Expo of Modern Relationship

Today we went to a relatively rad art expo.

I like him- I do, and there is an allure to intimacy. I think. But it may be too soon for me to try and open up to someone in the way that a relationship requires when the love-stains all over my heart haven't begun to fade yet. It's wrong that when we're talking/cuddling I'm thinking about Harry. It's probably also wrong that when we're having sex I'm thinking of Handsome Parisian. Thinking of him and cursing his name for ruining my sex life.

The last banner for IFFTP said "some people are settling down, some people are settling, and some people won't settle for anything less." I have a fear of settling for less. I've done it. I've done it twice and I never ever want to do it again. Not to mention every time I hear a woman say the words "my boyfriend" she immediately sounds like she's in a cage to me.

But this all sounds very negative. The soft peach fuzz truth around this sour fruit is that he's intelligent, cuddely, tall, receptive and thoughtful. I like him. I miss him. And next week he's taking me to Montelimar, a town in the South, to stay at his family's place for Bastille weekend. It's probably going to be wonderful. Dang!

Extra-Curricular

I would like to take this time to name my English student "Scratchy," after his late baby squirrel. He is my age, nice looking, a non smoker, and one of those rare specimens known as "French Surfers" from the South. Understandably he comes with an air of nostalgia for the male species back home in the islands, wearing T-shirts and sporting surfer guy hair.

While I have long suspected that the only reason he comes to my lessons, since I'm the world's worst English teacher, seriously, may well be our age proximity and my not entirely horrible cuteness quotient, today he surprised me by offering to take me on a visit to Dijon's surrounding areas "some Sunday," "when he has time."

He also had a lot to say about me potentially finding work in a vineyard. I shall investigate this.

And in secondary news, I've been thinking a lot about dreams this week. Windows to the subconscious? Vast reservoirs of cryptic info about life, spirituality, or human psychology just waiting to be deciphered? Or are we unaccountable for any of the trouble our brains get into when we let em' off the leash each night?

Lately I've been dreaming about having a pug dog puppy and forcing cuddles on his tiny squirming body. I don't generally like dogs; and I've always found ownership of the small pathetic ones kind of a perverse display of a desire to dominate a lesser and submissive being. I've also dreamt of surviving a zombie apocalypse by fleeing to the ocean and staying with a pod of dolphins for 8 days, befriending a tree that had skin instead of bark, and always, alllwaaays, dreams about Harry. He emerges, full of love an reciprocity, and my chest fills up with warm delicious sunbeams; until the the sight of my ceiling extinguishes them with a swift bucket of cold awareness.

The R Word

Things are definitely on the brink of domestic with TMI, which, I'm gonna be honest, has me concerned for IFFTP. Yes, I desperately want to go to back to Paris and share my passionate encounters with the French God of Sex with the blog world. Yes, I want to go out and make eyes/brush up against/ and be shockingly forward in the language of love with the young and hot French populace.

But lets be honest. When a guy, THE SAME GUY, is sleeping in your bed 3-4 times out of the week, throwing a modest tantrum when you accidentally call him by another man's name, and frankly stating that he will A "hate you" and B "never see you again" when you ask about sex with others, exactly how single can you be, really?

So what is it? What exactly defines a relationship? When the jealously starts? When the exclusivity starts? Or did it start somewhere back there with the sex?

There was no verbal confirmation, but I have to say it: I think I might be in a relationship. And what's worse, when he isn't around, I'm starting to miss him. I predict an abrupt readership plummet by at least 15%.

Missing It

This week, after five months abroad, I find myself increasingly dwelling on the very physical sensation of missing. I think about the university classrooms, the sand on my grandmother's kitchen floor, the intimacy of my two best friends; the three of us rolled up in a hammock together on some childhood beach. I think about K and the years we lived together. My car. My cats. My teens... and I miss. Seriously, I miss.

Lately I've been telling TMI that I miss him when I don't see him for a night or two. He usually doesn't believe me and/or asks me "why" or "what does that mean" or "what type?" ..Are there types of missing? I told him there is no "why," that it's just an uncontrollable physical sensation. Like a headache or an itch or.. the hiccups.

While I believe that to be true, it got me thinking: In what part of our bodies do we feel missing? Love is famously localized to the chest cavity; as is sorrow, excitement, and shock; but missing? What do you feel when you remember the smell of your last apartment? Your brother's laugh at Christmas? Your lover from the night before? An ache in your jaw? A dryness in your throat?

There was a time some months back when I spelled love out for myself the following way: Their wellbeing outweighs your own, you're happy when they're around, and you miss them when they're not. On these terms it was very easy to fall in love. Am I on to something here or am I missing the point?

Talk Dirty, M'sieur

I think I may have just discovered where the French earned their supposed reputation as lovers. As any reader will know, it has been a long and relatively unrewarding search, but I've at last turned up a little gem.

Because TMI has a friend staying at his place this weekend, he stayed last night with me and will again tonight. It's starting to feel dangerously domestic.

Since the sex is still far from remarkable, I tried to raise the bar of quality in what may be my new entrapment by trying: "say something sexy." Turns out, "dirty talk" in the language of love is UNTHINKABLY delicious. Honestly, you'd think I would have figured this out a little sooner. "Je veux emprunter toutes les portes de ton corps" whispered breathily against your jawline can definitely muster a blush, I'd say.