learn to create something that came even remotely close to this, was by experiencing it through touch.

Besides, it wasn't like there was anyone around to scold me.

Switching the wine glass I had been holding to my left hand, I raised my right up to the uncovered images that had been meticulously placed on the wall. As I lowered my fingers, centimeters away from touching the fine print, I suddenly felt the presence of something behind me. Before I could turn around and figure out what had been lurking, a deep voice, laced with a sultry french accent, matched the weight I felt hovering around me.

"Can’t keep your hands off the art, can we now, Miss Daniels?"