Going to Paris to shoot a rock and roll band sounds like one of those dream jobs for a photographer, but The Big Time wasn't living up to it's expectation. Instead of April in Paris, picture January and a fierce storm knocking out half the cities power.

Being a California boy, I'd elected to travel light for this trip, knowing that I would have a bunch of presents to bring home to Nancy. I was a victim of my own profession, where all my images of Paris were in the Spring, Summer, Fall. Nobody told me about January.

You know what a tour jacket is? It's a flimsy piece of sateen shit that doesn't keep out the forty mile an hour wind that was driving all the people from the streets.

There was a party going on just down the hall, made of all the roadies and techs that had no place to go, with all the stage hands, groupies and the corps de ballet of some dance company that had been hired to fill in back ground visuals. The little gazelles in their gauzy costumes had been nice eye candy, but while they might have fucked a star or two, they weren't letting go of their tutu's for any American rock and roll savages. There's nothing sadder than a rock and roll road party with no stars. This blizzard had grounded everything flying in Europe and there was no way that they were going to arrive for at least another seventy two hours.

What we had here was a group of storm waifs, who were stuck here with the roadies and those of us who had rooms in the hotel. The management company had hired me to do part of a tour book, and this gig in Paris had been a dream come true. But the gods love a jest and this hadn't been what I'd signed on for.

Being as the hall was rented, the sets built and the camera crew hired, the show had gone on. The gazelles had pranced and been filmed dozens of ways. By lunchtime, the camera crew had about sixty times the required footage and hung it up. I asked the stage manager if I could get some shots of the dancers while we had everything set up. He said sure and I took pictures of some of dancers. The camera crew for the video had bagged it but the guys working the lights were still getting paid: Different union, different deals. We were all stuck in this hall for a while.

I talked to the lighting manager and took readings in various parts of the stage, various conditions. Since they were paid for, I was paid for, they were paid for, whatever the stupid reason, I had a crew and cast at my disposal to do what I wanted with. Probably they would rather watch pretty girls bounding around than stand around. None of the crew bitched when I pitched the idea to them.

The guy that was doing the lighting for the band I knew well from other places. He lived down the street from me in Fairfax. It was just one of those odd things that happens in rock and roll. I had a wireless headset and gave directions to Eddie and he made it happen.

I'd promised the gazelles personal dance photos for their portfolios, so they spent a bit of effort with the jumping and leaping. One of the girls had taken off her body suit that she was wearing under her frillies and the others followed her lead. Funny how French girls can find a way to be sexy not matter what the circumstances. None of them had very big tits, but they were most definitely in shape.

It had been a note of grace for an otherwise dismal day and I'd had a good time with the girls. The make up artist was a Hollywood vet and had given the girls a woods nymph look with flowers in the hair and the whole nine yards.

I'd been the guy standing around in the back ground and taking cover reference shots of the set. Now I was running the set and it was amazing how the girls' attitudes changed. I spoke, the light changed, the guy with the fan comes running up. I must be someone important, no?

Actually, I was doing this little thing for my buddies on the road crew. If someone told you to go hold a fan on the girl as she jumps, dressed in some sort of gauze, how fast do you think you'd move?

I wasn't kidding myself about how popular I'd gotten. The chicks wanted to look good for their photos and they were turning it on. 'It' in this case is that thing that makes them photogenic and desirable looking. Oh, they were, but they were getting several hundred dollars worth of free publicity photos for their portfolios, plus getting paid at the same time. French women are very smart about money.

It had been a fun way to spend an afternoon, and we all knew each other a bit better by five o'clock, when the fairy godmother stopped waving her magic money wand and it shut down. The stage labor and the theater would have gone into golden time if we'd kept on. The roadies had struck up a few conversations, the girls found out that the savages weren't so savage and the guys got a little 'kultcher', as one kid called it.

The blast of snow-laden wind that was tearing down the streets was a rude shock. A quarter after five and the streetlights were on.

Everybody stood around in the lobby for a while, trying to decide what to do. There weren't any buses running and police were warning people to stay off the roads. Somebody figured out that we all might as well go over to the hotel and eat all the food that was laid out for now cancelled press party. The girls could make phone calls from there to find friends to stay with in the city.

Three hours later, one of the gazelles and I were having a break after a wonderful fuck. She didn't speak English worth a damn, but I didn't know how to say anything past soup de jour and bon jour. How we wound up naked together, I still can't quite figure out.

My watch rang, reminding me to call Nancy. The party had finally gotten off the ground and I could hear people running up and down the hall, the shriek of girls and the blasting of the sound system the band took on tour for their parties. I won't tell you who they were, but they were big and that year they were sizzling.

I was perfectly happy to be curled up in bed. Especially with my little gazelle, but I had to make this call.

"Pardon, ma cherry, but..." I figured what the hell. She doesn't speak English and Nancy wouldn't care anyway. I dialed all the numbers that you need to talk a third of the way around the world and Nancy picked it up on the fourth ring.

"Hi." She drawled in my ear.

"Hi doll, it's me."

"Hey! Tony! Them Paris girls treating you good?" My French girl picked up that I was talking to another woman, which wasn't very nice of me, was it? At least that's what I think happened. Or did her hand start to wander over my stomach just by chance?

"Unbelievably well, considering. How's things with you?"

"Oh, samo-samo, T. Bill stopped by to drop off those lenses he borrowed."

"Old Bill still trying to fuck you?"

"Uh-huh." I picked up something in Nancy's voice.

"Hmm. Did you let him?"

"Oh yeah. Bill's a sweetheart. We hung out for a while."

"Oh?" I thought fast. "He still there?"

"Yeah."

"Oh, this could get nasty. So how is he as a fuck?"

"Real good. He said to say high." Nancy was on my wavelength and obviously wanted to play. "He told me to tell you to be careful with them French girls."

One of them French girls hands had wandered down to where it was really appreciated.

"Funny you should mention that. One of them's holding your nearest and dearest right now."

"Oh yeah? What's it like?" Nancy was definitely getting that turned on sound in her voice. Kind of huskier and lower.