First Delivery, Last Innocence: My Steamy Encounter with the Hostess
The backseat of her old Renault reeked of stale leather and her musky perfume, deep in the underground garage beneath La Défense’s towering glass monsters. Rain pattered on the concrete above. I was 22, barely a week into couriering gigs, heart slamming like a jackhammer. Virgin. Untouched. And now, crammed here with her—this 45-year-old hostess…