Saturday, June 4, 2011

Seven Years Bad Sex

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*

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