Part of me wants to skip ahead to the big event. The 4th date. But if I do, some valuable insights might be lost.
When France first messaged me on POF, way back when (is it weird that it seems like a lifetime ago when it reality it was about 5 weeks? It feels like my entire life has changed in that time period [not because of him just concurrently]). But I digress, so way back when, I remember tweeting out a question to my followers. It asked something like:
Can you really date someone when there’s a language barrier?
At the time, I had actually thought no, probably not. However, many people thought it was no big deal. So I gave it the old college try. And it was a struggle, I readily admit, but then so is life isn’t it?…a struggle?
In the days that followed the “no condoms debacle of 2012” or the “France in the Pants Situation” (as I like to call it), there were quite a few moments that got lost in translation.
---------------------------
The time he texted this…. (y)
Was it a mistake? A phone or technological screw up? Some romantic hieroglyphic? An emoticon I should be familiar with?
I tried to ask. He ended asking if I had sent him pics. There was a lot of ??? and ??? followed by me just texting forget it and trying to move the conversation in another direction.
--------------------------
The time he texted to tell me he was going to a penthouse party in Ottawa and I told him to have fun, but not too much fun I joked, and then said that I hoped the party would be filled with skinny girls *winky face* *cheeky tongue stick out* (as he was so obviously NOT into that).
He ended up responding something about how no, just a good friend. Like he had thought I was really jealous or something.
Luckily I saved the moment when I told him I was just trying to be cute…which of course he thought was cute.
-------------------------
And then I thought all the mis-steps were over. But isn’t that dating? The mis-steps? No? Just dating me, you say? Blargh.
He returned from Ottawa the next day and asked me to hang out the following night. I said sure. We made plans to hang out at 9pm.
But speaking of mis-steps….
The next day arrived and when no text message came, ya know, just to say hi…I started to have that feeling. That feeling, that I have…way too fucking often if we’re being real about it. That feeling that he would bail. Okay, certainly I’d been given no reason thus far to think he would and given that, on our first date, we had talked about “dating pet peeves”, and I had, in no uncertain terms, expressed that my biggest pet peeve was time wasters, I had no real reason to think he would bail. I mean, honestly, is it really that difficult not to be a total douchebag, and let someone know if you’re going to bail. The only thing more irritating to me then a flaky person is a flaky person who makes me go to the trouble of figuring out they’re a flake.
Example 1: You can’t make our plans tonight, you let me know the moment you know this. Forgivable.
Example 2: You can’t make our plans tonight, you say nothing. You wait for me to text and double check that we are in fact still on for the evening. Then you bail. I literally want to stab your fucking eyes out. I may or may not start listening to the Talking Heads Psycho Killer and plotting your demise. Blargh.
He chose option 2. I was not impressed. Gave some bullshit excuse about it being a busy day, called me sweet and that was that. Ok. I said.
I hoped he could taste my frustration. I hoped it tasted like drinking grapefruit juice after brushing your teeth. In all honesty, he probably thought it was no big deal and wasn’t even phased.
We didn’t talk for 3 days. It was over the weekend. No big deal. Truth is, thanks to facebook I still managed to have too much unnecessary information. He’d waited outside all night for some limited edition Jordan’s. It all just felt…so…being 24. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I love a dude with a good shoe game but I also love a dude with a car, and a life, and a plan. It all just felt so…me…at 22 or 24…fucking around buying shit I didn’t need.
That being said, what the fuck did I care what he spent his money on? I didn’t.
And then he texted. All was forgiven and we made plans to hang out that night. He was going to come over at 10pm.
And then 10pm showed up. And he did not.
10:15pm — I sent a text message are you almost here. No response.
10:30pm — I sent another ???
11:00pm — I sent a final text. Now I know this may make me seem naive, or like a pushover, but in general I try to assume the best and thus use a kill them with kindness approach. The text said Hey cutie…so…um so what’s going on? Has something happened or are you standing me up? 🙁
Gotta love that sad face. Which was really more of a I’m going to stab you face, but whatever. The rage was palpable. It tasted like throwing my computer on the ground, smashing it to a million pieces and then crying in public. Or apples. Whatever.
The only upside to the whole business was this time I HAD done my hair and makeup. And fuck if I was going to sit around and do nothing. So I did the obvious thing. I took the obvious approach. And took a bunch of narcissitic self-photos. I mean shit, it had been forever since I’d updated my facebook profile photo. And hadn’t I just lost like 20lbs.?!? So in true melodramatic form, I posted on my facebook that I thought I had been stood up (at the point that thinking I’d been stood up and not having it be a real tangible thing was still realistic)…and then posted a new pic.
The response was overwhelming (Jesus! I love my friends). They were all so bloody adorable about how awesome I looked that I was literally — this close to going out, on my own, in Montreal. Admittedly not something outside of my wheelhouse. But also try to remember that I’m sober. I’m 30. And it was already like 11:45pm at night.
And then the text showed up. Sorry sweet, I fell asleep. What are you doing?
This was followed by several texts of me being deadpan (can you be deadpan in a text? well, if you can…I was it), and him apologizing over and over with the explanation that because he’d spent the night before out on the street waiting for the shoes blah blah blah.
Now’s here the thing. I know myself and if I’m pissed at you and then we have no contact…well shit…it doesn’t look good for you. However, if I’m pissed and I see you in person, there’s a high possibility of forgiveness. It’s that simple (well…in relation to the offense mind you).
Eventually I told him that he should come over. His response was I’ll be there in 15.
And then he was. Here. At my apartment. And I was letting him in.
---------------------------
I gave him no big hug. I gave him no big kiss. I was pissed. Relatively speaking, there would have to be some wooing.
Not the kind of wooing that involves flowers and poetry. Not even the kind of wooing that involves caring and interest. But the kind of wooing that shows, yes…look…I’m sorry I fucking wasted your time…that was a dick move…and I get that you’re pissed…and that’s valid…but we both want to bone each other and we’ve been making out and dry humping for something like 3 weeks now so if we could just forgive everything for the moment and get our freak on that would be amazing. Or something like that.
…and then we were all in the sheets…
…and it was good…not great…but there are always pros and cons…
…his body…my god his body…
…but he wasn’t as rough as the earlier couch-breaking-dry-hump-sesh had been…
…he moved too quickly…but don’t they all???
SIDE NOTE: Guys. Seriously. I know you’re always in a rush. But if you ever do anything right in your lives…let it be this (and being a good person). Go SLOW. You don’t have to go slow forever, I mean, of course, there is a time for speed and strength, but when you think you’re at that point…wait another 5 minutes…at least (unless she verbally instructs you otherwise). Because honestly. No girl ever wanted a lollipop that was thrown at her from a moving vehicle and hit her in the face. She wants the rocket Popsicle that she first heard the music for, and then ran to get money, and then ran to make the ice cream truck stop…and then stood there for another 5 minutes while she made her selection…and then waited to be handed this dreamsicle of a treat…and then enjoyed it…slowly…deliciously…until it almost completed her. Or something like that. But seriously. SLOW THE FUCK DOWN. Because either you care if it’s good for her…or you don’t. And if you don’t…well…honestly…you’re a horrible fucking person. And if you do…then I assume you just don’t know better…and that’s okay. I didn’t figure this stuff out when I was 19 or something. It’s been a learning process. I’ve done my research 😉 and now I’m imparting the wisdom on you. SLOW DOWN. I know you’re ready. She is not.
…but it was fun…and he was smoking hot…and the kissing was good…
…and did I mention his body…
…and then he flipped me over…
…and I was totally game…given this is my favorite position…
…and I casually reached for my vibrator…
And then language became that bitchy barrier that she has a habit of being.
You see. I tried to explain to him. Like I’m about to try to explain to you. And you wouldn’t think it would be awkward. But it was. But it is. And you wouldn’t think it would be a big deal, I am a sex and dating blogger. But it was. But it is. See here’s the thing. With men, of size. And I’m not even talking massive length, I’m really just talking average (or…er…slightly above average depending on which race we’re talking about). Like 6 inches. No big deal. That’s not so big right? Except if you add to that the fact that the dude is huge and solid muscle and the thrusting is going to be….well…you get the idea. Basically. Awkward. Um. Okay. Here’s the thing…I don’t need a dude to be poking my uterus. (ps…I know it’s actually my cervix but uterus just sounds funnier and it’s just how I refer to it the billion times I’ve talked about this with people). So like I was saying…if we’re going to be doing it doggy style I really can’t be having a dude trying to dent my uterus. And thus comes in the vibrator. Besides the obvious awesomeness of it making things more enjoyable for me…the additional stimulation does something to the inside lady parts…that’s biology for you. The more turned on I am, the more aggressive and passionate the sex can be and VOILA ain’t life grand.
Only.
You try and say that to someone who doesn’t really speak English. I mean fuck.
…but he rolled with the punches and we kept on keeping on…
…and it was good…
…admittedly I had a good time…
…mascara smeared across the sheets kind of good…
…he appeared to have quite a lovely time as well…
…and with a couple of full bodied sighs, we rolled off each other…
But not that far off each other. He stayed, arm draped across my back. He curled me into him. I got up to get water. In all honesty, it felt a weird being too cuddly. There was chatter. We made jokes. We talked about all kinds of things. He has a friend who raps but could use some help with elevating his writing and how much do you charge for that sort of thing. It was comfortable. It was sweet. It was nice.
At some point I asked him more about what he was into. Not that I was already planning our next romp but let’s get real, the dude was a fucking babe, he turned me on, he was sweet with me, and he lived for blocks away. The booty calling writes itself.
SIDE NOTE: While I had easily forgiven him for the earlier bail and this sort-of-stand me up…it was on a purely physical basis. There’s no way I could continue to date someone who didn’t understand time management…and let’s be honest…well actually let’s save the honesty for a bit later, back to the story.
So yeah, I asked him what he was into. He wouldn’t tell me. I wasn’t impressed (I’ve mentioned how I don’t like private people right?? Private people are boring…you know what’s not boring…people who let you get to know them.) The conversation went on for a little while, I talked about what I was into. Maybe he needed me to say things first. Could he really be shy? That seemed an ill-fitting jacket.
And then. After much prodding. He started to talk.
Well actually, what he said was you didn’t do it this time and then I can’t remember exactly what else. But I do know that my impression was this. He was partly joking. But he was partly serious. Like this was some sexual test that I hadn’t yet passed and I would get one more try before being asked to walk the plank. I smiled and laughed and we carried on the joking but in all honesty, I thought it was a pretty big dick move. The fastest way to make sure I don’t want to do something is to demand it from me or make me feel compelled to do it. Not cool, bro.
Only. Then he eventually said it. Blow job. He was into blow jobs.
And at first I was like…word…obvs…and in all honesty there hadn’t been time. Okay, as I think about it now…is it possible that’s why he “forgot” condoms on our third date…the hope that a nice beej would be the fall back? But even so….you know what gets you a beej faster than anything boys? Eating some muff. Real talk. If I offer it up all on my own, sure thing. But if that’s your prize target, well shit son, work that mirror magic and what’s good will come back to you.
That being said, I was just kind of like. Okay cool. Good to know. Wink. And all that. But he went on to explain that he was into blow jobs more than sex.
WHOA!
In all honesty this kind of freaked me out a bit. So much so that when he left and I was regaling my friend with this news and trying to find out if this was the norm that boys just keep to themselves or if we were looking at a dealbreaker here. I mean, I’m all for a dude who loves BJs…in fact…if you turn me on, I am ALL OVER THAT!! But when it becomes something you want more than sex…that scares me a bit.
SIDE NOTE: So of course, I did some googling (after he was gone obviously) about whether or not this was a common thing. I’m still unclear. What I did find was a ton of information on just exactly why guys love the beej so much and it’s was pretty common logic if you ask me.
1. They don’t have to do anything.
2. The perspective.
3. They don’t have to do anything.
4. Mouths are warm and wet.
5. The perspective.
6. Mouths have more abilities than even the most special of vages, what with the lips and the tongue and the movement (and don’t forget those side-kick hands).
7. They don’t have to do anything.
8. Etcetera.
Okay…so yeah…got it. Somehow I was less freaked out (that’s what logic and common sense do to me, a calming effect).
So back to France. After about half an hour? and hour? something around there…he eventually figured it was time to go. I’m surprised my tapping my wrist and constant yawning didn’t give him the heads up sooner. I joke, I joke. Anyway so as we were getting dressed, I remembered that I had learned something (a new French friend had taught me). I had learned how to say: I’m happy to see you. I had originally been planning to say it when he first arrived but after the debacle of lateness by the time he got here I was no longer so happy to see him.
We were kissing. We were touching. We were hugging. He had me in his arms and then I looked up at him and said…
Je suis contente de te voir
And I swear, I could almost see his knees go weak. And his face lit up as if aglow from the inside out. He grabbed my face in between his two hands and said say it again. And I did, and the reaction was just as intense. He apparently found it quite sexy when I spoke French to him. Then he said a few things, asked me to repeat. I’m sure I bumbled excessively, but he smiled all the same. There were several sexy grabs, a few more sexy kisses and eventually I walked him to the door and bid him adieu. It was an amazing way to end our night.
When France first messaged me on POF, way back when (is it weird that it seems like a lifetime ago when it reality it was about 5 weeks? It feels like my entire life has changed in that time period [not because of him just concurrently]). But I digress, so way back when, I remember tweeting out a question to my followers. It asked something like:
Can you really date someone when there’s a language barrier?
At the time, I had actually thought no, probably not. However, many people thought it was no big deal. So I gave it the old college try. And it was a struggle, I readily admit, but then so is life isn’t it?…a struggle?
In the days that followed the “no condoms debacle of 2012” or the “France in the Pants Situation” (as I like to call it), there were quite a few moments that got lost in translation.
---------------------------
The time he texted this…. (y)
Was it a mistake? A phone or technological screw up? Some romantic hieroglyphic? An emoticon I should be familiar with?
I tried to ask. He ended asking if I had sent him pics. There was a lot of ??? and ??? followed by me just texting forget it and trying to move the conversation in another direction.
--------------------------
The time he texted to tell me he was going to a penthouse party in Ottawa and I told him to have fun, but not too much fun I joked, and then said that I hoped the party would be filled with skinny girls *winky face* *cheeky tongue stick out* (as he was so obviously NOT into that).
He ended up responding something about how no, just a good friend. Like he had thought I was really jealous or something.
Luckily I saved the moment when I told him I was just trying to be cute…which of course he thought was cute.
-------------------------
And then I thought all the mis-steps were over. But isn’t that dating? The mis-steps? No? Just dating me, you say? Blargh.
He returned from Ottawa the next day and asked me to hang out the following night. I said sure. We made plans to hang out at 9pm.
But speaking of mis-steps….
The next day arrived and when no text message came, ya know, just to say hi…I started to have that feeling. That feeling, that I have…way too fucking often if we’re being real about it. That feeling that he would bail. Okay, certainly I’d been given no reason thus far to think he would and given that, on our first date, we had talked about “dating pet peeves”, and I had, in no uncertain terms, expressed that my biggest pet peeve was time wasters, I had no real reason to think he would bail. I mean, honestly, is it really that difficult not to be a total douchebag, and let someone know if you’re going to bail. The only thing more irritating to me then a flaky person is a flaky person who makes me go to the trouble of figuring out they’re a flake.
Example 1: You can’t make our plans tonight, you let me know the moment you know this. Forgivable.
Example 2: You can’t make our plans tonight, you say nothing. You wait for me to text and double check that we are in fact still on for the evening. Then you bail. I literally want to stab your fucking eyes out. I may or may not start listening to the Talking Heads Psycho Killer and plotting your demise. Blargh.
He chose option 2. I was not impressed. Gave some bullshit excuse about it being a busy day, called me sweet and that was that. Ok. I said.
I hoped he could taste my frustration. I hoped it tasted like drinking grapefruit juice after brushing your teeth. In all honesty, he probably thought it was no big deal and wasn’t even phased.
We didn’t talk for 3 days. It was over the weekend. No big deal. Truth is, thanks to facebook I still managed to have too much unnecessary information. He’d waited outside all night for some limited edition Jordan’s. It all just felt…so…being 24. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I love a dude with a good shoe game but I also love a dude with a car, and a life, and a plan. It all just felt so…me…at 22 or 24…fucking around buying shit I didn’t need.
That being said, what the fuck did I care what he spent his money on? I didn’t.
And then he texted. All was forgiven and we made plans to hang out that night. He was going to come over at 10pm.
And then 10pm showed up. And he did not.
10:15pm — I sent a text message are you almost here. No response.
10:30pm — I sent another ???
11:00pm — I sent a final text. Now I know this may make me seem naive, or like a pushover, but in general I try to assume the best and thus use a kill them with kindness approach. The text said Hey cutie…so…um so what’s going on? Has something happened or are you standing me up? 🙁
Gotta love that sad face. Which was really more of a I’m going to stab you face, but whatever. The rage was palpable. It tasted like throwing my computer on the ground, smashing it to a million pieces and then crying in public. Or apples. Whatever.
The only upside to the whole business was this time I HAD done my hair and makeup. And fuck if I was going to sit around and do nothing. So I did the obvious thing. I took the obvious approach. And took a bunch of narcissitic self-photos. I mean shit, it had been forever since I’d updated my facebook profile photo. And hadn’t I just lost like 20lbs.?!? So in true melodramatic form, I posted on my facebook that I thought I had been stood up (at the point that thinking I’d been stood up and not having it be a real tangible thing was still realistic)…and then posted a new pic.
The response was overwhelming (Jesus! I love my friends). They were all so bloody adorable about how awesome I looked that I was literally — this close to going out, on my own, in Montreal. Admittedly not something outside of my wheelhouse. But also try to remember that I’m sober. I’m 30. And it was already like 11:45pm at night.
And then the text showed up. Sorry sweet, I fell asleep. What are you doing?
This was followed by several texts of me being deadpan (can you be deadpan in a text? well, if you can…I was it), and him apologizing over and over with the explanation that because he’d spent the night before out on the street waiting for the shoes blah blah blah.
Now’s here the thing. I know myself and if I’m pissed at you and then we have no contact…well shit…it doesn’t look good for you. However, if I’m pissed and I see you in person, there’s a high possibility of forgiveness. It’s that simple (well…in relation to the offense mind you).
Eventually I told him that he should come over. His response was I’ll be there in 15.
And then he was. Here. At my apartment. And I was letting him in.
---------------------------
I gave him no big hug. I gave him no big kiss. I was pissed. Relatively speaking, there would have to be some wooing.
Not the kind of wooing that involves flowers and poetry. Not even the kind of wooing that involves caring and interest. But the kind of wooing that shows, yes…look…I’m sorry I fucking wasted your time…that was a dick move…and I get that you’re pissed…and that’s valid…but we both want to bone each other and we’ve been making out and dry humping for something like 3 weeks now so if we could just forgive everything for the moment and get our freak on that would be amazing. Or something like that.
…and then we were all in the sheets…
…and it was good…not great…but there are always pros and cons…
…his body…my god his body…
…but he wasn’t as rough as the earlier couch-breaking-dry-hump-sesh had been…
…he moved too quickly…but don’t they all???
SIDE NOTE: Guys. Seriously. I know you’re always in a rush. But if you ever do anything right in your lives…let it be this (and being a good person). Go SLOW. You don’t have to go slow forever, I mean, of course, there is a time for speed and strength, but when you think you’re at that point…wait another 5 minutes…at least (unless she verbally instructs you otherwise). Because honestly. No girl ever wanted a lollipop that was thrown at her from a moving vehicle and hit her in the face. She wants the rocket Popsicle that she first heard the music for, and then ran to get money, and then ran to make the ice cream truck stop…and then stood there for another 5 minutes while she made her selection…and then waited to be handed this dreamsicle of a treat…and then enjoyed it…slowly…deliciously…until it almost completed her. Or something like that. But seriously. SLOW THE FUCK DOWN. Because either you care if it’s good for her…or you don’t. And if you don’t…well…honestly…you’re a horrible fucking person. And if you do…then I assume you just don’t know better…and that’s okay. I didn’t figure this stuff out when I was 19 or something. It’s been a learning process. I’ve done my research 😉 and now I’m imparting the wisdom on you. SLOW DOWN. I know you’re ready. She is not.
…but it was fun…and he was smoking hot…and the kissing was good…
…and did I mention his body…
…and then he flipped me over…
…and I was totally game…given this is my favorite position…
…and I casually reached for my vibrator…
And then language became that bitchy barrier that she has a habit of being.
You see. I tried to explain to him. Like I’m about to try to explain to you. And you wouldn’t think it would be awkward. But it was. But it is. And you wouldn’t think it would be a big deal, I am a sex and dating blogger. But it was. But it is. See here’s the thing. With men, of size. And I’m not even talking massive length, I’m really just talking average (or…er…slightly above average depending on which race we’re talking about). Like 6 inches. No big deal. That’s not so big right? Except if you add to that the fact that the dude is huge and solid muscle and the thrusting is going to be….well…you get the idea. Basically. Awkward. Um. Okay. Here’s the thing…I don’t need a dude to be poking my uterus. (ps…I know it’s actually my cervix but uterus just sounds funnier and it’s just how I refer to it the billion times I’ve talked about this with people). So like I was saying…if we’re going to be doing it doggy style I really can’t be having a dude trying to dent my uterus. And thus comes in the vibrator. Besides the obvious awesomeness of it making things more enjoyable for me…the additional stimulation does something to the inside lady parts…that’s biology for you. The more turned on I am, the more aggressive and passionate the sex can be and VOILA ain’t life grand.
Only.
You try and say that to someone who doesn’t really speak English. I mean fuck.
…but he rolled with the punches and we kept on keeping on…
…and it was good…
…admittedly I had a good time…
…mascara smeared across the sheets kind of good…
…he appeared to have quite a lovely time as well…
…and with a couple of full bodied sighs, we rolled off each other…
But not that far off each other. He stayed, arm draped across my back. He curled me into him. I got up to get water. In all honesty, it felt a weird being too cuddly. There was chatter. We made jokes. We talked about all kinds of things. He has a friend who raps but could use some help with elevating his writing and how much do you charge for that sort of thing. It was comfortable. It was sweet. It was nice.
At some point I asked him more about what he was into. Not that I was already planning our next romp but let’s get real, the dude was a fucking babe, he turned me on, he was sweet with me, and he lived for blocks away. The booty calling writes itself.
SIDE NOTE: While I had easily forgiven him for the earlier bail and this sort-of-stand me up…it was on a purely physical basis. There’s no way I could continue to date someone who didn’t understand time management…and let’s be honest…well actually let’s save the honesty for a bit later, back to the story.
So yeah, I asked him what he was into. He wouldn’t tell me. I wasn’t impressed (I’ve mentioned how I don’t like private people right?? Private people are boring…you know what’s not boring…people who let you get to know them.) The conversation went on for a little while, I talked about what I was into. Maybe he needed me to say things first. Could he really be shy? That seemed an ill-fitting jacket.
And then. After much prodding. He started to talk.
Well actually, what he said was you didn’t do it this time and then I can’t remember exactly what else. But I do know that my impression was this. He was partly joking. But he was partly serious. Like this was some sexual test that I hadn’t yet passed and I would get one more try before being asked to walk the plank. I smiled and laughed and we carried on the joking but in all honesty, I thought it was a pretty big dick move. The fastest way to make sure I don’t want to do something is to demand it from me or make me feel compelled to do it. Not cool, bro.
Only. Then he eventually said it. Blow job. He was into blow jobs.
And at first I was like…word…obvs…and in all honesty there hadn’t been time. Okay, as I think about it now…is it possible that’s why he “forgot” condoms on our third date…the hope that a nice beej would be the fall back? But even so….you know what gets you a beej faster than anything boys? Eating some muff. Real talk. If I offer it up all on my own, sure thing. But if that’s your prize target, well shit son, work that mirror magic and what’s good will come back to you.
That being said, I was just kind of like. Okay cool. Good to know. Wink. And all that. But he went on to explain that he was into blow jobs more than sex.
WHOA!
In all honesty this kind of freaked me out a bit. So much so that when he left and I was regaling my friend with this news and trying to find out if this was the norm that boys just keep to themselves or if we were looking at a dealbreaker here. I mean, I’m all for a dude who loves BJs…in fact…if you turn me on, I am ALL OVER THAT!! But when it becomes something you want more than sex…that scares me a bit.
SIDE NOTE: So of course, I did some googling (after he was gone obviously) about whether or not this was a common thing. I’m still unclear. What I did find was a ton of information on just exactly why guys love the beej so much and it’s was pretty common logic if you ask me.
1. They don’t have to do anything.
2. The perspective.
3. They don’t have to do anything.
4. Mouths are warm and wet.
5. The perspective.
6. Mouths have more abilities than even the most special of vages, what with the lips and the tongue and the movement (and don’t forget those side-kick hands).
7. They don’t have to do anything.
8. Etcetera.
Okay…so yeah…got it. Somehow I was less freaked out (that’s what logic and common sense do to me, a calming effect).
So back to France. After about half an hour? and hour? something around there…he eventually figured it was time to go. I’m surprised my tapping my wrist and constant yawning didn’t give him the heads up sooner. I joke, I joke. Anyway so as we were getting dressed, I remembered that I had learned something (a new French friend had taught me). I had learned how to say: I’m happy to see you. I had originally been planning to say it when he first arrived but after the debacle of lateness by the time he got here I was no longer so happy to see him.
We were kissing. We were touching. We were hugging. He had me in his arms and then I looked up at him and said…
Je suis contente de te voir
And I swear, I could almost see his knees go weak. And his face lit up as if aglow from the inside out. He grabbed my face in between his two hands and said say it again. And I did, and the reaction was just as intense. He apparently found it quite sexy when I spoke French to him. Then he said a few things, asked me to repeat. I’m sure I bumbled excessively, but he smiled all the same. There were several sexy grabs, a few more sexy kisses and eventually I walked him to the door and bid him adieu. It was an amazing way to end our night.
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