The French Girl Who Loved Birds
I was staying at a hostel above a porn store in Muenster, Germany, and I wanted to go clubbing so I could hook up with a foreign girl. For the last four days I had been getting drunk but not hooking up. It was day five of my visit, around 10:30 PM and I was drunk-bicycling to some Euro trashy club.
From 1:37 to 4:52 I ended up making out with an English teacher and then two others who barely spoke English but I wasn’t able to go home with any of them. Frustrated, I wondered if it was because I looked too Jewey or maybe too Italian—I regretted not wearing my cowboy hat to give more of an American appeal to the German girls.
I was disappointed, drunk, and still really horny as I biked back to the hostel. I arrived as the sun was coming up and I saw a cute blond girl eating a croissant. I locked my bike and stumbled over to her.
She smiled at me and I said, “Hola. I mean hello…in German.”
She rolled her eyes and said, “I’m French not German you fucking American. You and your country are such foooools.”
She sounded like a feminine Pepe Le Pew but her bitchy Frenchness was really hot. I responded, “Hey, I voted for Kerry.”
“Fuck him and fuck President Bush; he is destroying the world and you Americans don’t care—you eat hamburgers and stay stupid.”
“Hey, listen hot French Girl; we are not that bad of a people. And I’m not as stupid as my country. I have read Rousseau and Camus.”
I smiled at her and could tell she moderately liked the flirting.
She responded, “Please, American boys like you are all the same. Puritan and foolish. No idea what woman wants.”
Annoyed but turned on I asked, “All right, Cherie, tell me what you want. I’m all ears.”
She stepped forward and said, “You could not handle; your Disney World brain would be destroyed.”
“Look, I’ve read a great French author named Marquis de Sade. 120 Days of Sodom. So I know what’s up.”
“You know nothing! You have no idea what to do or what I want… You couldn’t handle.”
I stepped closer, locked eyes with her, and asserted “Well then tell me . . . and I will do it.”
“All right, American. You want to know what I want.”
I smiled and inched closer, “Yeah.”
“You and me we kiss. Feel passion. Then we go find a bird, capture it, take it to your room, and then I fuck the bird.”
I assumed this was drunkenness or a language barrier and said, “I’m sorry, I’m drunk; I think I misunderstood you. It sounded like you said fuck a bird? Wait! Is that slang for ‘dick’?”
“No, you stupid foooool! An animal! I want to fuck a bird and then fuck you. Come on, let’s go fuck a bird.”
I stood still, silent. I stared at her, looking into those crazy Parisian eyes and saw she was fucking serious.
I went into drunken shock; it was like a Heineken existential coma and all I could think was: How does someone even fuck a bird? Does she use the wings? Is it a clitoral thing? Wouldn’t the beak get in the way? How is this even possible?
My mind couldn’t take it; it all started to sound like a terrible version of that Prince song about doves crying.
I snapped out of my coma when I felt her bird-fucking fingers touch my face and then gave me a hard long kiss. I could only stand there until she stopped and said, “I have to find someone who can handle me and a bird. Goodbye, American. Too bad.”
She walked away and the word “deflowered” took on a whole new meaning; I remained still and shocked, trying to collect my soul.
I wiped my lips and then felt nausea when a panicked drunken thought came to me: Fuck! She probably just gave me the bird flu?!
Christoph Paul is an award-winning humor writer and co-publisher of New English Press. His most recent books are Slasher Camp for Nerd Dorks and Great White House 2: Billary Bites Back. Find him on Twitter @Christophpaul_ andChristophpaulauthor.com.