It should come as no surprise to my long-time readers that I am absolutely fascinated with the Parisian pompiers (military fire-fighters). Not that I’ve sat outside the fire station nearby my house, patiently waiting for a glimpse of these manly men to pop outside and go for a run in their ridiculously skimpy red shorts, mind you. Granted, I may take the long way around to the gym/supermarket/bakery so I routinely pass by said station house but that’s neither here nor there.
Light stalking aside, it’s not just the pumped pompiers that have caught my eye – although I do think it’s a damn shame that due to military guidelines they are forbidden from giving the world a Dieux de Stade calendar. But I digress.
On a daily basis I encounter all manner of authoritative men in their tight-fitting work wear. Indeed, Paris is practically bursting with buff, handsome men sporting fantasy-inducing uniforms. Not only do we have many types of police patrolling the streets, we also have a generous array of soldiers to help keep us safe and secure… the only good thing about a raised terror alert.
Strangely, despite all the armed presence about the place I don’t feel oppressed, in any way. This comes in sharp contrast to the way I feel in Australia where one gets the distinct impression that said keepers of the peace are there more for intimidation than protection. This could possibly have a lot to do with their heavy-handed tactics, not that the French police are free of such behaviour but they just seem to partake in it far less.
Anyway back to the more pleasant thoughts – how about rollerblading police? They are such a treat to see gliding through the city streets and not just because all that skating has had a wonderful effect on their derrières. Then there are the riot police who always look like testosterone fuelled Robocops ready for battle…they can beat me with their batons any time they like. Sadly, seeing all my misbehaviour these days is legally sanctioned – well for the most part – it seems unlikely.
That being said, one can still get the opportunity to get up close and personal with these strapping specimens of manhood, as they do seem to like posing for photos – depending on the situation of course. Failing that a telephoto zoom lense and a discreet hiding spot can work just as well…or so I’ve heard.
What type of uniformed hunk drives you to distraction?