Next weekend, I would be running my fingers through dark shower-rinsed curls, beguiled by puffy French lips.
“I don’t ever beg a woman like this,” Frenchie whispered. “I want you.”
Our date consisted of cocktails, a walk around downtown with pit stops to tug at his belt and feel his intense lust as he kissed me hard, a cab ride to his place, champagne, lap dances with the lights on, smoking, massage oils, shower rinses one at a time, kissing my ass, sucking my lips, an argument, calling a cab, calling to cancel a cab, and me falling into a deep sleep amidst his pillows, sheets and comforter while he begrudgingly slept on his futon. Sharing sheets without sex was outright appalling to Frenchie, who was seeking a romp in American hay. The morning after exposed our mutual disappointment as we coordinated with each other to extricate ourselves from the unwanted circumstance. On my way out, he gave me a bon voyage peck on the cheek, and I civilly accepted. Barely.
