I Didn't Know His Name, but I Knew His Mouth...

Somewhere between the second glass of wine and the third sin, I remembered why I loved being alive.

We aren't made for good behavior. We aren't made for polite regrets.We are stitched together from the nights that went too far, from the bodies we never should have touched, from the smiles we caught across crowded rooms and decided not to resist. And for me these experiences always happen in Paris late at Night.

It happened to me at Le Gare Le Gore — a jazz-meets-techno underground club, hidden like a secret under Paris, in a cavern of vaulted gothic ceilings and cigarette smoke so thick it moved like ghost-fog.Through the smoke, I saw him. Shiny hair, a thick, unabashed mustache — straight out of some forgotten, filthy ‘70s film. Our eyes caught. Held.

Without a word, he drifted toward me across the floor like a scene too good to be real.The moment we collided, he kissed me — and my toes curled . His cologne mixed with the salt of sweat and the dampness of the room, and my hands found his neck like I'd been searching for it my whole life.Time stopped.This wasn’t sex — it was better. It was the second before you wake from a dream and beg to stay asleep.

He pulled back just enough to grin, his mustache parting like a velvet curtain."What's your name?" I breathed."Étienne," he said.

I kissed him again, like it might save us both.

They told us life was about discipline. They lied. Life is about chasing the beautiful, terrible moments you’ll never be able to explain. It’s about the nights you decide this is worth it, even if nothing else is.

We were never meant to be neat creatures.

We were made to be wild, ruined, kissed breathless under a city we barely know.

Paris is a place to get lost and be found but by a random man with soft hands and a rough grip... That's why you should always go out in Paris.