Sleeping with Paris

by Juliette Sobanet

  “That’s really sweet, but maybe another time.”

  “Oh, okay,” Luc said as he lowered his eyes to the floor.

  We rode along in silence, pressed up against each other in the smoldering train car, and without even realizing it, I found myself wondering what it would be like if Luc was my boyfriend. If I could just take his hand, rest my head on his shoulder and make the whole world disappear.

  The train jolted to an abrupt stop and jerked me back to reality. Luc’s woman situation seemed like a mess, and it was a mess I did not need to be jumping into. Jumping into bed with him was a different story. That was acceptable in my new dating like a man plan. But thinking about him as potential boyfriend material was so not in the plan.

  As we exited the train together at the Odéon stop, my stomach tightened. How was I supposed to find Frédéric with Luc in tow? I gazed up to the top of the stairs and spotted Frédéric waiting for me. Or was that him? I suddenly realized that I didn’t really remember what he looked like. All I could remember was that he had short, blond hair and that he was cute. Or at least in my drunken state, I had thought he was cute. The guy at the top of the stairs had short, blond hair and was kind of attractive.

  I made eye contact with the mystery man to test the waters. He grinned slyly in my direction. Okay, I was pretty sure it was him. As we walked closer, his grin spread wider across his face. Definitely him.

  “I think I see my friend there, so have fun with Benoît, and I’ll see you around.” I tried to bolt from Luc without making a scene, but he didn’t get the hint and instead stayed right by my side as I approached Frédéric.

  But, just as I was about to say hello to the guy I thought was my date, I felt a tap on my shoulder.

  I turned around to see a familiar face. It was Frédéric. Shit.

  Note to self: Don’t get so drunk that I can’t remember what a guy looks like after I’ve made out with him in a bar. Maybe a better rule of thumb would be to not make out with guys in bars in the first place.

  I beamed at him in an attempt to make up for the mistake. “Salut, Frédéric,” I said as I noticed Luc still attached to my side, his expression turning from one of confusion to confrontation.

  Frédéric looked from me to Luc and back to me with a puzzled expression on his face. “Salut, Charlotte.”

  “Um, Frédéric, this is my friend Luc. Luc, this is Frédéric.”

  Luc gave Frédéric a firm handshake as he sized him up. Frédéric was clueless.

  “Well, tell Benoît I said hi, and have fun tonight,” I said to Luc as I tried to start moving in the other direction with Frédéric.

  Luc did not budge. Luckily, Benoît appeared just then and saved us all from the awkward moment. He slapped Luc on the back, and as Luc turned to talk to him, I took the opportunity to grab Frédéric’s hand and make a run for it.

  “Bye, Luc,” I called as I pulled Frédéric down the street. Luc locked eyes with me as I was walking away, and he made no attempt to mask the hurt expression on his face.

  A pang of guilt crept up inside me until I remembered that I had just heard him tell another woman that he loved her over the phone. What was I feeling sorry for? He had no right to be jealous. He had no claim on me. He hadn’t even tried to hang out with me or call me after having sex, so I refused to feel bad that I was going on a date with another guy.

  “You are hungry?” Frédéric asked eagerly.

  “I’m starving. Where are we headed?” I tried to switch gears and focus on Frédéric. He was much better looking than the guy who I’d originally thought was my date. Granted, he was no Luc, but there was definitely potential. He was thinner than any other guy I’d ever dated, but I couldn’t expect a lot of meat on the bones when skinny was the norm in France. It was his face that caught my eye. He had a perfect, light complexion, charcoal gray eyes, dimples, and a warm smile that melted me the minute I laid eyes on him.

  “I take you to my favorite restaurant. It’s magnifique,” he said with a swoop of his arms. “You will love it. We will be there in just one minute.” Frédéric took my hand and led me across the crowded boulevard St. Germain back through the winding cobblestone streets.

  This area of Paris was buzzing with people, but even so, the neighborhood seemed much less touristy than the Notre Dame area where Luc had taken me. We must’ve passed ten outdoor cafés, and the only language I heard people speaking as they sipped their wine and their tiny cups of coffee was French. I didn’t spot a single group of fanny-pack clad tourists in this part of Paris.

  I felt energized and excited just by walking down the street here. Who needed a cheating fiancé when I could have all this? Not to mention the fact that I had an attractive man on my arm. Life was really starting to look up.

  After a few minutes, Frédéric stopped in front of an Italian restaurant, whose bright neon sign read: Ristorante. A short, hairy man with a giant potbelly greeted Frédéric with a hearty “buona sera” as we walked in. When he saw me appear, he winked at us and led us over to a table in the back corner of the restaurant. Clearly Frédéric came here a lot. I wondered how many other girls he had sat in this back corner with. I realized though that I didn’t really care. It was fun to have a new guy taking me out to dinner, and what he did before or after this date was of no concern to me. Maybe I’d write Jeff an email about this one too. Humph.

  We ordered a bottle of Bordeaux before Frédéric focused his big gray eyes on me and smiled.

  “I am so happy you come with me to dinner,” he began in his strong accent. “I have been waiting to see you again since we meet.”

  I felt my cheeks redden as the blackberry taste of the wine tingled on my tongue. “Thanks for inviting me out. This is a really beautiful restaurant.” I broke Frédéric’s gaze and glanced around the room, taking in the quiet, candlelit tables and the flirty couples sitting at each one.

  Frédéric reached across the checkered table cloth and placed his hand firmly on mine. “Oui, yes, it is very nice here. But tonight, Charlotte, it is you that is beauteeful.”

  I giggled. “You’re not so bad yourself.”

  Frédéric’s eyebrows furrowed inward. “I am sorry, I do not understand. You think I am so bad?”

  “No, what I mean is that you look very nice tonight.”

  “Oh, thank you. I am sorry, my English is . . . euh . . . well, I do not study it since zee university, and that was a very long time ago. But will it be okay for me to practice with you?”

  “Of course,” I answered, even though I knew the conversation would be smoother if we could just speak French together.

  “So where did you go to college?” I asked him.

  “I study at zee Sorbonne for a time, but . . . euh, then I have des problèmes, and well, I do not finish.”

  “Problems?” I asked.

  “Euh . . . yes. It is a long story. So I decide to become a policier with my brother, and I do this for zee past eight years.”

  Just then, a suave, dark-haired waiter appeared at our table and winked at Frédéric.

  “Vous désirez?” he asked us.

  As I quickly skimmed the menu, I heard Frédéric ordering in French for both of us.

  “I hope you do not mind,” he said, pouring himself another glass of red wine as he’d already managed to finish his first. “I order you zee best plate on zee menu. You will love it, I promise.”

  Jeff had never ordered for me when we’d gone out to dinner. In fact no guy had ever done that. I’d always thought it was kind of old-fashioned. But maybe it was normal in France?

  I smiled at him. “That’s fine. I’m sure it will be wonderful.”

  Frédéric downed his second glass, then scooted his chair closer to mine and slid his hand onto my thigh. My cheeks burned as I drank a few more sips to catch up with him.

  “So, Charlotte, what do you do in zee United States?”

  “I was a French teacher at a private high school back in DC before moving to Paris.”

&nb
sp; His eyes lit up. “Oh, you are a teacher. So will you teach me some words?”

  I laughed as the wine warmed my stomach. “I’m not sure there are any French words I could teach you that you wouldn’t already know.”

  Frédéric scooted his chair even closer to me. “No, it is not French words I want to know. It is English words.”

  “Okay, what kinds of words?”

  As his clean-cut face and intense eyes narrowed in on me, he brushed his lips against my neck and whispered in my ear, “Dirty words.”

  I giggled again, then choked so hard on my wine that tears streamed out of the corners of my eyes.

  Frédéric wasn’t fazed in the slightest. “I know some expressions already, like ‘You are so sexy,’ and ‘I want you, baby,’ and ‘Kiss my ass . . . with shit.’ Do you know this one?”

  Oh God. Between the wine and the dead-serious expression on Frédéric’s face, I couldn’t hold it in any longer. My choking fit morphed into a loud burst of laughter.

  “What is so funny?” he asked, a genuine look of surprise washing over his face.

  “It’s just that, well, that last one you said—”

  “Kiss my ass with shit?” he repeated again, louder this time.

  “Mmhmm. That one. That’s not exactly the way we use the expression. You can leave out the last part.”

  “The ‘with shit’ part?”

  “Yes, don’t say that. Ever.”

  “Why not? I do not understand.”

  “Just trust me on this one. Don’t say it.”

  Thankfully, the waiter brought our meals then because I was not looking forward to further explaining why he should never say that again.

  As I drank my second glass of Bordeaux and enjoyed a delectable bowl of pasta smothered in a peppery pesto sauce, and topped with sun-dried tomatoes and shaved parmesan, Frédéric used one hand to feed himself and planted the other firmly on my thigh. He didn’t stop there though. That hand inched higher and higher throughout the meal until it couldn’t go any further.

  I didn’t mind too much though. I was just happy to be finished with the dirty words conversation.

  After dinner, Frédéric didn’t hesitate to take care of the check before leading me back out to the lively Parisian night.

  “Do you like the movies?” he asked. “There is a cinema close to zee metro at Odéon if you would like to go.”

  After Frédéric’s obvious physical advances over dinner, I had been sure he was going to ask me back to his place, but I was impressed that he wasn’t attempting to jump right in for the sex. Nice display of willpower.

  On our way to the theater, I noticed dying couples everywhere. “Dying couples” was another term that Katie and I had coined when we studied abroad in college. It was basically referring to couples who were all over each other in public, ready to have sex on a park bench or at any given metro stop. They were “dying” because they would hang all over each other and act outrageously serious as if one of them had just been diagnosed with a terminal illness. As if this moment—right then and there—would be the only chance they’d ever have again to hold each other, make out, and dry hump. So be it on the sidewalk, in the middle of the street, on the metro, or outside at a café, they were unavoidable—those damn dying couples.

  I only minded them when I was walking around alone. Get a freaking room, I always thought to myself. But tonight, as Frédéric pulled me close to him and ever so slightly brushed his lips on my neck right there in the middle of a crowded Parisian street, I could’ve cared less about all of the other dying couples. Maybe we looked like a dying couple too. Oh well, so be it.

  Frédéric took my hand as we walked into one of the movie theaters on boulevard St. Germain and chose a movie that neither of us had seen. After paying for our tickets, he wrapped his arm around my shoulders and led me to the back of the dark, empty theater.

  The minute we sat down, Frédéric was all over me. Hands on my thighs, mouth on my neck, kissing me and whispering things in my ear that I couldn’t quite understand.

  I was still somewhat tipsy, so I didn’t mind all that much, but as the theater filled up a bit, I really hoped he would calm it down.

  But oh no, he seemed to get even hornier as the movie began. Luckily we were in the back row and no one was sitting close to us, so I don’t think anyone witnessed the thirteen-year-old, no wait, the thirty-year-old breathing heavily and sucking on my neck like it was a lollipop.

  As I felt his fingers inching up my skirt, I grabbed his hand and smoothly directed it back to his own lap while trying to nudge his head up off my neck. That skinny little police officer was persistent though. He took my hand and placed it right on his crotch so that I could feel his boner. Okay, that was it. I wasn’t cool with being a dying couple anymore. I was seriously grossed out. We had eaten a nice dinner together. . . well, minus the dirty words lesson, and now he wanted me to service him in a movie theater?

  In an attempt to gain control over the situation, I leaned toward him and whispered, “Let’s watch the movie. I really, really want to see this one.”

  “We are watching zee movie, but it is more fun this way,” he whispered seductively as he stuck his slimy tongue down my throat and just about gagged me. I thought I remembered him being a good kisser the other night at the bar. I must’ve been hammered. He sucked. Plus he was acting like a horny teenage boy, and that wasn’t really working out for me.

  I pushed his face off of mine and grabbed his chin so that he would look at me.

  “I’m serious. I want to watch the movie.”

  He must’ve heard my don’t-mess-with-me tone of voice because he stopped his desperate attempts to undress me and have sex in the back of the movie theater. I should’ve left after his major display of immaturity, but I didn’t feel like making a scene, so I stuck it out.

  After the movie, Frédéric walked me across the street to the metro.

  “I think I’m going to head home. I’m really tired,” I told him as I faked a yawn.

  Frédéric leaned down, wrapped his arms around my waist, and just as I thought he was going to kiss me again, he stopped and stared straight into my eyes.

  “There is something I want to tell you,” he whispered intently.

  “Okay,” I said, thinking he was just going to give me some line about how beautiful I was or that he wanted to see me again or wanted me to come home with him—the usual crap.

  “I love you,” he declared in a dramatic attempt to sweep me off my feet.

  “Oh,” I stammered, not really sure what to say. Who says “I love you” on the first date? After trying to jump you in a movie theater? After saying “kiss my ass with shit” at the dinner table?

  I pulled away from his grasp and blurted, “Thanks for dinner, have a great night!” Then I bolted for the metro. I don’t think I’ve ever run away from a date so fast in my life. Come to think of it, I don’t think I’ve ever actually run away from a date, period.

  I sprinted to catch the metro, hoping he wasn’t following me. Who knew what tricks this guy had up his sleeve? I plopped down in an isolated seat on the train, and as I mulled over what had just happened, I burst out laughing. What a weirdo! It made me realize how much I missed being in a normal, functioning relationship. Like the one Jeff and I had shared before his online dating escapades.

  At the end of the night, no matter who I was with, it always came back to Jeff. I guess that was normal since it had barely been a few weeks since the break-up. But after this most unsuccessful date, I truly missed him. I would not be writing him an email to boast about the horrible date I’d just had though. Instead, I called Lexi when I got home to dish about the ridiculousness of the night.

  She laughed so hard she could barely breathe when I told her about the “I love you.”

  “What a freak!” She laughed heartily into the phone. “Get used to it though. Guys pull some weird shit over here.”

  “Seriously.”

  “Hey, so we’re s
till on for tomorrow night, right?”

  “Yeah, I’m really excited. I’m going to bring my friend Fiona from class if that’s cool with you.”

  “Just make sure she’s ready for a wild night. It’s going to be crazy.”

  “I have no doubt it will be,” I said as I smiled to myself.

  Before bed, I logged into my blog. My hits were soaring, with more comments from women I didn’t know. Most of the women were loving it, but I did get a comment from Janie in Georgia calling me a “man-hater.” Wow. At least I was provoking some strong emotions in my readers. I began typing.

  More lessons on how to avoid love in the City of Love:

  Rule #1 – Date lots of men and don’t apologize for it. Until a commitment is clearly stated on both ends, you have no obligations to any of the men you are seeing. If one of them tries to make you feel guilty for seeing another one, forget him. Do you know for sure that he isn’t seeing other people too? Remember, this is all a game to them, and instead of being a victim of the game, you are now an active player. That means playing the field, seeing what’s out there, and having a damn good time in the process! This brings me to my next point:

  Rule #2 – Do not, under any circumstances, allow the men you are dating to meet each other. This is an extremely awkward situation that should be avoided at all costs. Since we’re smart women, this shouldn’t be too difficult to pull off, but every once in a while, even a smart woman can find herself in an unpleasant run-in with two of her prospective men.

  If you do find yourself in this situation, don’t guilt yourself to death. They probably have other women waiting in the wings too.

  Case in Point:

  As I was on my way to the metro to meet a French police officer for our first date, I spotted Half-Naked French Hottie ahead of me. I overheard him telling another woman that he loves her over the phone. Of course he was going to the same metro stop as me, so he ended up meeting my date, then giving me a sad, desperate look as I left with my handsome police officer. What right did he have to make me feel guilty after I had just overheard the end of his lovey-dovey conversation with some other woman? Not to mention the fact that he hadn’t even tried to get in touch with me after the mind-blowing sex and chocolate experience a couple of nights ago.