Only changing rooms are mixed

Within days of moving to a luxurious penthouse in the centre of Paris, an unpleasant sign appeared on the gates outside of my local swimming pool: closed for refurbishment.

Suffice to say I was not amused.

After six months of impatient waiting, last week I clambered out of bed at an unreasonable hour, determined to be among the first nageurs at the refitted establishment: one expected a little champagne to start the day, or to be invited to cut a ribbon; instead, that sign remained on the gate.

As it happened, several days after the official Mairie website announced a grand re-opening, the swimming pool happened to open… by accident, as it were. On Sunday I went, since there is no healthier way to recover from a night of drunken excess – there is a better way, of course; to start drinking again… but I digress!

Arriving, I expected what you find at any other public swimming facility in Paris: a unreasonable number of sour-faced individuals competing for lane space, not so much exercising as testing the limit of their endurance, splashing up and down in the deluded belief that they will represent their beloved France in the next Olympic Games, spluttering incoherently in the direction of anyone who questions their commitment by accidentally getting in the way. Yet despite being gratuit – something else locals are passionate about- Jean Taris swimming pool was practically deserted.

Pausing to admire the pristine facilities, on entering the pool my attention was directed to the other youthful individuals. In the shallow end, where one expects all of the gay gentlemen to naturally gravitate, an attractive heterosexual couple stood facing one another, waist-deep in the water. For obvious reasons it was not titillating to watch their embrace; but one could certainly not help notice, since it endured several lengths. Quite an embarrassingly predictable and cliched display, it must be said: male stationed protectively around his female, who dropped her little butterfly kisses on a cheek, pausing occasionally to flutter adoring, alarmingly-wide eyes in his direction, breathing and sighing... honestly, it all might have been scripted in an appallingly bad love-scene, with more spontaneity and passion to be found checking if buses pass according to the timetable.

Meanwhile, down at the deep end, a broad-chested, long-haired, smiling giant of a man stood at the edge of the pool teaching his male friend how to dive, striding backwards and forwards with his giant-ness visible to all. Strong hands corrected the posture of his companion, whose short compact body could only be described as… incomparable; it was like watching a large black labrador play with a Jack Russell terrier.In he dived, and then he clambered out again; once again he dived in, then he clambered out; in and out, in and…

It was my over-active imagination, or so I thought: after all, it was perfectly natural for a couple of heterosexual gentlemen friends to touch with such pleasant familiarity: a careless hand to the shoulder, a provoking dunk, a little teasing and a little more touching, before at length taking one another by the hand, going to… But wait a minute: heterosexual males don’t hold hands in this culture, and they certainly never, ever do that!

Blinking and spluttering on a mouthful of chlorinated water, I turned away. How impardonably wrong to intrude on their privacy at such a precious and delicate moment; why, not only are they a couple, they are falling in... forgive the cliche, gentle reader; one might have forgotten what it feels like, but one still recognises the signs.

Returning to the shallow end, where the heterosexual couple prolonged their embrace, I observed two male lifeguards at the side: standing rigid, arms folded to chest, they look down upon us, with narrow and lightening-eyed disapproval directed exclusively at one of the couples…

Guess which one?