French Kissing

by Catherine Sanderson

  AussieRob numbered among the five or six people I’d ‘flashed’ on a whim the night before, after browsing the profiles of the single men in their thirties who lived within a five-kilometre radius of Belleville and studying their photos. When I navigated to my profile, I was informed that not only had Rob returned the compliment, but he was listed as ‘actuellement en ligne!’ I’d never initiated a chat session before but, feeling inexplicably bold, I clicked on the ‘inviter au chat’ link next to his profile photo. Rob accepted at once. ‘Here goes,’ I murmured to myself as I laid my fingers on the keyboard, in the ready position. ‘Remember, Sally, you have nothing to lose and everything to gain…’

  ‘Good evening,’ said Rob. ‘I must say, I’ve never been out with a MILF before… But I’m definitely open to the idea…’

  Frowning, I opened up a new tab on my browser so I could look up the unfamiliar word in an online dictionary. ‘Slang acronym: Mother I’d Like to Fuck,’ I read, my cheeks colouring. ‘A much-used descriptor on the Internet for pornography sites featuring women between the ages of 30 and 55.’

  ‘Well, I’ve never been called a MILF before,’ I retorted, returning to the chat window. I decided not to own up to the fact that I hadn’t even been familiar with the term thirty seconds earlier. ‘So tell me,’ I continued, ‘am I supposed to be flattered or insulted by being pigeonholed into a category of porn?’

  ‘Flattered,’ Rob shot back. ‘No offence intended whatsoever. I guess it’s my clumsy way of saying I think you look cute on your profile photo… So, what do you say, fancy meeting for a drink?’

  I hesitated for a moment, scanning Rob’s profile to remind myself why I’d ‘flashed’ him in the first place. He’d been in Paris a few years, worked as a graphic designer, lived nearby, in Ménilmontant, and was a year older than me. His profile photo showed him sitting cross-legged on the parapet overlooking the rue de Belleville, the Paris skyline laid out behind him. He had an open, honest-looking face and an attractive smile. So, biting my lip, I decided to give Rob the benefit of the doubt, despite his somewhat sleazy opening gambit. ‘Okay,’ I responded, after a short pause. ‘How about a coffee or an apéro in the neighbourhood sometime next weekend?’

  ‘Well, actually, I’m about finished up here for the day,’ Rob replied. ‘So, if you happen to be free tonight, maybe we don’t have to wait that long?’ I grinned to myself. The timing was almost too good to be true. How often did I get a chance to be impulsive?

  ‘See you at Lou Pascalou in an hour,’ I typed, taking a leaf out of Manu’s book and daring to log out without waiting for Rob’s reply. As I changed out of my work clothes into jeans and a smart jumper, I felt absurdly pleased with myself. It felt good sliding over into the driving seat and taking the wheel for a change.

  An hour later, seated on the wooden banquette that ran the full length of the back wall of the bar, I began to wonder whether my impulse had been so very inspired. There was no sign of Rob whatsoever: the only customers on this wintry Monday evening were the handful of middle-aged, ruddy-faced regulars propping up the bar, a couple of students playing chess with fierce concentration, and a geeky-looking guy with a ponytail, his face partially obscured by the screen of his MacBook. Drinking my kir in measured, self-conscious sips, I pretended to study the artwork decorating the walls. The current month’s offerings – all for sale – were a series of childlike collages with inflated price tags. Under cover of the table, I tapped my feet against the floor, trying to get my circulation going after the icy walk over. I’ll give him half an hour, I resolved. And if our date falls through, it will have been my own silly fault for signing off without even giving him my mobile number.

  But suddenly Rob was wiping his feet on the doormat and making a beeline towards my table. He wore a vintage leather jacket over a polo-necked jumper, and a courier-style bag with a diagonal strap. His face was square-jawed and wholesome-looking, his dark hair was clipped short and his eyes were a striking shade of blue. ‘Good choice of bar,’ he said approvingly as he pulled out the wooden chair opposite mine, stowing his coat and bag on the empty table beside us. ‘Sorry to keep you waiting. I got a work call just as I was about to leave. I would have warned you, but…’

  ‘… I didn’t hang around long enough to tell you how to contact me,’ I interrupted with a rueful smile.

  ‘No worries,’ Rob said nonchalantly, turning in his chair to catch the waiter’s eye. He ordered himself a pastis, a Lou Pascalou speciality, his French impressively fluent and Parisian-sounding. When he asked me if I wanted the same, I grimaced and confessed that aniseed had always been a pet hate of mine.

  ‘You should have put that on your profile,’ Rob teased. ‘It would have saved me a wasted journey. Not sharing my fondness for pastis is a deal breaker, as far as I’m concerned.’ I rolled my eyes at him and, turning to the waiter, ordered myself a mojito instead. This all seems rather promising, I thought to myself. He’s only been here five minutes, but he already stands head and shoulders above the other Rendez-vous candidates I’ve met so far…

  Despite these auspicious beginnings, I was forced to conclude, a couple of hours later, that Rob wasn’t really my type. As we talked, I struggled to put my finger on just what it was that wasn’t right. He was fun to be with, there was no doubt about that, with a dry sense of humour and a real talent for mimicking people’s voices when he told an anecdote. There was something in his manner though – an excess of self-confidence, verging on arrogance – which cancelled out some of the positives, grating on me more and more as the night wore on. Rob’s the sort of person who’s entertaining in small doses, I decided as I sipped my third or fourth mojito, or maybe as part of a bigger group, rather than one on one. With careful rationing, he could become a friend. But if I was honest with myself, friendship wasn’t really what I had in mind.

  The simple truth was that, from the moment I’d laid eyes on Rob, he seemed like the perfect candidate for a one-night stand. He was handsome in a ruddy, outdoorsy kind of way, and I guessed that under his clothes lurked a taut, muscular body. With every mojito I poured down my throat, the idea took hold. It had been nine long months since I’d been touched by a man, and hadn’t I told my mother at Christmas that I wasn’t necessarily out there looking for something serious? So when Rob suggested we go back to his place for a ‘nightcap’, I acquiesced, knowing full well what I was agreeing to. The alcohol didn’t cloud my judgement. It simply gave me the Dutch courage required to contemplate undressing in front of a total stranger.

  Rob didn’t even wait until we’d reached his apartment – a trois-pièces he shared with an absent Australian friend in a Haussmann-style building on nearby rue Etienne Dolet – before he started kissing me. Stepping into the entrance vestibule, he pushed me against the wall by the letterboxes, gathering my hair in his hands and leaning forward to cover my mouth with his. It was undeniably strange, the sensation of another man’s tongue against mine. For years I’d known only Nico, and the way he and Rob kissed was poles apart. Rob was more forceful and insistent than Nico, and his breath was laced with aniseed.

  When he led me upstairs to the second floor, Rob didn’t pause to switch on the lights, offer me another drink or give me a grand tour of his apartment. Instead, we staggered into his bedroom and fell on to his unmade bed, resuming what we’d started in the hallway. The only light was a blue glow emanating from the oversized numbers on his digital alarm clock, and I was grateful for the darkness. I had no desire to stare into Rob’s eyes. In fact, I didn’t need to see his face. This was about sex, pure and simple; about the satisfaction of a basic physical need.

  I woke at dawn the next morning and lay perfectly still; eyes open, taking the measure of my unfamiliar surroundings. In the pale light which was beginning to seep through the slatted shutters outside the window, I could see a bookcase, a drying rack covered in clothes, a desk with a computer connected to two large flat-screens and, on the floor, an unruly heap of abandoned clothes, some of which
were mine. Last of all I spotted the knotted condom which Rob had tossed carelessly on to the carpet by my side of the bed. I wrinkled my nose in distaste at the sight of it, but was nonetheless thankful we’d had the presence of mind to take precautions.

  The sex had been disappointing. There hadn’t been much in the way of foreplay and, in any case, the mojitos I’d knocked back seemed to have numbed all sensation between my legs. Rob had thrusted away for what seemed like an eternity, and I’d faked an orgasm in an attempt to bring the proceedings to a conclusion. Inside, I now felt sore, and an unpleasant smell of latex clung to my skin. But my main preoccupation was the pounding in my temples. I needed to escape and, if possible, to do so without waking Rob. I wanted an aspirin and a soak in a long, hot bath. I wanted to wash every trace of my disappointing one-night stand off my skin.

  But shifting slightly in the bed, I inadvertently woke my bedfellow. He yawned and snuggled into my back, pressing his crotch into my bare buttocks. Eyelids clamped shut, I regulated my breathing, intent on feigning sleep. But it was too late. Rob was stiffening by the second, his penis poking into my spine, above my coccyx. Clumsy fingers were reaching between my legs, fumbling painfully around, trying to assess my body’s degree of receptiveness. I tensed up, a tiny, pained sound escaping my lips. Rather than interpreting this as a signal of distress and discomfort, Rob apparently chose to hear a moan of pleasure. The exploratory fingers were withdrawn and I heard the unmistakable sound of a condom packet being ripped open, the slap of rubber being unrolled on to flesh. Without further ado, he pushed his way inside and began to make slow, mechanical movements, his hands holding my hips in a vice-like grip.

  ‘You make me so horny,’ he mumbled into my neck afterwards, when a second knotted condom had plopped on to the carpet, landing close to the first. I made no reply, my whole body rigid with indignation. This time I hadn’t made a sound, but the lack of simulated orgasm didn’t seem to have thrown Rob off track at all. I couldn’t call what had happened rape: I hadn’t said ‘no’; in fact, I hadn’t protested at all. But I felt anything but horny. I felt used and thoroughly dispensable. As far as Rob was concerned, I might as well have been a blow-up MILF doll.

  ‘I have to get going, or I’m going to be late for work,’ I said quietly, pulling myself into a sitting position and reaching for my clothes, my back towards him. Only once I was dressed did I stand and turn to face him, as he squinted in my direction in the half-light. My eyes gleamed with repressed tears, but I knew he couldn’t see me clearly: he’d told me he was short-sighted, and I dimly remembered him going to the bathroom to remove his contact lenses the previous night.

  ‘Thanks for a great evening. We should do it again sometime…’ Rob yawned, making no move to get up, kiss me goodbye or escort me out of his apartment. I knew he wouldn’t be in touch. We hadn’t exchanged phone numbers, and he’d confessed to me the previous evening that his membership was on the verge of expiring. But I had no desire to cross paths with Rob again and, without a word, I picked up my coat and strode out of his bedroom, his apartment and his life.

  Half an hour later, sitting in the hot bath I’d promised myself, my knees drawn up to my chin, I stared blankly at the places where the grout between the ceramic tiles was beginning to turn from white to black. Yesterday evening I’d felt so empowered, so liberated; so in control of my life. Today I felt only numb and empty; cheap and soiled. I’d tried a one-night stand on for size and it had been a terrible fit. Meaningless sex was not for me. I’d rather have no sex at all.

  As I turned to leave the bathroom, I caught sight of Lila’s pink toothbrush and bubblegum-flavoured toothpaste in her Little Mermaid mug by the sink. How I yearned to wrap my arms around her and bury my face in her hair; to close my eyes and blot out everything else.

  It dawned on me, then, why Rob had seemed so blasé about my being a single mother when we’d chatted, the previous night. He couldn’t have cared less, because it was irrelevant to him. He’d seen me as a one-night stand from the moment he’d sent me a ‘flash’, as disposable as the condom he’d tossed on to the carpet of his rented room.

  17

  As Anna began to tear off the wrapping paper under the collective gaze of the ten or so guests she’d invited over for birthday drinks in her tiny studio apartment, it occurred to me that my gift was open to some misinterpretation. On a hurried, last-minute visit to my favourite bookshop on rue de Belleville, Le Genre Urban, I’d picked up a guide to the sex shows, strip joints and swingers clubs of Paris, entitled Paris Sexy. Given the frequent jokes Anna and I made about clubs échangistes, and the fact that on a recent night out together we’d seen a film, Shortbus, about a swingers club in New York, I knew she’d see the funny side. But it was her other guests I wasn’t sure about. They weren’t privy to our private jokes.

  Ryan, flanked by Eric, who was now back in Paris full-time, was sitting closest to Anna, and he guffawed when he caught sight of the cover. ‘I’m not sure that’s really your scene, Anna darling,’ he exclaimed, ‘but if nothing else, it will be good for expanding your French vocabulary into raunchy new territories.’

  ‘You underestimate me, Ryan,’ Anna retorted, her eyes dancing with mischief. ‘Haven’t you ever seen my blog, “Diary of an American Libertine in Paris”?’ She shot a rapid glance at one of her guests – Alexandre, a handsome, bearded Frenchman whom she’d met at a recent party thrown by some of her American friends – as though trying to gauge his reaction to her provocative reply. When she’d introduced me to him, her tone had been casual and her body language had given little away. But now I was convinced there was – or was about to be – something between the two of them. First Ryan, now Anna. My single friends were dropping like flies.

  For the rest of the evening I was torn between feeling optimistic for Anna, who went on to spend much of her party deep in conversation with Alexandre, and feeling pinpricks of jealousy. Three weeks had passed since my one-night stand with Rob and, with the first anniversary of my split with Nico rapidly approaching, my romantic horizon contained not a single serious prospect.

  ‘They’re very cute those two, don’t you think?’ Ryan commented, cornering me alone after he caught me staring pensively in Anna and Alex’s direction.

  ‘He does seem very nice,’ I conceded. ‘And I suppose the timing couldn’t be better. Anna’s in the middle of those stressful divorce proceedings, and she could do with someone to lean on…’

  ‘Your time will come, Sally,’ Ryan said quietly, glancing at Eric, who was pacing in the hallway, his mobile phone glued to his ear. ‘Probably when you’re least expecting it. That’s the way these things usually play out…’

  ‘Let’s hope Alex has some handsome single friends,’ I joked, wishing my envy hadn’t been quite so transparent. ‘If I’m going to lose my wing woman, the least she can do is set me up…’

  ‘Talking of wing women, where on earth is Kate?’ Ryan frowned. ‘And don’t fob me off with some work excuse,’ he added, wagging his finger at me mock-threateningly. ‘I know something serious is going on. I suspected as much as long ago as New Year’s Eve. And Eric let slip the other day that Yves is on a secondment to New York…’

  ‘Well, I won’t go into the details behind Kate’s back,’ I said carefully, once I’d checked Eric was still tied up on the phone. ‘The New York thing is only temporary, but she and Yves do have some stuff they need to work through. In the meantime, as far as I know, he’s flying back every third weekend, and Kate’s not exactly on top form.’

  What I didn’t tell Ryan was that the first time Yves had visited, he’d made a point of taking the kids out for the day to Disneyland Paris without Kate, who had phoned me soon after they left in floods of tears. ‘I’d rather you didn’t mention anything to Eric,’ I added, glancing in his direction. ‘I doubt Yves wants his marital problems to become the talk of the Paris office.’

  Anna’s party was still going strong when I left at half past midnight. Ryan had made himself popul
ar by remembering – just as the party was beginning to run dry – that he’d stowed a full bottle of vodka in Anna’s freezer when he arrived. A small knot of people had gathered around the birthday girl, including Alexandre, who hadn’t left her side all evening. Leafing through Paris Sexy, Anna was reading out random entries in her stilted French. When I ducked into her bedroom and re-entered the living room wearing my coat, she broke off midway through a description of a seedy-sounding mixed sauna. ‘Leaving already, Sally?’ She looked disappointed. ‘Can’t we tempt you to have one more drink?’

  ‘’Fraid not. I’ve got a babysitter tonight,’ I replied, my voice heavy with regret. Clambering reluctantly into my taxi, I gave my address, stopped at a cash point to withdraw money for the babysitter, and relieved her of her duties. As I pulled on my pyjamas, I felt as despondent as I had after the margaritas party, where I’d left Anna standing on the balcony with Fabien. How I hated having to leave early, like some sort of thirtysomething Cinderella, knowing that everyone else was free to carry on having fun without me.

  Anna and Ryan could party as late as they pleased and invite Alexandre or Eric – or anyone else, for that matter – to share their beds, enjoy their own personal dose of Paris Sexy and sleep well into Sunday afternoon. As for me, I had an early-morning wake-up call to look forward to, followed by a five-year-old’s birthday party.