Hours After Meeting a Hot French Guy, I Went Down on Him in the Street

Hours After Meeting a Hot French Guy, I Went Down on Him in the Street

“Take a picture of me,” I said, my knees nearly touching the dusty ground of the alleyway. It was June, a hot and humid summer in the South of France, and I, a writer visiting town for a conference, was kneeling in front of a French man I had met less than six hours earlier.

“C’mon, take a picture of me,” I smiled. He seemed surprised that I’d ask for this while unbuttoning his pants on a dimly lit street, but I wasn’t. This level of courage with men wasn’t foreign to me, even in a foreign place. I have long loved the thrill of seeing a man’s expression change when he realizes that I am the one in control, even if it seems like I’m handing the power over to him. There I was, balancing on the balls of my feet with my skirt hiked up my legs, looking longingly up at him as I felt his body give way to me.

He hesitated a little. “Are you sure?” he asked.


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“Yes, I’m sure,” I said with a longing stare.

He paused, but not so long that I became impatient. I started like this: teasing him with my fingers, his grey boxers between my skin and his, feeling his hardness push against them. Pulling them down slowly and then all at once, I could hear his breathing change as my lips came into contact with his thighs. He smelled like aftershave, the five cigarettes he’d smoked on the beach, and the subtle scent that summer leaves on your skin. Just a few hours ago when we met at a conference, I noticed his long hair and furrowed brow and thought about what his cock might look like. Now he pressed it hard against me in this orange-colored alley, his breath and accent different from mine as he said, “God, you make me want you.”

He smiled and took out his phone while I was still on my knees, now putting him in my mouth. His dick was pretty like I imagined it would be. I don’t usually imagine cocks to be pretty. In fact, I usually find that when it comes to men, I’m hardly ever sexually attracted at all. But something flowed through me with him like an electric current. When I first saw him, I was caught off guard by the way he looked at me and the way he spoke about the things he found important in the world. The way we walked through the city together made me imagine being wet for him—and when I watched his fingers gracefully rolling a spliff on the pebble beach, I found out what it would feel like. He kissed my cheek, then the side of my nose, before he kissed my lips. I found it endearing and sweet. “I want to make love,” he said. I loved the balance of his softness and the dirty desire I had to fuck.

I wanted to move him, to f*ck him, to take the pleasure I deserved.

Finally, his phone flash went off. Once, twice and then a third time. I felt his body tense as I put him entirely in my mouth, deep in the back of my throat. I noticed the way he felt, different from other guys I’d been with. His was the first uncircumcised cock I’d ever seen in real life. I swirled my tongue around the tip and noticed how easy it was to make him feel good. He quietly moaned and I liked hearing him make noise for me. His voice was deep and guttural, primal even. I’ve always wished men were more likely to be vocal in the bedroom—or, you know, on the street. It was nice to hear it escape him—I’ve always loved the feeling of making someone echo their pleasure back to me and this was no exception. My mouth was still full and I felt myself throb. I wanted to take him back to my hotel room overlooking the ocean and slide him inside of me. I wanted to see his expression change and feel his body tense. I wanted to move him, to fuck him, to take the pleasure I deserved. But this was enough for now.

“They’re not the most beautiful lighting,” he whispered after taking a few photos. “I don’t care,” I smiled. I didn’t ask to see the pictures right then. I just felt satisfied that he took them, that he listened to me and gave me what I wanted. I like getting what I want—I always have. I pulled up his boxers and gave him a look to let him know I was satisfied for now before zipping his shorts up. And then, putting his arm around my waist, he walked me back to my hotel in the thick, hot air of the night.

“I’d love to see you tomorrow,” he said. I hugged him and said goodnight, thinking about inviting him up but deciding against it.

When I crawled into bed that night, my phone buzzed. It was a text from the French man. I opened it up and there it was: the picture I had asked for—my mouth opened, gazing up as the flash went off, his cock touching my pink tongue. The dirty pavement is below me, and I look satisfied and powerful. It isn’t just a picture, but a visual representation of my sexual metamorphosis. Once, I would have never let myself be so brave as to ask for what I wanted. And now? The picture—one I’ll look back on through the years—is a reminder that I am a woman, one who knows herself. And what could be sexier than that?

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Hayley Folk is a writer and editor based in New York City. She enjoys creating content on travel, LGBTQ+, lifestyle, personal narratives and sex and wellness. Her work has appeared in Refinery29, Men’s Health, PopSugar, Bustle, and more. Most often, she can be found on an airplane, thrifting, or writing in a coffee shop somewhere.

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