I can’t seem to find anything to rant about these days. My soap box feels like it is starting to sud. I am just plodding through life with bland abandon at present. I almost wish I was at the job where my blood boiled to the Celsius brink at least once a day. Even now, I lounge about in my office chair and stare. Excel sheet upon a blog upon a UNISA-IS-YOU-YOU-ARE-UNISA site upon Bob’s tunes. And I am left to reminisce.
This morning a year ago I had just landed my sweet ass in Paris, to hook up with an ex-lover. I had been having one too many bad days in the office. After a smash-and-grab, botched training courses, abstinence projects still threatening, a 4x4 more than quietly bumper bashing into me, illness and more, this lover just happened to want to speak to me. He had never phoned cross-continent before. He wanted to explain the view from his high-rise appartement, remind me of the French life, and repeat a fantasy I’d long given up on. His late night call asking me to come over, well, persuaded me to try and come to (see) his incredible view of the City Of Lights. And maybe feast on a croissant, chocolatine, baguette, nutella crêpe or two.
Things didn’t go quite as planned. We all change I guess, and the two of us had not changed towards one another. I may as well have thrown my suitcase of condoms into that Seine River, which we so often ended up trudgingly grumbling along. There was more kink involved in the week-long sms conversation I became delightfully entangled in with a lover back home, while I spent my free time sauntering up the Champs-Élysées, smattering myself in TESTER perfumes & cosmetics.
My disappointment & sympathy begged for from friends was met with a text message from my Darling D stating, “Oh for gods sake! I do not care if you have to buy a bloody vibrator and hump it at the back of a cab all along the Champs-Élysées, but do not DARE step one foot on a plane home before you have orgasmed at least ONCE in that city!!”
I went back to sms’ing the lover back home. I drank bottles of champagne before noon with a Norwegian friend in parks, staring across at the Sacre Cœur and laughing about all that was worldy wonderful. A Sunday night onwards mon “amour” and I staged a picture-perfect Parisian lovers’ quarrel in a bar, arguing at the tops of our voices, arms flailing, being asked by the massive Russian manager to cool it down, and both of us too impassioned to care. We eventually stormed out of the brasserie, me avowing loudly & dramatically to the laughing barlady, “Now I must find a hotel!”. We returned to the “lover’s” appartement to continue the fight side-by-angry-side on his couch, with a bottle of cheap red wine between us.
This is not some love story with a happy ending, where I finally got shtoiked after we became too drunken.
Rather, I moved out the next morning. I had other friends in town, so it was ok. Hell, it was Paris, it was plain divinely lovely!! This ex-lover and I finally nearly returned to what was meant to have been on my last night when he walked me to the Métro to say Au Revoir.
I went back to SA. He moved to America. Apparently he hooked up with a friend of mine who moved over to NYC, after I had put her in touch with him.
As for the lover here – I have seen him twice since that trip.
As for all the other lovers I have had here since – They are gone. Or moved on in their own ways. Or never happened, even though I was so sure of it/ them.
All in all, I think the moral of the story is. I am horny.