Tony

Question: Is sex dirty?

Correct answer: Only if it’s done right.

This next tale from the vaults probably ranks up high as one of my sluttier encounters but it also makes me smile when I think about it as it is probably one of those events in my life that could only ever happen in Paris.

It was my friend’s birthday and the plan was to go for dinner and then dance, dance, dance! Of course, when you throw 15 people around a table conversation flows and the wine flows even more. Sadly for me, sometimes the energy also flows…right out of peoples bodies along with their motivation to continue the party and that is exactly what happened. One by one people started to express their desire to go home until I was left proclaiming “But it’s a Saturday niiiiight!”. People started to make their leave whilst I was left standing all dressed up in my lucky black dress with nowhere to go – quel dommage!

Once the party had broken up I stomped off to the metro, intending to switch onto the RER for the fastest route home. Most annoyingly however, the RER had already ceased to run that night and so I was left with no choice but to switch onto Metro line one. This combined with a night of non-partying plus copious amounts of wine made for a very irritated Angloslut and, to make matters worse the metro wasn't due for another eight minutes! In a rage I stormed over to the closest bench, sat down and started ranting away to the random person sitting beside me.

That person just so happened to be a young, attractive Frenchman.

Some people would perhaps be a little alarmed to have an intoxicated stranger blabbering away at them after 12am on the Metro platform but he took it all in his stride and seemed happy to talk back. By the time the train arrived we were deep in conversation and by the time we had arrived at the stop for the Champs Elysees he asked me if I would like to go for a drink. Tony wasn't my usual type, his hair wasn't floppy in the least and he was shorter and stockier than the men that I had become accustomed to. However, he didn't give off axe murderer vibes plus he was cute and so, I eagerly agreed. Soon we were sitting outside a bar on the Champs Elysees drinking mojitos and getting to know each other and actually, had it been a conventional date I definitely would have classed it as successful.

After several mojitos the bar we were sitting at started closing up around us. You know that awkward feeling when a date is coming to an end and you don’t know if you should be giving them a goodnight kiss or hopping in a taxi? Take that feeling and imagine how it would feel if you were with someone you had met on public transport only a couple of hours before. Even in my very drunken state that feeling still put in an appearance. Before I had time to dwell on it too much Tony sheepishly told me that he had missed the last train home. Well, it would have just been rude if I didn't invite him to stay at my place…right…right?! A male friend has since told me that this is a technique used by guys when they want an invite back but I’ll (perhaps naively) assume that he really had missed the train. Luckily I lived only a ten minute walk away and we headed back to my humble abode.

Very humble. I feel that it’s important at this point in the story to describe Parisian accommodation to those who have never experienced it. Housing in Paris is extremely difficult to come by. In most countries, the tenant chooses the accommodation they like the most, not in Paris. In Paris you can find yourself in competition with 30 other people for a place that you wouldn't even consider elsewhere. If the landlord decides that you are the most suitable/attractive/flirtiest/wealthiest candidate you can expect to have to provide a shitload of documents and sometimes up to 3 months deposit upfront. The studio that I lived in was on the 7^th floor with no lift and was a grand total of 14square metres. When I say a studio I mean that almost everything was in a room the size of most people’s kitchens. The (private) toilet was on the landing but the shower, ‘kitchen’, clothing space and foldaway bed were all in the one room.

Anyway, Tony and I arrived back to my place and after the compulsory polite small talk (we both knew what was coming…no pun intended) he leaned in for a kiss. We got into bed and things started to move swiftly along. I won’t go into explicit detail about what happened but I will say that we did everything but…if you get what I mean….and I will say that it was very enjoyable! J

That’s when things took a bizarre turn. As soon as Tony climaxed he jumped out of bed and straight into the shower. I don’t mean like 5 or 10 minutes later either, literally as soon as he shot his load he was out of bed and in the shower! As mentioned, my place was very much on the small side and all I could do was sit and wonder WTF was going on whilst he scrubbed himself down with my mixed berry shower gel. Mutely I found him a clean towel whilst he took a very long shower. Personal hygiene is an absolute must but this was just weird! When he eventually finished, he dried off and climbed back into bed as if nothing had happened. Exhausted, we both drifted off to sleep, by now it was very early Sunday morning.

When we woke up Tony dressed to leave and asked for my number which I unenthusiastically gave him. In the sober light of day the whole event felt completely smutty and Tony’s late night shower did nothing to calm these feelings (did he think I had a dirty vagina?!). I had had fun but the feelings of smuttiness combined with my bad hangover made me feel that I didn't want to see Tony again. Saying that however, I am a great believer in the philosophy ‘Never say never’….who knew what the future would bring.

PS. Have you noticed the amazing new artwork on my blog?! Isn't it wonderful?! For more awesomeness such as this, please visit my very good friend’s blog at peculiarjayne.blogspot.com  . Merci bcp!

Older But Absolutely Not Wiser...

This week I celebrated what was my 4th and very likely last birthday celebration in Paris and it made me think about what I have learned about men over the past few years of Parisian living. My 1st birthday celebration in the city of lights was spent with two mecs (guys) that my friend and I had hung out with a few times. One of them I got on with very well, there was lots of flirting and some potential for a little French romance...well, that's what I thought until it emerged that he was engaged, stupid of me I know not to have spotted the ring on that all imprtant finger. (what kind of guy wears an engagement ring anyway?!) Funnily enough, that friendship fizzled out soon after.
My next encounter with a Frenchman was with an not-so-attractive guy called Phillipe. We met in a nightclub when I was stupidly drunk and had been abandoned by my friend who was erm...busy(!) with some 18 year old in the corner.  He told me "you eez so beautiful, such beeeautiful eyez...I zwill take you for a nicce deener in an nicce restaurant", maybe it was the French accent and the compliments that made me abandon my poor friend and leave the club with Phillipe (actually it was probably the large amounts of vodka that I'd consumed but we wont go into that) and the next thing I knew I was in the back of a car zooming down the Champs Elysees. To this day I still have no idea where Phillipe's place was located. What I do remember was the feeling of revulsion as we got back to his place and he rammed his snakey tongue down my throat. Along with the immediate groping (where was the anticipation??) and the feeling that I was going to throw up, it was not going well. When a guy takes your hand and tried to shove it down his pants to be met with an involuntary shudder I think even he knows it's not going well and so Phillipe stopped his advances and we both went to sleep. The next morning he prodded me awake (with his fingers and no, not down there) and told me "you mussst go now, my son eez coming". Ha, what happened to the promise of my romantic meal?!
Of course at that point I should have put my shoes on with dignity and made a hasty retreat, but oh no, things never plan out so smoothly. With a sinking heart I realised that I had absolutely NO cash. In my drunken exit from the club I had taken our flat keys but had left all our cash with my friend. (sorry once again for that one J!). At this point I had lived in Paris for under a month - I had no idea how easy it is to jump the metro here. What could I do? The obvious answer was to ask Phillipe for the 1.60 it would take to get me home but seeing as he was no longer the romantic Frenchman he was the night before and had rolled over and had gone back to sleep after giving me my marching orders I thought better of it. I was pretty much freaking out and had that awful sick feeling in my tummy (I was wearing 4" heels - was I going to have to walk home in them?!) when I spotted Phillipes wallet on his bedside table. I have to stress that I was only going to take 1.60 for the metro, I'm not some skank who stays with a guy and then steals from him but at this point I was utterly freaking out and wasn't thinking straight. As I picked up Phillipe's wallet hoping to find change he suddenly jerked up awake. Quickly I put it back down and asked him where the closest metro was but it was too late - he had clearly seen me. Without a word he picked up his wallet, phone and camera and locked them in the bathroom with him as he took a shower. I have never been so ashamed and so made my very fast exit! Funnily enough he never did call me for that dinner date. It took me a long time to get home that day but that is a whole other story in itself. The lesson here? Never abandon your friend in a club, especially when you have no money.
Other lessons that I have learned since then? I'm not sure I have learned many. What I have learned though is that a French accent still makes a guy seem sexy, I still fall for insincerity and I absolutely put far too much faith in people.I have no problem with casual sex but some men will say anything to get you to bed, they will lie, cheat and will say whatever they think you want to hear, they will promise you the world just so that they can have their wicked way with you. I cant stand liars and am begining to think that the next guy that gets me into bed will have to be one who is honest and utters something along the immortal line of "you and me baby aint nothin' but mammels so lets do it like they do on the discovery channel". At least there is pure honestly in that.