There is something difficult about the overly emotionally available man when you have been behaving like a wild Indian. He wants to pin you in bed, tells you he wants to take care of you, asks you to take advantage of his apartment, tries to feed you watermelon and chocolate on a Tuesday night. He adores your haircut, is dying to go down on you for hours, appreciates even your shortcomings. The difficulty comes when you want to be on the run. You want to be in multiple beds per month, you want to entertain yourself all day in the office with the texts of at least a handful of men playing games as you play the same. You want a collection of stories to tell your girlfriends via email or brunch. And his story is always the same: he loves the idea of you (but probably has no idea of who you really are.) Sure, not wanting this devotion could perhaps make one an asshole. But you can feel when it’s real, and you can feel when you want it, and sometimes you just don’t.
After being completely drenched by this type of man, who is definitely crazy by the way but totally adoring, I woke up feeling strange. What’s wrong with me? Why can’t I allow this man to worship me, to cook me vegetarian meals? Am I really this fucked up? Am I a derelict of intimacy? Is my ex still dementing my emotions?
Deep in thought, I listened to a few songs my ex before my ex had written about me. I became peaced out and melancholy, sent him a text in admiration, and then fell into a slumber with my terribly romantic and hairy feline. My roommate woke me and asked me if I would like to join her out at Sweet and Vicious where she was meeting a man who she had spent a late platonic night with after a bbq. Sure, I had nothing else going on. I put a very small amount of energy into an outfit and downed a glass of wine before heading out.
Still questioning my intimacy issues, I decided at some point in the evening that I wanted to do something wild, something to remind me of why I enjoy not being attached to any particular man. I wasn’t sure at that point what I wanted, but it became clear after entering a club that I wanted a man to pour myself all over that I was not attached to. I wanted a closeness that was far from intimate, but similarly satisfying in its animalistic impetus.
I ordered more whiskeys than I should have.
Lucky for me, the dance floor was full of men from Paris. Not only am I partial to The French, but I find them easy to bed. You can simply make eyes with a French man, and he approaches you with the intentions of a French kiss (at the very least). After conversing with maybe three, the leader of the pack (read: the hottest) approaches me and quickly starts to try and kiss me. I asked my roommate if I could before we put our lips together. (She had mentioned he was dreamy so it was only right to get clearance.) She answered by turning me toward the dance floor by the shoulders and pushing me forward.
Once we were in full-blown make-out on the dance-floor, it was only a matter of time before we were shoved up against a wall of the club frenching our lives away. After a bit of this, and his hand up my dress, I realized it was kind of ridiculous. I said, “We can’t do this any more.” He said, “You’re right,” and took me by the hand to lead me out of the club. For the record, what I meant was: “we can’t be making out against a wall in this club with your hand up my dress.” What he meant by agreeing was, “let’s go somewhere else.”
I grabbed his hand and we walked straight out of the club to hail a cab. I never asked where we were going (sorry, mom!). The cab we caught was playing full blast Pakistani music. Seriously, deafening, it was amazing. He called himself, Happy Cabby. We went to his apartment, a stone’s throw from my work. The elevator ride up was shared with a definite psychopath. Terrifying, really.
Once inside, I paraded around checking out the space. I ended up on the balcony where I chatted the French man up, finding out he was actually a Jew, hence the name, David The French Jew. He was wearing the star of David on his necklace and turned out to be a dude in Finance, working in a French Bank.
It was all very chill and natural, despite the obviously approaching nakedness of the evening and the very late hour. Once I realized we were close to f’ing, I swallowed an Ambian to make sure that after, I could sleep.
Side Note: We found a million prescription pill bottles in the bureau belonging to the owner of the apartment.
The sex was dirty and hot. He was huge. We are both Scorpios and brimming with lust and this much was obvious. It lasts for a long time, and is followed up by sweet kissing and hand-holding and a movie on the television. Of course, I pass out quicker than immediately, thanks Ambian!
We both woke up around noon and felt amazing. I commented on how relaxed I was, and he said, “it’s great, isn’t it?” I was thrilled to be sprawled about a bed with my limbs extended. We decided to watch a horrible movie.
For the next four of five hours, we laid around naked and ate delicious European chocolate. Was I in heaven? Or just in the bed of a French man I met at a trendy downtown Manhattan club? When I left, I gave him my number but did not take his.
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