What the World Needs Now is Love Sweet Love

One Happy Camper Caught in the Act

Being a contrarian is not easy especially while America is embroiled in a divisive and contentious Presidential election year. It really does come down to whether the U.S. will continue to operate as a democratic republic (okay, a reasonable facsimile) or as a totalitarian state held in check by the U.N. (run by Muslims and now in control of our internet) and New World Order (run by George Soros and the one percenters including the owners of the Federal Reserve Bank).

Should you not agree with my opinion, as did my now former publisher who called me "classless" on a public internet forum on Rosh Hashanah, then feel free to move on.

At any rate, what better time to publish a romantic novel than now? Then again, my version of a romantic novel deviates from the norm.

 To Purchase Click Here

What do you get when you fall in love? 

In Paris?

In the 1970's?

Amid an undercurrent of unrest and terrorism, I had a memorable junior year abroad. Let's say a little too memorable. 

Without any more fanfare, here's an excerpt:


Romance, Paris Early 1970’s

Paris, je ne t’aime plus...
Ah! Paris quand tu es debout
Moi, je t’aime encore
Léo Ferré, from the album, Amour Anarchie

I studied literature and architecture at la Sorbonne in Paris. My parents lovingly bestowed a meager allowance that allowed me to reside in a women’s dormitory amid the trendy and touristy neighborhood known as the 14th arrondissement, or the 14th district. Paris is divided into 20 arrondissements in the shape of a spiral from the middle of the city outwards.

I had a boyfriend, a true bon vivant from Tehran named Mitri. He was older than me, rented an apartment and owned a car. Mitri made no bones about having other girlfriends. He had two others: Number One who was a published poet and Number Two, a registered nurse. I was Number Three. No exaggeration, he referred to me as Number Three.

He told me, “Je t’aime quand même tu n’es que numéro trois.” I love you even though you’re Number Three. He also said, “Je peux mordre tes lèvres,” I can devour your lips which gave me paroxysms of joy.

I was crazy about him.

One night he picked me up from my dormitory. Just before we drove off, he let me know he had to fetch Number Two.

“She lost her wallet and house keys. I have to drive her home.”

Curious as to my competition, I didn’t object.

He navigated through heavy Paris traffic on boulevard du Montparnasse, cursing in French, throwing his hands up in frustration and honking the hell out of his horn. At long last, he came to a stop on a side street. There she stood, arms folded, foot tapping the pavement in impatience.

Number Two was stunning. She had long, straight, jet–black hair and bangs that fell like a silk curtain framing her face. Her eyes were lined in black kohl and lips painted scarlet red. She had a raw and vibrant sensuality that I, a Polly–Anna, so squeaky clean, the dark–haired version of a corn–fed Midwestern blonde, could never pull off.

He swerved to the curb. She opened the rear door and slid into the back seat. Then noticed me up front.

She had a conniption. “Who is this?”

“Number Three,” responded Mitri.

“What? You brought Number Three?”

“Better than Number Five, right?” he said with a smirk.

That remark triggered a tantrum. “Now you have five girlfriends?”

He burst out in laughter. “When do I have the time?” 

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