There are some subjects that I avoid on this blog. Not that you would know, cause well, I don’t mention them. I talk dodgy, but I never go into details of personal ‘dodginess’, if you will.
But sometimes, there are moments that I wish to share. But at the same time negotiate it with the desire to hold so close to me a memory and experience. I become caught and confused. And so, all that can be called for is to type. And as a result, you get a taste of it all, and my thoughts that are guided by the title…
FUCK but I love the French.
Those men that Gallic myths are made of.
To try to explain it to a man who just wants to rack up his orgasms or chicks laid would be impossible. It is speaking between two mindsets. Two languages of a woman’s being that can’t translate one another.
A Frenchman does not want SEX from you.
He wants YOU.
Every single piece and scent and taste and inch of you.
He is OBSESSED with YOU.
And he shows it in the way that he kisses you. It reads perfectly through. Sure there are the looks and the off-handed divine comments about you. About how he is jealous of some man who does not even want you. Or that you are gorgeous when you flick your hair in that way over one shoulder. Or that he would not go to a restaurant with his good friend, because ‘that is Champs’s restaurant’.
The kiss. The tasting and communicating and feeling. And through his obsession with you, you become obsessed with the moment. Nothing at all matters. Especially the people around you passing, who you have to ask for directions, or to fix a key, pay for a bill.
Some other men try to replicate this, but it seems to come off as desperation. A Frenchman of this type is not desperate. Hell, he probably made love to another woman hours or days before in some other city. Once, his wife was in the apartment upstairs from his Provencal restaurant, where you two were locked in, arguing about the improbability of anything happening. While he runs his hand down the side of your incensed resisting body. While he talks so rapidly in French you do not know what his argument is, not that you even have to hear it to understand him. Until you run out of that small eaterie as you know your resistance is all but nearly up, him a few heated steps behind until you both crash into friends in your haste, and he departs, and you grunt a frustrated helloandgoodbye to them, and land a confused bluddy hard kick on a nearby pole before disappearing your opposite way.
At the moment that he kisses you, that the two of you don’t even make it from the front door on a Sunday night in a dead quiet African capital, it is because only YOU exist to him.
And so you accept his other reality. Cynical love, if you will.
Or so I wanted to make myself believe. That it was as simple and callous perhaps as that. I keep learning, yesterday again, that it is not that simple. A Frenchman is not into a quick shag. He is into you.
There is so much more to this recent story. To giggling, and obsession, to holding each other so tightly in an attempt to climb into that person in anyway possible. To the waiter shaking his head at the ridiculous personal jokes you two try to include him in on. To trying to relax. Urgency yet delayed relishing. To trying to sleep. Or when you jointly decide that this is not happening anymore. That he leaves. Again. Again and again and again. And your stomach aches. And your friends sms to ask how you are, before you even contact them.
Because they know you are completely and obsessively in love with a gorgeously accented matching idealed silly personalitied hot blooded man many miles and hours and lives away.
And that his moment of obsession is over with you, for now.