A whole lotta Durex and a whole lotta fun

So, The Frenchman came, he went and I conquered. And we came. And came. A massive box of Durex, gone. Fun times. Right now, I’m battling against a cold and feeling a bit sorry for myself. The cold is courtesy of The Frenchman. He came down with it three days before flying in but hey, it’s a small price to pay for the fun we had.

 The weekend went without a hitch, despite the sky shitting snow all over London. I mean, really?! I had to adjust the plans I’d made a little but on the whole it went to plan. I was unbelievably nervous waiting for him at the airport. I have no idea why. But I was. Proper heart ricocheting in my chest, sweaty palms, sickly nervous. But then when I saw him, well, all was good. He looked deliciously handsome and was wrapped up in the scarf I’d bought him for Christmas. Looked good on him, too. On the drive into London, I showed him various sites – the Olympic Park, Canary Wharf, my house. Yep. We drove straight past it. And if it wasn’t for the fact I’m living with the ‘rents, I’d have been taking him there instead. Having said that, when we got to the hotel, it was clear I’d made the right choice. We got upgraded to a suite for no apparent reason (and I never get upgraded anywhere, on anything, ever). So, instead of just a room, we had a massive living room with a great view over London, massive bathroom with double shower, kitchen and bedroom. Nice. This clearly meant more surfaces to get dirty on. And get dirty we did. Bedroom, tick. Shower, tick. Bath, tick. Kitchen, tick. Sofa, tick. Up against the floor to ceiling height windows overlooking Waterloo station? Tick. Just, fabulous. I’m quite amazed at how good the sex actually is. Very cat that got the cream, I can tell you.

 So, the Friday, we went to look at Egyptian mummies and drink real ale in a chintzy Victorian pub and in the evening, I introduced him to Nandos. I cannot believe they don’t have one in France. I mean, seriously? What’s that all about? I adore Nandos. So we met up with Miss America and her husband, had some food and then headed into central London for some cocktails. It was a lot of fun. I love that The Frenchman loves to dance. I love that he’s so affectionate, even in front of other people. He’ll kiss me anywhere. Over the table in a restaurant, on the Tube, on the bus, in a packed bar. I felt thoroughly adored and I’m sure I was positively glowing. It was a lovely day and night. With the snowfall everything was coated in white and it was nothing short of romantic, walking around the near deserted streets of London at 2am after having argued about whether English or French McDonald’s was better…ahhh, l’amour. Saturday was a chilled affair. We had a long lie in and a nice lunch before wandering around Covent Garden, Soho and Carnaby Street. We stopped off at Yuautcha, a Chinese/Japanese restaurant in Soho and had coffees and macaroons (cola, hazelnut and parma violet flavoured. Just yum) and headed back to the hotel for a nap. That night we went on the London Eye, a first for the both of us, and then into Chinatown for dinner. I think it’s safe to say that his naughty side is definitely becoming a lot more pronounced now. As we were having a cigarette in the freezing cold, he told me he’d love to warm me up by pushing me up against the wall and fucking the life out of me. I almost choked on my cigarette. Not because I’m a prude, but because it came from him. He’s always sensitive, more romantic than aggressive in the bedroom, and even though I knew he had a naughty side to him, it took me by surprise coming from nowhere like it did. Yeah. That was a lot of fun.

 That’s what the weekend was. Fun. We didn’t have any heavy conversations, we just hung out. Enjoyed each others company. Took the piss out of my bad French and his dodgy English phrases. After talking about blowjobs, it transpired I can’t say ‘souffler’ (blow) and it’s a common term of endearment in French to call a woman ‘Ma biche’ (my doe). He calls me his little venison instead. We’re racking up the ‘in jokes’ and each of them make me smile. I didn’t repeat the L-Bomb but it took a LOT of restraint on my part. It’s incredibly hard for me to hold back on what I’m feeling sometimes but, I did it. And as he told me at the airport as he was leaving, ‘we’re strong’. That’s enough for me.

For the entire weekend, we were literally joined at the hip. So much so that I feel a bit lost now. As usual, it’s going to take a good few days for me to feel back to normal, get used to sleeping alone and waking alone. Total balls.

I go back to Marseille in four weeks time and I’m already marking the days in my calendar.

It.Cannot.Come.Quick.Enough.

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If you snooze you lose

So Mr Soldier texted me again about an hour ago.

‘Your lips are looking too hot.’

He was referring to a picture I’d put on Facebook from my night out yesterday, my lips streaked with deep red lipstick. I replied back with ‘thanks’ and when he texted back and asked if he could kiss them again, he got a ‘nope’ in response. I mean. Really? Anyway, this went back and forth for a few minutes, him saying what he missed about me and me saying ‘I’m off the market’. Then he said:

‘It’s been over a year now.’

Well, yes. It almost has, kinda. So why keep harping on about it? The sex was good, but really? It can’t be that hard to go get laid somewhere else. I replied back and said yep, a lot can change in a year and he said he wished things hadn’t changed. I reminded him that he was the one to flake on our arrangement, and now it’s too bad. If you snooze, you lose. That’s the way of the world. You can’t just pick someone up and put them down whenever you feel like it and expect them to hang around. Besides, I’m so not interested. Wouldn’t go back there if you paid me. That’s the last time I dally with a friend’s brother!

Bloody men.

Dirty Pictures and The End of The World

So last night after a great dinner with Miss Comeback, Miss Sunshine and a few other colleagues, I tucked myself up in bed ready to sleep. My phone had been bleeping away all night with the writer girls I speak to on our Facebook thread. When all four of us get chatting it can get a bit hectic so I turned the notifications off. I’m still getting used to my new mobile and I’ve not yet familiarised myself with the different notifications for different apps, so when my phone bleeped again I sighed and ignored it. And then thought, actually, let me just check. I’m glad I did because it was a picture of Mr Marseille’s naked torso. Hello. We started chatting and clearly, he had the horn. So finally, we started swapping pictures. 

Things have moved very slowly in this regard between us. The guys I dated so far this year all wanted pictures straight away and I was always a bit…put off with doing so. So I quite liked Mr Marseille’s approach of waiting for a while. Think it’s safe to say I slept well. And I’ve kept his pictures in a locked app on my phone for a cheeky peek now and again.

In other news, it’s the 21st December today, which some believe to be the end of the world thanks to a perhaps heavy misinterpretation of the Mayan calendar. Never mind the fact it’s been the 21st for a few hours in some parts of the world and, I think they’re still here. But I might be wrong.Unless of course it’s relating to one of the 24 hours of today in south American time. Then we’re screwed.

If, however, the world does end, I’d like to take this opportunity to say thanks for reading my blog.

But I’m sure I’ll see you (metaphorically speaking) tomorrow.

x

Back To Reality

So I’ve returned from my weekend in France. And I really, really don’t want to be here. I’ve done literally diddly squat all day. This is not good!

After hopping on the Eurostar and changing metro lines in Paris like a pro, I jumped on the TGV to head south to Marseille. It was six and a half hours in total before I finally got to Marseille St Charles and saw the smiling face of The Frenchman as he waited for me on the platform. It was so good to see him again. It had only been 3 weeks but it felt like forever. My train had actually arrived a little late, which he was thankful for because he was late himself. The reason, he told me, was because he’d been busy making a pie. He’d never made one before but he wanted to have dinner waiting for me since I was arriving so late in the evening. I have to say, I was mighty impressed. His pie was delish and went well with his salad and home-made dressing, chocolates and ridiculous amount of wine. We spent the evening eating, catching up, having obscene amounts of sex and generally chilling out. It was so nice to be back there with him (and his cat, of course), it almost felt like I’d never left.

On Saturday, he woke me up quite early. “Have you finished sleeping?” he asked. I hadn’t but being kissed awake put an end to my laziness. What a wake up call indeed and let’s face it, sex is a perfect alarm clock. He fell asleep afterwards and because I’d brought my laptop to keep me occupied on the train, I decided to get some writing done. When he woke up, he asked to read some. My writing was a major bone of contention with my ex and he never once showed an interest in it, until I left. He ended up reading some on the Sunday and while I was embarrassed, he seemed genuinely interested in the story, asking about this and that and for translations around English expressions he’d never heard of. It was nice for him to show an interest in something that means so much to me. It was a really nice, chilled out day. We went for a drive into the mountains to see a Calanque (kind of like a bay) and even though I got a bit chicken at the idea of going all the way to the top, it was simply stunning. He goes running up there all the time and it made me feel pea green with envy. I’m not sporty at all compared to him (he runs, plays squash, tennis, golf and football on a regular basis) but just the fact that he was able to go running with that kind of scenery around him…it made me realise just how different our lives actually are. By the time we got back to his apartment, I had a headache from the freezing cold, windy weather, so we both lay on the sofa, him to watch football and me to nap. I knew he was a massive fan of Olympique Marseille but, actually, I think he’s just a football addict all over. This is a new one on me. My ex didn’t really watch it at all, but I’m thinking a football addiction is better than a drug one? No?

Anyway, that evening, we went for Pastis (a popular pre-dinner beverage. Bit aniseed-ish. Not that keen), then dinner and to a club. I had been curious as to whether he’d told his friends about me, not least because there’s this one girl on his Facebook who is just always there. There’s always one, isn’t there. In any case, I’m not bothered about her now, but still, I didn’t know if I was this dirty little English secret, so I asked him. He said he’s told his friends about me “sure, I have” he said. They think it’s great, apparently. Definitely and experience, if a little crazy. That said, he has friends who’ve ended up marrying their partners after long distance relationships, so it’s hardly out of this world. The main thing, he said, is that he’s happy and they can see it. When he talks about me, he has a smile. Aww. That was enough for me. It was a great, great night. Fabulous food, where we ended up staying in the restaurant until way past midnight, then onto a bar with live music and then onto a club. I really didn’t want the night to end but I was conscious of the fact that it was 3am and I only had one day left. I didn’t want to spend it all hungover, so we left.

We ended up having a long conversation about relationships, and trust. I’d made a friend in the club waiting in the overly long queue for the toilet and obviously, being English, I was more interesting than the run of the mill French women there. It was all super friendly and when I was back on the dance floor with The Frenchman, my new friend saw us and said hello. The Frenchman knows my last relationship was a bit…restrictive…and he seemed to struggle with understanding why. Sure, everyone says ‘oh yeah, I’m really trusting’ at the beginning of a relationship but with him, I believe it 100%. Just the fact we’re in this long distance set up means we have to trust one another and I still can’t get over the self-assurance which seems to ooze from his pores. I know he’s not sleeping with anyone else (I asked the question last week) and the reply I got was ‘there’s only one girl and that’s you.’ That’s more than enough for me.

I wish the weekend didn’t go so quickly. It felt like my feet hardly touched the ground. After getting in at 3am, speaking for another hour and half and then having a marathon sesh, we didn’t actually get to sleep til around 6am, which of course meant we woke up around midday on Sunday. By the time we’d dragged ourselves away form each other and out of bed, half the day had gone. Again, he slaved away in the kitchen (roast chicken this time) and we were both so knackered we decided to forego a drive to Le Vieux Port (The Old Harbour) and settled on the sofa with another bottle of wine and his cat to watch a film. The next thing I knew, it was time to go home. Almost. But the filler for this bit will go in a separate post – this one is long enough already.

Waking up on Monday morning was hard. Not only was I exhausted, I just didn’t want to go. His cat was meowing and kneading his paws on my face after having accompanied me everywhere the night before (even to the bathroom) and I was so comfortable with The Frenchman spooned around me. I couldn’t believe it was time to go already. The good news is, I didn’t cry this time. I don’t know if it’s because I was going on a train and not a plane, but the goodbye didn’t seem so gut wrenching this time. It felt more like I was going away on a trip rather than all the way back to London. It was hard, of course, but I managed to hold it in. Until this morning. I have no idea why I was so emotional. Maybe it was hearing Noel Gallagher’s High Flying Birds on the radio which now reminds me of him. Maybe it was waking up without him having gotten so used to it, so quickly.

Obviously, this is all reaaaaaalllyy condensed. I don’t want to bore anyone with minute details. Suffice it to say, it was easily one of the best weekends of my life. And now, I feel a bit lost. Which sucks arse. Because I really doubt I’ll see him before the end of the year, and it could be 6-7 weeks before I see him again. And that is a really, really long way away.

Popping Cherries

There’s been a few storylines in programmes about losing one’s virginity recently – Hollyoaks and Girls, to name two. In Hollyoaks, one of the characters got infatuated with her older sister’s, creepy boyfriend and in Girls, one of the characters was revealed to be a twenty-something virgin. Since its some time since I popped my cherry, it’s not something I thought about often, until I watched The 40 Year Old Virgin last night.

I lost mine to my new boyfriend at the time. I bunked off school for a bit after lunch and went to his (he lived really close to the school). I was around 15 and he was nearly 17 in sixth form. We’d known of each other for a while as he was friends with my then best friend’s older brother but it wasn’t until we both went on a school trip to London that we started talking. After that we started going out and shortly after we did the deed. As is normal (I think) for most girls, it wasn’t anything to shout about. It was painful and I remember thinking ‘is this what all the fuss is about?’ I was distinctly unimpressed. After, I went back to school, to my English class and that was that. Until I heard that he was still seeing his ex at the same time. Oh well. Bell-end. I’ve seen pictures of him since on Facebook and boy, what was I thinking? I wouldn’t even look twice at him now.

I think I was of average age, for the UK anyway. In my school, most guys had already got their end away, or at least they said they had. I didn’t expect to meet anyone older than, say, 18, who hadn’t done the deed. Then I met my ex. I was 17, he was 21, and he’d apparently waited by choice. The Frenchman told me he waited until he was 20. It got me thinking.

Why does it seem strange to meet a guy who waits until their in their 20’s to have sex? Ok, 40 is a little extreme. There seems to be some kind of badge of honour when it comes to guys ‘taking’ a girl’s virginity but the other way around…not so much. I’ve some friends who’ve said that would be a major turn off. Of course there’s the risk of clingy attachment, not to mention a crap shag, but still. Why is it weird to be with someone who goes against peer pressure to wait until they meet someone they deem special? It certainly didn’t feel weird taking my ex’s virginity away. I didn’t even know until about a month after we first slept together anyway.

Would I do it again? I dunno. I tend to go for guys in their 30’s now and I admit, I’d be thinking more along the lines of ‘what’s wrong with him’ than ‘aww, how sweet’ but I wouldn’t dismiss it out of hand.

Could be like a Mrs Robinson thing…

Et maintenant… (And now…)

What a weekend! It sucks to be back home! After a month I finally saw The Frenchman again and it was bloody fantastic.

He was there to meet me at the airport and straight away, the chemistry was there. We grabbed a quick coffee before he drove us to his apartment which was very french. Plenty of stairs (and he lives on the top, 5th floor), hard floors, shutters on the window, balcony, the lot. And, I met his cat, my new best friend. Since we were both tired we stayed in. He cooked dinner to go with the flowers he bought me and we worked our way through a bottle of wine. And had lots of sex. Of course! It was so nice to be with him in his own environment.

When we woke up the next morning, with his cat balanced precariously on my arm (!) we heard the unmistakable sound of rain. It seemed I’d brought the English weather with me because according to him, it’s rare to have rain in Marseille that lasts more than hour. It rained all day. We had planned to wander around town but neither of us wanted to venture out, so we spent the day lounging around, listening to music, having more sex and eating. Not a bad substitute methinks! When the rain finally stopped we went out and my french skills were put into practice with real people! I was nervous, of course, but I actually did ok. I was understood, anyway, and we had a lovely dinner before heading to a cocktail bar to sink mojitos and dance. By the time we got home we were both shattered but still found the energy to make use of his bed (again). Afterwards, we fell asleep. While he was still on top of and, um, inside me. That was a first! But a nice one 🙂

And on Sunday, I woke up at stupid o’clock. I don’t know why but I’m always up at about 8.30am on a Sunday so I left him to sleep a bit before waking him up in my own special way! The sun was shining through the shutters and the sky was perfectly blue. Finally, I was experiencing the sun! After breakfast we headed to Cassis, a gorgeous town on the coast. This isn’t a picture I took – I have photos on various social networking platforms and I’m trying to preserve my anonymity, but this is Cassis.

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I have to say, being on a beach with the sun blazing in my skin in the middle of November was a nice touch. As we sat outside a restaurant with a glass of wine, we had ‘a conversation’.

He really likes me. He feels comfortable and natural with me (rare for him) and I understand him. It’s hard for him to see me only once a month and until now, he hasn’t wanted to ask himself whether he’s ready for a serious relationship. This is his way of protecting himself and he’s told me before that he tends to put barriers up whereas I’m the opposite. And in a perfect world, I’d be with him in Marseille. Everything he said echoed what I was thinking, and I told him that I have to keep reminding myself that he’s ‘him’. I’m not sure if its because he’s French or because he’s him but things he says and does aren’t what is expect a guy to say or do. I’m used to the idea that attempting to have a ‘serious where is this going’ conversation could spell the end of a potential relationship but he’s the opposite to what I’ve grown used to. He’s incredibly affectionate, declaring his family ‘complete’ when we were snuggled with Icar on the sofa. So, the upshot is that he has to ask himself if he’s ready to take a risk with me or not.

He’s worried it would be difficult with our different cultures. I told him it would be. I did a relationship like that for nearly 10 years and it isn’t easy, but then good things generally take work. He agreed with that sentiment.

I’m going back for four days in 3 weeks and then he wants to come here mid December. After that, the plan is that February-ish, I’ll go for a bit longer so we can spend some proper time together.

So, are we ‘exclusive’? I didn’t ask. Strangely, I don’t feel like I have to. I trust him and I’m sure he feels the same way I do. Add to that the fact he says sex with me is the best he’s ever had and, well, I’m not worrying too much about him straying.

Of course, the weekend went far too quickly. And yes, I cried at the airport when it was time to come home. I’m a total sap. But it’s not long to go now until I’m back out there…

Exciting stuff!

A High Flying Bird

So, it’s been some time since my last post. Last weekend I took myself off to France to meet The Frenchman.

After a mildly nervous flight (it was the first time I’d ever flown by myself), I got off the plane, collected my luggage and made my way to the arrivals hall, with a flicker of nerves. The Frenchman and I have been in constant comms since June, but a little part of me was worried that I’d distorted the memory of him in my head. What if I didn’t actually fancy him in the sober, cold light of day four months on? What if it was awkward when we saw each other? What if we had nothing to talk about? Luckily, as soon as I walked through the arrivals door he was there, and all those questions were answered. Yes, I did still fancy him. He’s taller than I remember, tip-toe kissing tall, and his eyes are this strange colour somewhere between amber and hazel. In his converse, low slung jeans, t-shirt and baseball cap, I was immediately hit with the feeling I had when I first saw him in Ireland. I’d distorted nothing. Any worries I had about that those first few seconds of seeing each other being awkward were gone when he kissed me in the middle of the crowd waiting for their friends, family and business contacts, and I quite literally melted. Well, only half melted. When he spoke to me I might as well have fallen in a heap on the floor. It sounds weird to say it, but our comms have always been by email, so it was the first time since Ireland I’d actually heard his voice. A lot deeper than I remembered, and that accent…

He’d bought me a white chocolate Twix, because I’d told him once it was one of my favourite chocolate bars and the white chocolate was a new one on me! We headed to the car park, kissing and smiling and hugging along the way. He couldn’t remember which car park he’d parked in, and his attitude was remarkably laid back about it. It was something I saw a lot of over the weekend. Nothing seemed to faze him. When we got lost driving around, looking for a place to eat after the concert, both of us hungry and way past midnight, he just said ‘de rien’ – ‘it’s nothing.’ Which was handy since it was partially my fault we’d got lost as he’d put me in charge of directing him with his satnav…talk about a baptism of fire in terms of utilising my newly acquired French speaking skills!

Since we got to the hotel too early to check in, we parked up and went to a cafe for a couple of hours, talking, catching up and joking. Miss America had warned me before I left that my sense of humour might not translate. She said ‘sarcasm can kiss your (my) ass.’ I’m pleased to say there was no awkwardness when it came to swapping jokes! He’s just as sarcastic and cheeky as I am, so a lot of the time was spent taking the piss out of each other! And when we finally got to the hotel room after stopping for a bite to eat…sparks flew. It was Ireland all over again, but this time totally sober. I don’t think I’ve ever had a prolonged period in bed with a guy who was solely focused on me. Like, ever. It was all so romantic, so intense, so French…so amazing. I could quite happily have not moved from the hotel room at all. I said before he was the best sex I’ve ever had…that statement was definitely true and most definitely still stands. If I could think of one word to describe it, it would just be…delicious 🙂

And so it was for two days. Eating a ridiculous amount of food, drinking, walking, kissing, laughing, hugging, dancing, joking, lounging around in bed, holding hands, massaging – you name it, it happened, and I loved every last minute of it. Maybe it’s a French thing, but he was super affectionate. He felt no way in leaning over the table at dinner or stopping me in the middle of the street for a kiss. And all I could think was, wow. He exudes this confidence, this self assurance that I haven’t seen before. He’s 33, so the same age as most of the guys I’ve come across this year, but his temperament is so different. He has a genuine ‘I don’t give a shit’ air about him that manages not to come across as arrogant. He seems genuinely comfortable in his own skin and I cannot stress enough how much of a turn on that was. He took care of me from the moment I landed to the moment I left. He wouldn’t let me spend any money and when I did, it was only after stressing that I wanted to pay for something. Our hotel room was 157 euros a night and we were there for two. He had an 8 hour round trip, which meant petrol. He bought drinks, dinner and snacks. In the end, I managed to spend a hefty 60 Euros all weekend. He was super patient with me when I tried to speak French, encouraging me along the way and took the time to explain things when I didn’t understand them. It really did feel like I’d spent masses of time with him beforehand – I could hardly believe it was only the second time we’d seen each other.

I’m literally overwhelmed by romance. I feel like I’m walking around in this hazy glow. And it’s not because I’ve been treated like a princess all weekend either. It’s because spending some time with him has confirmed to me that he’s exactly what I thought he’d be when I first saw him and from what I’ve learned over the last 4 months. Everything from his taste in music, to his political and philosophical beliefs were bang on point to what I thought they’d be. I can honestly say that there was no flicker of disappointment over that weekend and I was scared that there might be. It’s so easy to make yourself believe that you really like someone in an ‘online’ setting and I was worried the reality would be lacking. But it wasn’t. I felt ridiculously comfortable with him. I’m not second guessing anything. So far he’s been surprisingly honest about his feelings, he doesn’t mess around when I ask him something. He seems to have this aura that relaxes me and instead of doing the analytical will he like this/wont he, if I ask him this will he think this or that, I feel remarkably secure.

I like him, a lot. With the exception of the distraction with Mr Grey (ha, I actually had to stop and try to remember his name then!), the way I feel has been constant. He said to me today that he felt like he was in the clouds all weekend, everything was perfect and it felt to him like we were a couple who had been together for years. He can’t take time off work to come to London until January, so I’m heading to Marseilles in a few weeks time and he’s said we’ll talk about the ‘future’ then. If I was living there or he was here, I’d know the status of our relationship. Mr Grey wouldn’t even have got a look in. So it’ll be interesting to see what happens.

It’s weird, but I don’t feel stupidly giddy about all of this. I feel ridiculously happy, annoyed that it’s taken so long (which is blatantly down to me and cancelling my trip in August) and oddly secure. I’d have thought that if I were in this situation, I’d be constantly stressing about what he’s doing, whether he’s going to be seduced by some sophisticated French woman given there’s hundreds of miles in distance between us, but I don’t. There’s something about him that makes me feel like I don’t need to worry about anything and that’s a feeling I’m liking a hell of a lot because I’m missing him. Having finally spent time together it went all too quickly and now I’ve got a good four weeks to wait until I’ll see him again. It actually feels like I’m stuck in this dream right now that I don’t really want to wake up from. Everything’s been on autopilot, I’ve done no real work today at all as my head’s just stuck in this daze.

It’s really quite a beautiful feeling…