Sex and the Cité
There are over 10,000 students at the University of Oxford, of whom the vast majority are under 25 and at their mental and physical peak. However, no statistics are currently available to show us how many of them are having sex at this very moment. Nor can we guarantee how many of them will have had sex by the time you will have finished reading this article. Yet it certainly can't be very many. Why? Because they're at Oxford.
It is universally acknowledged that Oxford is obsessed with sex - obsessed with not having it, that is. Countless national surveys and columns in student newspapers have many a time pointed a finger at the shameful "fact" that Oxford students get less sex than other students.
Why? Because we're at Oxford. Dusty old libraries and scantily lit halls are apparently not a particularly stimulating environment. A mathmo takes refuge behind his pint of beer in the college bar. A lawyer emerges pale-faced and bleary-eyed from the shadows of the Bodleian, squinting short-sightedly at the oppressively lingering daylight. While sex at Oxford does (obviously) happen, for a breed of young and good-looking intellectuals we seem to be incredibly useless at getting out there and getting it on.
Imagine, therefore, the shock and horror of the naïve third year linguist/faithful-long-term-girlfriend embarking on her year abroad in Paris, suddenly finding herself in a city in which the situation is strikingly opposite. A woman runs her fingers through her hair. A stranger leans against a door on the metro. Even without actually doing anything, the Parisians are simply heaving with sexuality. Why? Because they're French, and everything about them, from the way they look up at you, right down to their pronunciation of "Wheerre aarre you frrom?" belies their sex appeal. And they apparently have no qualms about getting it out and making use of it.
Within minutes of arriving in Paris, a tall dark man wearing a suit offers to carry my cases. He is a bit disappointed when it turns out that I am heading for the opposite side of the city, but does make sure that I am securely in possession of his number (as well as his name, job description, salary bracket and marital status). On the metro, men smile at me unabashedly, the crotches of their jeans on full display, and do not look away when I catch their gaze - which in turn begins to unnerve me. That evening, when I meet up with an English friend for dinner, she tells me all about her experience with a scary Harold Shipman look-alike who accosted her earlier that day outside a phonebox, having first followed her down the entire Boulevard St Michel and offered her the use of his phone to call me.
Finding out first of all "where eez shee from?", he goes on to "What is your number? Will you go for a drink with me?", and when refused, tries his luck again with "Does your friend have a phone number? Will she go for a drink with me?"
That day, and for many days afterwards, we realised that our lives would be very different from now on; a young woman in Paris, especially an Englishwoman, cannot go very far without attracting male attention. This, of course, has many, many wonderful advantages; upgrades in hotels, free entry to exclusive clubs, free champagne if you and your friends so much as turn to look at the waiter, free lifts and discounts in shoe shops. Pulling has never been a less complicated business than it is here in this city of romance.
In Oxford, you know the deal - night after night of ritual dancing in DTMs, eyeing each other up across a crowded dance floor for weeks on end before making a move; eventually, a furtive exchange of numbers and the phone that never rings. In Paris, they cut straight to the chase- "You and me, one kiss, no?"- and never forget, if at first you don't succeed, then try, try again!
An Oxford love interest once revealed that he had been too scared to come up to me one night in a bar simply because I was sitting amid a mixed group of friends, and therefore he could not be sure whether or not I was already taken. Would this consideration have stopped a Parisian from at least checking out the possibilities? Doubtful.
Another trouble with the Oxford male is that, once pulled, they tend to be unsure of what to do with their conquest afterwards. The French, on the other hand, waste no time in the art of seduction once the contact has been established. "I know what you want", one of them told me. "I can see it in your eyes. You want a man to make love to you. And I am that man!"
It has been a most educational year in so many ways. I have learnt various things, some of them very useful, some of which may make life easier. Walking into a room full of strangers with your head held high; getting a barman's exclusive attention in a crowded bar; facing strangers with a smile playing on your lips. None very ground-breaking, yet it is astounding how much difference certain little arts of seduction practised by the French can make in your dealings with people in Oxford, and how little they are known in the city of the dreaming spires. The dreams may be there, but the reality still has some way to go.
Most importantly of all, I have learnt one vital survival tactic during my time in Paris - how to repel the unwanted attention.
Inevitably, the sleazy winks and innuendos, not to mention the downright sluttiness you sometimes encounter (cf: waiter, above) can frequently outweigh the advantages of being a sexy young thing in Paris.
For the sake of all those future generations, here are some useful tips and hints:
1) Go for a free haircut at Toni and Guy's on Rue Tiquetonne. They will shear you like a sheep and spike your hair with masses of gel regardless of what hairstyle/length/colour you asked for. You are guaranteed to come out looking like a classy, high-flying, executive lesbian.
2) The biggest hotspot for chatting up women is the Parisian metro. To avoid this possibility, stand up and start shouting loudly about the love of Jesus, and then move through the carriages demanding money; a move guaranteed to make you invisible.
3) Pretend to be German. The worst thing you can do is to admit that you're English, as this translates as "whore" in some lesser known regional dialects.
4) Never make eye contact. To Parisian men, eye contact is the Oxford body language equivalent of throwing yourself on a guy naked, saying "Shag me! Shag me!"
27th May 2004