Thursday, June 30, 2011
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
Sunday, June 26, 2011
Saturday, June 25, 2011
Friday, June 24, 2011
Thursday, June 23, 2011
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
A few nights ago TMI came up to my place with a bottle of crémant. We did something that was sort of like making love, in that it took all night and it was a personal and highly communicative process, but also a lot not like making love because I was thinking about, and even talking about, Harry.
The night before I had sent him the end-game of all desperate would be/should be/kinda aughta be/but aren't gonna be relationships: the “I love you” txt. More specifically, the “you may have noticed I have no self restraint, so against my better judgement, I have to tell you kid, I love you” txt. ugh.
72 hours of painful silence later, aka last night, I went out for La Fete de la Musique with Harry and J after promising good behavior. It was painful. He looked and sounded better than ever and I felt like a nut case. At the end of the night, I passed up the bise and even our more traditional hand shake and tried to walk away with a "bye." I hurried to get around the block in case I did something embarrassing like let out a sob. By the time I reached my stairs, I couldn't help my self and sent:
"I'll be in debt to you the rest of my life but I'll give you a million pounds if you follow me." After no response, I tried: "..or just 100 if you say something comforting." Finally, I got back " U could put your savings to better use, there's no point wasting them on me."
Welp. That looks like the end of that.
All n' all, I’m not nearly as upset as I could be. By all means, let the records state that I've been sleeping till noon and crying on the toilet, but, I’m treating it with a respectful salute to life’s lessons. I appreciate that my incessant philandering with the exclusively handsome received a slap on the wrist by some overdue sentiments. The good stuff really does come from somewhere before the first kiss, below the skin, and above the belt.
When it comes to heartache, rough relationships, and unrequited love, it’s important to remember that between two people, you’ve got a 50% chance of getting the short end of the stick. So if we're gonna gamble, we'd better learn to roll with the punches.
Sunday, June 19, 2011
Despite all of my relationships, suitors, dates, romantic mishaps and famously frequent French sex, I'm half-way-to-confident to say that I've experienced real love only twice. And to address the scoffing in the audience I will concede that there are different types of love, etc etc, and that this type is suspiciously frequent with men that are not particularly handsome. Very, very, unusual for me, I might add, as my current incarnation is shamefully preoccupied with the physical.
Last night, in the back of a dimly lit bar sometime after midnight, I was sitting on a table and Harry was standing within reach. For the moment we were alone, and there was absolutely no part of me that could have let me escape the situation without breaking some social boundaries. I reached out and touched Harry's stomach. When he didn't protest, I stood up and put my hands on his chest. Still no effort to escape, so I rubbed his shoulders. Then I moved a hand to his neck. Still no running away, so I stepped closer to him and, very slowly pressing my body up against his, cautiously lifted my face until our lips were brushing. I didn't quite have the strength of conviction to go the last millimeter, so I waited, lips parted, for Harry to loose self control and fall into the kiss. Instead, against my mouth, he said so very tragically in his irresistible accent, "I can't."
It was all very Thorn Birds. When I didn't retreat he turned his face slightly and I tormented him further by planting a line of open mouth kisses on his neck, hopefully leaving him at least partially as weak in the knees as I was, before we were interrupted.
When we left the bar, Stephan, the owner and mutual good friend, shook Harry's hand and insisted in a thick French accent: "Harry, you are a very stupid boy." To which he replied. "I know."
The three of us spent the next few hours practicing our new Olympic sport, Tri-Person Cycling, laughing up a storm rolling through my beloved Dijonaise streets. When I slept I dreamt of blissful hand holding. I'm both elated, a little sad, and increasingly worried. Whatever I'm feeling, it's formidable, and with Harry about to leave France, probably a little dangerous too.
Thursday, June 16, 2011
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
Turns out the kid that kisses like a teenager needs a code name. Also turns out that he's found the blog and, through the magic of google analytics, I'm also graced with the information that he's made himself a regular and avid reader. Well. After a deep breath and a solemn salute to the art of literature, I decide to plow forth uncensored and unashamed. (Risking the loss of a friendship and a conversation with a straight face almost certainly.) That said, we'll call him TMI. Teenager-Man-Impersonater. Also the other more obvious meaning.
Last night I allowed the above to my apartment where we did shamefully teenager-like-things like wear big sunglasses, listen to music, and talk about insecurities. We did have sex. And frankly, this time I shall refrain from detail because I'm well aware these passages are being heatedly searched and meticulously deciphered for a review. Tragic. I’m making frantic faces to encourage reading between the lines here. So much for my pride. I think the aforementioned “art of literature” just fizzled away piteously in a cloud of smoke.
What I really want to mention is that, when I re-entered my little medieval sky nest at 1 am this morning, (I was at a movie,) I found that I could see B's head through his skylight... pacing. I watched him with a confused facial expression for a good 20 min to be sure that was, in fact, what he was doing. Pacing. 4 steps to the right, a quick turn, and 4 steps to the left. This looks decidedly unhealthy. Even more so than the plates of partially eaten white rice that are piling up on his dining room table. I haven't visited in about a week and when I do it's brief and infrequent; frankly that whole scene depresses me viciously. Do I need to.. do something? Or is this one out of my hands?
Sunday, June 12, 2011
Saturday, June 11, 2011
Friday, June 10, 2011
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
Saturday, June 4, 2011
There are some who believe that forgetting to look into the eyes of the person who's glass your clinking during a toast results in seven years of bad sex.
Last night, lying once again on the sexual battle ground that is the futon in my apartment, while I was once again being treated to an onslaught of apologies from a very embarrassed and very nervous French guy, I was reminded that I was only graced with this piece of information some months ago.
Having ignored the obvious warning signs that this particular French man kissed like a teenager, after two and one half pleasant dates I foolishly invited him upstairs.
The effort struggled along with incessant interruptions: he would here and there stop to express some shyness about a body part: his back, for example, which I saw nothing wrong with, or a pause for him to remind me that he couldn't relax , and finally, one BIG interruption that ended with a subdued spasm and a whole lot of French cursing, followed by an entire night and early morning of apologies.
So up and at em’ Saturday morning. Today I’m making the rounds again with my resume', followed by a classical music concert with H and J.
In the meantime I don't plan to take any more chances when it comes to a sante, cheers, or chin chin. Eye contact! Here's to hope! *ching*
Thursday, June 2, 2011
While I was expecting to give Saturday DAY to the film crew, (and perhaps a lovely French dinner out with E.D in the evening,) I was dumped off in front of my door step a tired, cold, and abused little creature at 8AM THE NEXT DAY.
When we hadn't started filming by midnight I was getting a little worried, so I asked one of the light crew who matter-of-factly told me he suspected we could be done by 7 if "all went well." Had I only known. I may have brought a toothbrush. A tampon. A bag of chips. Perhaps a coat or a blanket. But alas. I was stranded in the middle of nowhere in the city outskirts in this empty, under-construction apartment that had no furniture save for a stinky dog bed (and one stinky dog) that I climbed dejectedly into at various hours throughout the morning seeking shelter form the cold and the harsh reality of my situation. Which was this, btw:
The film had no script. I was expected to improvise in French. So it's 5 am, I'm tired, ugly, and cold, 4 cameras get stuck in my face and someone yells "Action!" So I stand there looking victimised while the French guy playing the detective takes off in French at me about monkeys and murder suspects and who the hell knows what until suddenly there's an awkward silence. Right. Time to say something! If only I could have understood what the detective was saying. I give a pathetic look to the camera and we have to start all over again.
The worst part was the imposed objects. Each film had to at one point or another have a pot of mustard seen somewhere on camera, and, the phrase "vas y, fais moi plaisir" Which is like, "go ahead, make my day." Any rational film crew would of course think I should be responsible for both of these. The result is me awkwardly smearing mustard on to a slice of white bread while I fervently try to decipher the detective's French in time for me to pick the plausible place to tell him to make my pleasure.
And, after my day of recovery, which I will say was pleasant and snugly and consisted of yogurt cups and Sex and the City, I get a message that says the film was not created in time to meet the festival deadline, so it wouldn't be shown anyway. A waste, but all n' all probably better for my reputation around town.