Boyz in the street

Sometimes I'll recount something that happened during my day to H. and he'll say:
"Who said that to you?"
And I'll respond with: "Oh just a boy in the street" .

You know who they are, and they know who you are, or at least they think they do.

They are gloomy parisien shadows leaning against the walls, skulking around the boulevards, walking two by two or operating solo. There is a nest of these boyz in the street at Place de Clichy and they have devoted their life to harassing what they see as loose n easy anglo saxon women.

Their eyes tear away your muted clothing and see right through to your inner pastel boob tube.
You rest your baby blue eyes on them for a nano second, the way you would look at a wheelie bin or a street post, and they see it as an invitation for sex and biscuits back at your place, or better still, right there behind the bins.

They are always approaching, but they are most active in spring. They pretend they don't know that you are foreign and ask you in French the way to the Moulin Rouge even though you are standing under it. Even if you reply in perfectly gendered and conjugated french, tied up with a nasal sounding bow, they invariably ask you "where are you from?, which is quickly followed by an invitation to coffee, to "make" a private party with them, or the seemingly benign but disconcerting: "Can I talk to you for a bit?"

It might be ok if it was just to discuss their dermatological problems or recent root canal work, but invariably what follows this request to chat is a list of adjectives strung together like fake pearls and meant to articulate that you are the most beautiful anglo saxon (i mean woman) who has ever walked on the streets of Pigalle, which climaxes in a request for a kiss.

It's not particularly flattering considering these mecs meander from woman to woman giving each the same formula: me man + you woman = sex behind the bins. Of course foreign women are considered juicier and easier prey as most french women wouldn't even bother responding.

I handle it a lot better than when I first came to Paris and I was still a well mannered young thing. Thinking I had to be polite to everyone, especially because they are French (and therefore sophisticated and hang out at the blue parrot night club), I'd find myself politely thanking a boy for saying i have a nice arse or being incredibly apologetic that i couldn't stick around to give them little butterfly kisses all over their face.

Of course we have this phenomenon of boyz in the street in Australia too. But they are generally in trucks shouting out something about the shape of your tits and then speeding away quick smart before they have time to hear the shape of your retorting obscenities. I guess I should be thankful that the `flirting' in the street here is a bit more civilised - an offer of coffee and a potential exchange of ideas, even if that exchange is just seen by them as a means to a very quick end.