The esthetic of the human body and making love; Those were the columns on which French love was built on, and I was able to express it, to place it into words, like no other Parisian could. That was in the 1930s, for it is that the decade that began with my arrival into Paris, and it followed by my so called golden years. There were no better times for writing fantasy in Europe. the dust of the last war had barely begun settling when the turmoil of the new generation disrupted it. The uncertainty led the people to new worlds, new escapes, "Anything but reality" became the unspoken chant on their lips.

There were masters of science fiction, daring explorers of the universe. The library excavators, bringing old forgotten centuries to us. But no fantasy aroused a person's mind more than erotica, and no fantasy was more widespread, for it was the easiest to read.

The French were at my whim; I was in their mind at their every turn on, I followed their every stroke that got them off, I was their mistress on the page, their lover hidden in the mind. None could resist me, but as luck has it, my golden decade came crumbling down into my worst one.

As the war started, very few sought after my writings. The truth was, my fantasies were an emotional escape, which could not help against the cruelty of war. It was too much, the physical wounds and pains that the people endured, could and were treated with physical cures, and my lovely nation fell to alcoholism and drugs.

My abandoned writings found their way into German hands and were promptly made fun of. For what understanding did the German have of French love. They were an industrious nation and it mirrored into their understanding of love as well. Men wore foreign style, they worked on their strength and their power, using their muscles and their rank as charms. they never dared think about themselves, their gender as beautiful, for it was labeled as an gay act and homophobia was rampant in a nation trying to industrially repopulate Europe. They never paid any attention to charm, to seduction. Their rank was their charm and you would not believe the hilarity of fights over military ranks between drunk German suitors. Those were the main topic of gossip among the Parisian youth. The German industrialism was no better portrayed in their choices of women, for they would swarm large breasted women, like babies looking for milk. Never considering that their national obsession with size would end up disappointing a lot of women.

Among them was I, my knowledge of German had helped me secure a job during the occupation, but my erotica had entirely stopped. Until a group of SS soldiers sought after my writing skills, a wealthy but depraved men, whose sexual fantasies were developed in war and in various camps. The most depraved sadistic fantasies that would scar most gentle and innocent souls of this world, those were my work, and they sold like gold.

Until hope arrived one day in the shape of an American invasion in the north. It was with cheers and happiness that we greeted their arrival into Paris. But that hope soon faded as the realization came, that these soldiers, depraved of any intimate touch, any sexual satisfaction, for months or years, came and could not resist the Parisian beauty roaming the roads. Some had it worse than others, some ended it there, but most of us endured, clinging to whatever hope was left not shattered by our allies. Waiting for the soldiers to move on.

However, their departure only brought a second wave of Americans. Generals, politicians, journalists, generally the people close to the combat but not the front line fighters. More sophisticated, but still very much American. and they showed us that the actions of their soldiers ware not a result of isolated and devastating war, but merely actions of men with no restriction. Those few restriction that Americans had, those very few, these second wave visitors showed.

And once again my writings were but ink on paper. for what could an American find in them but a wordy description of their pornographic pictures. A sense of beauty they might have had, thanks to our involvement in the shaping up of their country, but their sense of love was oh so very British. For they did not love, they conquered.

Where the French loved their spouses, the American saw a patriotic duty.

Where the French loved their lovers. The Americans gathered them as prizes in both amount and beauty.

How I long for the times when love was shared, when it was pure French, not tainted by the German and American influences. The writers of the 1950s are arriving and I fear I cannot find my footing as their peer. I fear that as this decade comes to an end, so do I.