Nice was not a place for the poor. And we, my wife Anne and I, were poor. We were backpacking across Europe on a shoestring budget. Nice was a beautiful city, but it was designed for those with money to spend. We spent the morning in the sun drenched courtyard of the youth hostel and plotted our escape to cheaper climates.
As we sat there a man ran up to use with a friendly greeting. We had first met Scott at the hostel in Marseille. Today he was returning from a trip to Monaco. He seemed desperately lonely as he raved to us about how excellent, friendly and spotlessly clean Monaco had been. Of all the people we’d met on our honeymoon, Scott seemed the most ill-suited to the life of a backpacker. Nothing, outside of Monaco, had lived up to his expectations and he complained about every person he’d met. Which was strange, since almost everyone we’d met had been extremely friendly.
The entire purpose of Scott’s trip, as far as we could tell, was to meet women who were away from home for the first time in their lives, free from all taboos and all supervision. He planned to guide these naïve young women into every aspect of their sexuality. He was failing miserably, since his only approach was to tell the women exactly that.
Despite all that he was actually quite fun to be around. He evidently viewed Anne as off limits, so he made no attempt to pick her up. Instead he treated her as an old friend, the same as me. He suggested that we head into Old Nice and just walk around. The old town was like a medieval village. It was full of life and our poverty didn’t sting so much there. Scott proved to be an engaging companion as he regaled us with tales of his romantic failures through most of Europe. He had a comedic flare that made even his most bitter rejection entertaining.
We went into a convenience store to grab the cheapest possible dinner, but Scott stopped us. He wanted something better. We explained our money situation and he insisted that he buy us dinner. Since he was failing to get laid, as he put it, he wanted to celebrate the success of friendship.
Scott chose a nice pizza place and we passed a very pleasant meal as the sun set. Wine flowed freely and before long we were all pretty tipsy. The long walk back, especially drunk, seemed very daunting, so we stayed and drank more. Scott tried to maintain his cheerfulness, but as the evening got dark he got quieter and more melancholy. Eventually we packed up to go. We each bought our own bottle of wine and started to walk to the hostel.
Scott regained some of his cheerfulness and walked a bit ahead of us. He broke into song and walked down a cobblestone alleyway, bottle held high. He was not a good singer. I let him get a little ahead of us then pulled Anne close. She stumbled over to me. We put our heads together and whispered like drunken conspirators.
“Anne.” I whispered. “I want you to suck Scott’s dick.”
“I know.” She whispered back. Her words were slurred. “He’s so lonely. And he’s nice. He just a big doufus.”
“So you’re gonna?” I whispered.
“Yes. Keep watch.” Anne skipped ahead and caught up with Scott. She tapped him on the shoulder. He stopped singing and looked at her. She aggressively grabbed his head and kissed him. He was taken aback.
“You are very nice.” Anne told him. “I don’t want your whole trip to be a waste. I wanna suck your dick.” I caught up just then. I gave Scott a grin and a thumbs up, before drinking more of my wine.
“OK.” He smiled. “Let’s get back to the hostel!”
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story/The Chronology of Anne