Fiona and I talked our way all the way down the river to La Tour Eiffel. As I marveled at the impressive structure, a feeling of bubbly excitement came over me. I could’ve cared less that the French thought it was tacky—it made me feel like a little girl at a carnival.
We crossed the Seine and walked underneath the tower to the Champ de Mars, an immense field packed with tourists and locals eating and reading in the sun. We found an open spot on the grass, stretched out on the lawn and stared up at the deep blue sky and the fluffy white clouds that brushed the top of the Eiffel Tower as they floated by. As I was enjoying the view, I heard my phone beep. I dug it out of my purse and was surprised to see that I had a text message from Luc. It read:
Want to watch movie tonight?
I didn’t have anything else going on that night, and despite his sketchy behavior, I found myself still wanting to hang out with him. He was so damn handsome—just the thought of his sweet smile and his sexy five o'clock shadow gave me butterflies. Plus, I needed to collect more stories for my blog readers. So, really, I had to say yes.
I wrote back: Sure, what time?
Luc wrote back quickly: 7h, I bring DVD.
Excited, I texted back: Sounds good, see you then.
Fiona had fallen asleep in the grass, so she didn’t notice my text exchange. I could always tell her about Luc later on. I didn’t want my new friend to get the wrong impression of me—fresh out of an engagement and already hanging out with a new guy on my first week in Paris—a divorced guy at that. Not that anything had even happened since he kept answering his damn phone. Hopefully tonight would be different.
***
At seven o’clock, Luc knocked on my door. He greeted me with the usual bisous and then handed me a huge bar of chocolate.
“You like le chocolat, right?” he asked sweetly.
“Of course. Thank you, that’s so thoughtful.”
“No problem. I . . . euh . . . bring . . . brought the movie to watch.”
“Great, I don’t have a TV, but we can pop it into my laptop if that’s okay.”
“Oui, yes, that’s good.”
We threw the movie in, I poured us each a glass of red wine, and then we tried to make ourselves comfortable on my hard cot thingy.
As the previews were playing, Luc grabbed my hand and said, “Listen, Charlotte, I am sorry for the other night. I was rude, and I want to apologize.”
“It’s no problem at all. I know that things can come up. It’s no big deal, really.”
“Yes, I know, it’s just that . . .” Luc gazed down at his wine, then back up at me with a serious expression on his face. “I wanted to spend more time with you, and I really like you . . . so there is something I want to tell you.”
Oh no. Not this. Was he going to tell me he wanted to be in a relationship? Was he going to tell me he was still married? Whatever it was, I didn’t want to hear it. I was here to have fun. To meet charming, good-looking men and have my way with them. I was not here to have a serious discussion.
So, instead of giving him time to spit out whatever it was that was bothering him, I leaned over and gave him the most passionate kiss I had in me. I could tell he was taken aback at first, but he soon got over it and returned the favor.
“But, Charlotte,” he pulled back, trying to continue the talk.
“Shhh,” I said as I placed my finger firmly on his lips. “You don’t need to worry about anything.” I leaned in to kiss him again and felt his body relax into mine. Guys are so easy to distract.
After enjoying the feel of his soft lips on mine for a few minutes, I pulled back and looked him intently in the eye. “So, Luc, I hear that you may be good in bed? Is this a true statement?” I wasn’t going to let any phone calls get in the way of our night this time.
He laughed and responded, “Well, that depends. Who told you this?”
“Oh no one important . . . just something I may have heard recently,” I said as I shot him a flirty smile.
“Well, I would have to say that I am very good in the bedroom.” He grinned from ear to ear.
“I think you’ll have to prove it.”
Thankful that I had diverted Luc from “the talk,” and delighted to have a hot French man in my bed, I let Luc remove my tank top and jeans, while I all but tore his t-shirt over his head, then pulled his pants to the ground.
Luc stopped for a moment and gave me his most devious smile. “You are sure you want to find out if I am good in the bed, as you say?”
I laughed at his adorable accent. “Yes, I want to know. Right now,” I said as I yanked on his boxers.
Luc slipped off my underwear and unhooked my bra with the ease of a professional, while I, much less gracefully, pulled off his boxers. Then he reached down into his jeans pocket and pulled out a condom. But instead of putting it on right away, he laid it on the stand and wrapped me up in his tan, lean body. He caressed my breasts with his strong hands while he kissed my neck, sending tingles down my spine. Then, he knelt over me and kissed me firmly on the lips as his hands roamed down my stomach and still further down until he made me quiver with pleasure. Suddenly, I couldn’t take it anymore. I wanted him. I reached over for the condom and shoved it into his hands. He grinned at me, rolled over on his side, and as soon as I had caught my breath, he was back on top and inside of me.
Goosebumps ran down the entire length of my body as he continued kissing every spare inch of my bare skin. He grabbed my hands and held them over my head as he moved forcefully over top of me. Then he flipped me over on top of him and ran his hands over the curves of my hips and up to my breasts as he let me slide slowly up and down.
Lexi hadn’t been lying. This man definitely knew what he was doing.
It was more than that though. There was something different about the way he touched me. The way he gazed into my eyes. An intensity. A spark I'd never felt before.
I wasn't sure if it was just his smooth French-man moves, or if our connection was unique, but either way, Luc got me so worked up that I had an orgasm after only a few minutes. He kept going, moving me into all different positions, each with the purpose of pleasing me as much as possible, all the while holding me, kissing me, and moving so deeply into me, I couldn't help but surrender to the intensity of the moment.
After the second orgasm sent me through the roof, I was spent. I lay down on my back and let him work his magic. He pressed his glistening body deep into mine as he tenderly kissed my neck, and then my lips. He wrapped me up in his arms as his breathing intensified, and suddenly, I felt him pulsating inside of me. A groan escaped from his lips before his breathing slowed down, and he collapsed on top of me.
We lay in bed together breathing heavily until Luc interrupted the silence.
“I did not expect that,” he grinned slyly at me.
“Sure,” I teased him.
“I didn’t, really Charlotte.”
“I’m just joking.”
“So, you liked?” he asked.
“Yes, I liked.” I giggled.
Luc reached over and grabbed the bar of Lindt milk chocolate he had given me. “Un peu de chocolat?”
“Chocolate, after sex?” I asked, a little puzzled, even though it did sound wonderful.
“Why not? Sex, chocolate, all good things,” he responded as he peeled open the wrapping.
“Okay, why not.” I couldn’t argue—sex and chocolate were two of my favorite things.
So my new French lover and I lay naked in bed and savored square after square of the creamiest, softest, milkiest chocolate I’d ever tasted.
These French guys really knew what they were doing.
As I was eating my fourth square of chocolate, my phone beeped. I rolled over and discreetly checked it to find a text message from Frédéric. It read:
Can’t stop thinking about you, American girl. Friday night, I take you to dinner? Bisous, Frédéric.
“You got a message?” Luc asked as he peered over my shoulder.
I
slammed the phone shut, hoping he hadn’t seen it. “Yeah, it’s from one of the girls I became friends with at school.”
“Frédéric is a girl?” he asked as he looked at me suspiciously.
Damn. Why did I have to go and look at my phone right after having amazing sex? Stupid, stupid, stupid.
“Oh, it’s nothing. It’s just a friend from school,” I mumbled.
“Oh, I see.” He obviously didn’t believe me. But, what was I supposed to do? Tell him the truth after he just gave me two orgasms? He was the one taking weird phone calls all the time and he used to be married. He could have ten other women right now for all I knew, so I didn’t need to feel defensive about getting a simple text message.
In an attempt to distract him, I fed him another square of chocolate and asked if he wanted to stay the night. He seemed hesitant at first, but with a little coercion (in the form of another sexy make-out session and a couple more glasses of wine), he seemed to forget all about the text message.
***
In the middle of the night, I woke up feeling sweaty and uncomfortable from being stuffed in my tiny bed with Luc draped all over me.
Still buzzed from the excessive amount of wine I had drunk, I stumbled out of bed and decided to check my email. I found an email from Katie and a few other emails from friends, but still nothing from Jeff. I pulled up the oh-so-polite email I had sent to him a few days back. As I read it over a few times, a rip-roaring vengeance swept over me. So, in my half-asleep, drunken state, I composed another email.
Jeff,
I just wanted you to know that I have a handsome, sexy French man in my bed at this very moment. Besides being attractive and sweet, he is AMAZING in bed . . . much better than you ever were. We had sex three times tonight in fact.
Just wanted you to know how it feels.
Your ex-fiancée,
Charlotte
Okay, so maybe three times was an exaggeration, but what the hell. Without hesitation, I hit the “send” button and off went my bitter email to Jeff. Immature? Maybe. But did it feel good? Oh yes it did.
I signed onto my blog and found that my hits were rising, and several more women had commented. How exciting. I began composing a new post:
Rule # 1: Avoid all serious “talks” with men who you are just having fun with. Think of the last time you told a man, “We need to talk.” Do you remember the expression on his face? How he looked like he’d rather jump off a twenty-story building to his imminent death than sit there trapped in a “talk” with you?
In our new method of dating like a man, the same thing applies to us, ladies. Since we’re not looking for love, there is no need to have serious talks with guys we’re seeing. The less you know, the better.
But, you don’t want to seem heartless either. We are sweet, caring women after all. In the following example, I will show you how I successfully distracted a man from having “the talk” with me earlier tonight, without acting like a heartless bitch.
Case in Point: After telling me he used to be married, then ditching me half-way through our date after another sketchy phone call, Half-Naked French Hottie came over tonight to redeem himself. Just as we were about to enjoy a movie, he apologized for the other night, then proceeded to say that he had something to tell me.
A few possibilities ran through my mind. He’s still married. He has a girlfriend. Or, even worse, he wants to start a relationship. We’ve only hung out twice before this, so the relationship talk seems premature, but who knows? I am in a foreign country.
Whatever he had to say was irrelevant though. I’m here to have fun, remember? Not to get into a relationship, have serious talks about issues, and become all emotionally involved.
So, to shut him up without making him feel bad, I kissed him. Which brings me to my next rule:
Rule # 2 – Do have mind-blowing sex with no strings attached, and then eat chocolate immediately afterward. Who cares if you gain a few pounds? It’s all about pleasure here, ladies.
Think about it. What motivates a man’s every decision? Pleasure. That’s all they’re looking for. They’ll have a beer when they feel like it. They’ll have a great night of sex whenever they want (or whenever they can get it). They’ll sit around in their underwear scratching their balls, just because they can.
We women, on the other hand, are always in the pursuit of love. But, as we throw our hearts on the line, guys are just wondering when they’ll get their next lay.
So, I am calling on each and every one of you to make a dramatic shift in your thought process. Remember this: pleasure just for the sake of pleasure is a good thing. We don’t need to be madly in love with a guy to have amazing sex and feel satisfied. In fact, it’s quite the opposite. If we’re not worried about what happens after the sex, the sex is more fun, more carefree, and definitely more orgasmic. Plus, if we don’t care about the next-day callback, we can eat a big, fat chocolate bar in bed with our hot new catch, and not feel bad about it one bit.
And just in case you’re all wondering, Half-Naked French Hottie is currently sleeping in my bed, after having hot sex and sharing a bar of scrumptious chocolate. See, all that and no dreadful “talk” was necessary. What could be better?
This brings me to my final lesson of the night:
Rule # 3 – After being cheated on, there’s nothing like a little revenge to lift a girl’s spirits. If you need to experience the sweet taste of revenge in your efforts to get over your ex and move on to bigger and better things (no pun intended), go for it. Granted, it won’t erase the pain or the hurt he caused you, but trust me, it will make you feel a hell of a lot better.
Ten
mardi, le 5 octobre
Smiling won’t get you very far with a French woman.
When my alarm buzzed at six o’clock the next morning, I sent Luc back to his room and hurried to get ready for my appointment with Madame Rousseau. There was no way I would mess up another meeting with her. I was hoping that by being early and by telling her how dedicated I was to this program, she would forgive me for standing her up and actually turn out to be a nice person. One could only hope.
As I crossed the street to get to the train, masses of students were exiting the station and cursing. What the hell was going on? I pushed through the crowds to the message screen inside only to find out that there was a grève, otherwise known as a strike. The French were famous for their grèves, as I remembered all too well from my semester in Lyon. Back then though, the transportation strikes were a great excuse to skip class. But today of all days. Seriously?
The transportation workers were striking for the entire day, so the only way to get up to the Sorbonne would be by cab. I checked my wallet to see if I had any cash on me, and of course, I didn’t. I sprinted back across the street to the student center ATM, waited in line behind one unbelievably slow Spanish student, withdrew some euros and ran back out to boulevard Jourdan to hail a cab. Everyone else had the same idea though, so it didn’t look promising. I jogged down to the corner to get away from the masses, and after showing a little leg, I snagged one. Sometimes it helps to be a girl.
As we wound in and out of the busy Parisian streets, I checked my watch. I had twenty minutes to get there. I would make it on time. I would. I closed my eyes and willed the traffic to be clear.
The cab pulled up in front of the Sorbonne at exactly seven fifty-eight a.m. I thrust the bills into the driver’s hands and bolted up the stairs.
With their massive guns in tow, the same two police officers stood guard at the entrance. I’d forgotten to get a student ID card the day before, so I handed them my driver’s license, hoping they would let it slide once more.
The taller one shook his head at me, but his expression remained blank. It made me want to scream. I could not be late.
I explained to them in French that I was terribly sorry, and that I would be sure to get my student ID today. I told them that I had an important meeting at eight a.m., and that I absolutely had to be on time.
By the time they let me through, I had less than ten seconds to fly up those wobbly stairs or take the minuscule, ancient elevator that was already packed with too many students. I opted for the stairs.
I had seen Madame Rousseau’s office after my class the day before, so thankfully I knew where to go. I arrived at her door at eight a.m. on the dot, out of breath with beads of sweat pouring down my face. But, hey, I was on time.
I knocked on her door as I wiped my brow with my forearm. No response. I waited a few seconds and knocked again, a little harder this time. Still no response.
Then, I heard a set of high heels clanking down the hallway. I turned to see a miniature, gray-haired woman marching toward me. She wore a black turtleneck paired with a long, black skirt, and she had her hair pulled back into the tightest bun known to man—so tight that the corners of her eyes were actually stretching to accommodate the pull of the bun. I didn’t even have to ask—this was Madame Rousseau.
Without smiling, she locked eyes with me, walked right in front of me, unlocked her door, then closed it in my face.
What was I supposed to do with that?
I waited a second or two, then knocked again.
A full five minutes later, she opened the door, peered down at her watch and in a flat tone said, “Vous êtes en retard.” You're late.
Was this woman for real? First of all, I wasn’t late. And second of all, since when were the French so keen on timeliness?
I walked into her tiny, but pristine office and noticed the rows upon rows of French pedagogy books packed into the bookshelf above her desk. She motioned for me to sit down as she took a seat at her desk.
“So, you are Charlotte Summers,” she scowled in French.
“Yes, thank you so much for meeting with me today, Madame Rousseau. You have no idea how honored and excited I am to be a part of this program.”
“Yes, well, we will have to work on your timeliness, won’t we?” She tapped her pen on the desk and peered at her watch once more.
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