I Had Sex With a Stranger in Paris And It Helped Me Trust Men Again

The last few days of a glorious solo trip to Paris, I decided to open Hinge. I connected with David. In his profile photo, he was standing in front of a designer watch store with his hands in his pockets, smiling. He had also posted a video of himself wearing a Speedo dancing at a party.

I texted him, complimenting his dance moves. He joked that they were “purely fueled by alcohol, not talent.” Handsome and silly, he passed the vibe check. We made plans to get a drink in the evening, but I took an ill-conceived nap and jolted awake at 10:30 PM. Oops. He was already under a blanket on his couch.

I offered to run with him at 11 AM the next day, something he had jokingly suggested. He said “OK, I’ll pick you up.” I realized the next morning that I needed a place to put my luggage before my 4:20 PM flight. I told him my conundrum and he said, "You can leave it at mine!"

Why I thought meeting a stranger and leaving my luggage at his place when I had an international flight to catch in Paris just a few hours later is beyond me. 

His profile said he was 43. In person, he told me right away that he was actually 47, which somehow didn’t bother me. He walked my luggage into his kitchen and we continued chatting while he made me fresh coffee. I perched on top of his red bar stool, googling, “Do people in different countries ever poison their date’s coffee?” I found Reddit threads about women putting trace amounts of bleach in their husbands’ drinks. I’m relieved it’s mostly a woman-owned murder tactic. 

He was tender, respectful, and I loved how he took charge. 

I learned that his parents got divorced when he was young. He now takes care of his mom who has Alzheimer’s. I softened at his warmth, took off my running gloves, and continued chatting. 

A few hours later, he swung my backpack over his shoulder and escorted me to a train station to get to the airport. We passed a few Indian restaurants and beautiful buildings on the way. I already missed Paris. When he ran to the station bathroom, it hit me that he was carrying my laptop, passport, and other important belongings. Hopefully he comes back, I thought. 

When David came back, he hugged me goodbye and said, “You can come back to mine if you miss your flight.” I laughed. I missed my flight by eight minutes.

I WhatsApp-ed him, telling him I’d be headed back to his, wondering if I was making the safest choice by trusting him, again. I thought, OK he carried my luggage, made good coffee and conversation, and he hasn’t tried to kiss me. Instinctually, I thought, I trust him. This would have to be enough, because there was no way I was paying for an expensive, tiny hotel on top of the extra flight change fees.

He had made us lentil soup, homemade fries, and runny eggs. It was a perfect cozy lunch, after which I dozed off on his couch and he prepared his guest bed.

After I woke up from a nap, I took a long shower. Then he watched me blow dry my hair, something I’ve always found really intimate. This Hinge date was really shaping up to be quite different from what I’d let myself ponder, which was bloody murder.

I have absorbed that the men I am taught to trust are sometimes more dangerous than strangers.

The restaurant was filled with dim lighting and candles. I got orange wine—my favorite—with steak. He got steak and a drink, as well. This may have been my tastiest meal in Paris. As the wine flowed, we talked openly about sex in relationships, what intimacy meant to each of us. He got divorced in 2015 and has been single since then. He used to be a watch designer and is currently on a sabbatical. I like that he's exploratory. He seemed to have shame around not having “figured it out.” I don’t think there is an “it” to figure out. Right? We just live, and enjoy moments like this one.

I decided I would rather lounge and listen to music than go out after dinner. While we cuddled and told stories and laughed, I kept drifting off. He told me I twitch like a baby when I am almost asleep and then jolt awake. I never realized that was weird. 

He slept under the blanket with me so I got to hold him. Earlier he was sitting out of reach and I had to keep reminding myself not to rush intimacy. He had withheld enough physical touch that I really wanted him.

He put his warm toes on my frozen ones. Then he tipped my chin up and kissed me. He was a really good kisser. I consented by opening my lips and kissing him back, biting his lower lip. He pulled up my shirt and continued to kiss my torso while I shivered happily. He was so in tune with my body language, the way I was vibrating. I asked him to finger me, in English, because I don’t know how to say it in French. (Duolingo, if you can hear me, please address sexual consent in different countries so we can fuck in peace.) He didn’t understand, so I giggled, pulled on my leather pants, and gestured down there.

At some point he picked me up and carried me to his bed. He pulled me onto his lap and whispered, “trust me.” I hadn’t done this, felt wanted like this, in so long. So I surrendered and he thrust into me. He was tender, respectful, and I loved how he took charge. 

I didn’t come, which is unusual but fine. I’ve always hated when a guy prioritizes his own pleasure over mine. I didn’t feel like David was doing that…or maybe he was? I’m so naive in these situations sometimes.

Sometimes when I’m having sex in the dark with someone new, I think back to 10 years ago when I was roofied and sexually assaulted by a friend. Since then, I stopped assuming stranger danger and started eyeing men I know with far more suspicion. They say that 80% of the time we are assaulted, it’s by people who we know, which is an uncomfortable reality.

So even though David was a stranger, he made me feel safer than most men I come across. Stable male energy is not something I come by often. Since having been assaulted by a friend, and having to shut down businesses due to male investors hitting on me, I have absorbed that the men I am taught to trust are sometimes more dangerous than strangers because they’ll use that trust as leverage to take advantage of me.

Just days before, I had gone on a date with Sebastian, a guy who was the host of an AirBnB speakeasy tour. He was handsome and quiet. He invited me to go to a cafe. After he picked me up from the train station, instead of going out, we walked to his apartment. This already felt deceitful. I didn’t want to go, but the words didn’t leave my throat.

His apartment had high ceilings, fancy furniture, and a soulless energy. I walked up to the French press and watched him closely to make sure he wasn’t putting anything in my coffee. After stilted conversation on his couch, during which he made no effort to emotionally connect, he told me I had a pretty face and asked if he could kiss me. I said no and left. I wanted to die or vomit or masturbate. 

After I came back from Paris, I asked my therapist, “Why is it that I felt so comfortable around David but like I was in feral danger around Sebastian? I met Sebastian in real life through a vetted experience, and David on Hinge. Shouldn’t it have been the other way around? Am I crazy?”

She smiled and said, “It seems like you are finally beginning to trust your instincts. Why not let that continue to happen?”

I think that was the entire reason I came to Paris alone in the first place.