Sex a la francaise - extracted from 'Pensioners in Paradis'

Part 2. Whilst on the subject of sex, we thought again about the French. After all, when not eating they are all supposed to be making love. They are internationally known to be obsessed with sex and have a long history of debauchery. Think of the Marquis de Sade, bordellos, French letters, the town of Condom, adultery and masturbation. Ironically, homosexuality is called here le vice anglais, even though their capital city, rife with transvestites, is known worldwide as 'gay Paris'.
In all innocence, as is our wont at our time of life and having led a very sheltered life, one Saturday evening we walked into a local bar to enjoy a quiet drink and take in the ambience of local culture. We gave no thought to a rather beautiful old cello standing idle in the corner. Perhaps there'll be some music later, I thought idly to myself as I looked around at the crowd of locals clustering around the bar. Leaning up against the bar was a wooden hand-painted sign advertising Saturday evening musical sessions. Ah, that was the reason for this sudden influx of people. We smiled indulgently to ourselves, until the attractive busty woman serving the drinks suddenly wiped her hands, lifted up the counter and tottered over to the cello in the highest heels I had ever seen. She was wearing a coral pink, figure-hugging gown, decadently split right up to the thigh, the bodice encrusted with glittering pearls. Her eyes were expertly but heavily made up a la Dusty Springfield , thick clusters of black mascara clinging to her upper and lower lashes, with gold dangly hoop earrings completing the ensemble. As she ran to the cello and with a whoosh jumped astride the wooden chair placed before it, we wondered if we should have moved a little further away, but it was too late as a change of seats now would be an insult to the musician. As the lilting strains of a Jacqueline du Pre wafted around the room, filling our ears with a haunting sensation, H seemed busy studying the musician. Well, he couldn't do anything else sat where he was. I could see him staring fixedly at her almost bare thighs as she sat astraddle the wooden chair, the skirts of her gown straining hugely across her lower regions. Having come to a momentous decision, H leaned over to me and whispered in my ear. 'I think she's a man - or rather he,' he mouthed. 'What? No!' 'Oh yes,' he said, finger tapping the side of his nose. 'I think by now I can tell the difference.....'
To be continued....................