About #62: The Black Frenchman
For those that don’t know, I like to chronicle my dates. It goes like this… I meet a guy, go out on a date with him and then report back to all of you to let yall know how it went. Initially, it was guys from dating sites but now all dates get a number. Some get 2nd dates, some get a third. Many get curved. And the lucky ones, well they get that work. #Relax!
Caution: If you are real churchy and saintly and reading sexual innuendos makes you uncomfortable, this here ain’t the read for you. Stop reading now! This date does not end purely.
So anyways… I want to tell y’all about how a simple broke broad like myself ended up in the South of France, rubbing elbows with the richest and fanciest of folk. Spoiler Alert! It’s not a love story. Felt like one though.
How we met: Sorry ladies, I didn’t find him online. I actually met him a long while ago, back in my college days. I was married then though and I hadn’t started cheating on my husband just yet so #62 and I never quite connected. Fast forward 20 years later, #62 hits me up on WhatsApp one day and tells me he’s this fancy Frenchman now and well, to France I went.
The Logistics: He paid for everything. All of it, the flight, the food, the loft that overlooked the FrenchRiviera, the fancy French car with the fancy French name, my French haircut, all activities, places… errrthing! I felt like I was on an all-inclusive resort. I only had to pay for souvenirs. #LaAddicionPorLui #thecheckisforhim…
The Date: He said to me, “Whatever you want, I want to make happen for you.” He showed me what love should look like. He would lead me through the pebbled roads of France, guiding me only with the tips of his fingers. His touch and his tone were as gentle as the ocean spray breezing through the streets of St Tropez. He took me to see statues, monuments, gold trimmed buildings, beaches, yachts, rich folk, a bocce ball tournament, nightclubs and French boutiques.
We dined over moonlit nights, speaking mostly of regrets and missed opportunities. His eyes were telling. They were intense, but it wasn’t love at all that I saw in his eyes, it was bottled lust. A serum I didn’t want to consume. Even still, I was able to see France through his eyes and it was beautiful. At times I would just stop, exhale and take it all in. And every time I stopped- click. He’d tell me how beautiful I was and then another click. I literally had my own personal paparazzi there to capture all of my moments and all of my movements. 1,000 photos later. I’ll always remember France.
Did We or Didn’t We: This is always the part that people want to know. Well…I can tell you that man had 20 years worth of material that he was ready to let loose. If you know me- you know I tried my hardest to not get got I just came to see France, dassit… I was calling on Mother Nature, like pleaaaaase mama, please make your appearance. I was literally tapping on it, trying to get the red river flowing but nope…. nothing. Like really bish?!? You gonna do me like this!
I strongly considered using my big letter I words (#itchy #irritated #infected) but the tequila was flowing, the music was going, and he literally had just shown me the world. So on the second night, I tiptoed into the kitchen. He was there, shirt off, stroking the keys of the keyboard, looking intensely at his computer screen. Smelling like good credit and fresh Euros. He saw me. I smirked. My eyes motioned him toward the direction of the black marble countertop stained of tequila droplets and baguette crumbs. It would serve as our bed of roses.
