L'amour est une conne - Pierre-Olivier is a cunt

It would seem that Love is a Cunt on the continent too. Paris being the city of love is all bullshit, I assure you. With its phallic national landmark...You dream of moonlit autumnal walks along the banks of the Seine hand in hand with a suave Parisian, whispering sweet nothings in your ear and telling you how he will marry you and make sweet sensual love to you twice a day; once in zee morneeng and once in zee eev'neeng.

Fuck all that.

I did recount a polished version of this story on my personal blog, but didn’t go into all the details as I feared that it would kill the wistful romantic atmosphere. So I think here is a more appropriate place. Last week I chanced upon a very handsome fellow called Pierre-Olivier. Tall, blond, with beautiful green eyes and well-dressed. He was 33 (rather young for me), single (not my usual prey, I specialise in the married variety), an estate agent, very wealthy and living in Neuilly sur Seine (think Kensington, dahling!). Things started well on our first date. He took me out for hot chocolate at ‘Les deux magots’ on Boulevard Saint Germain and seemed charming, cultured, eloquent and was very seductive. We saw each other for a second date and I admit that my sole motivation for going out with him was merely to distract myself from thinking about my grand amour M (who is currently breaking my fucking heart but I won’t go into that tonight - there's info on my blog if you really can't wait) and to have a bit of fun. On the second date, we went back to his place. He had a studio across the hall from his parents' apartment. They had bought it for him. It also turned out that his mother cooks his dinner for him every night, does his laundry, cleans his studio, and even does his shopping! Don't forget, dear friends, that he is 33 years of age. As the evening wore on, I became increasingly aware that his behaviour was simply childlike. He actually played with his food at the table. However, things started getting a little intimate and I thought 'fuck it, I want to have some fun tonight'.

Then came the delicate question of protection. He didn't have any. Neither did I. So I explained that it couldn't go any further. Even if I took the pill, it would have been the same response - there are other diseases to catch besides pregnancy (and yes, pregnancy IS a disease in my book!).

But he seemed absolutely intent on screwing me. He wasn't content to do other things just for that night and then perhaps sleep together another time, when we were better prepared. He even said 'I won't come, you know' and I nearly died laughing. I couldn't believe it. He started making out that I was the one being unreasonable because I wouldn't go through with it and had 'lead him on', as though to shift the blame for the very simple and forgivable oversight of not having bought a condom. I suddenly didn’t feel like it anymore. So I made an excuse (which is true) that I was in love with someone else and would just be using him for sex and that I didn’t feel honest doing that.

But he said ‘that’s fine. Use me. Let’s just fuck now and then we can see what happens later. If it lasts, it lasts. If it doesn’t, at least we’ll have fucked and had fun. Come on, I want you to fuck me.’

Here was a man who was actually pleading with me to use him for thankless sexual gratification.

Oh my god.

At that point, his ardour suddenly transformed and went beyond simple pressure. It traversed the boundary into the realms of that which makes me recoil: desperation. Not of the usual obsequious kind to which I am accustomed, but desperation nonetheless and I was instantly and definitively turned off. In the end, I got so sick of him trying to pressurise me into having unprotected sex (I was d'accord sur le principe of having sex, but he's got to be out of his fucking MIND if he thinks I'd do it without protection - I just can't stand men like that) that I said something quite vicious: 'what? did your MOTHER forget to buy you some condoms?'. I just couldn't resist. I don't know how I said that with a straight face because every time I think about it now, I can't stop laughing. He didn't react well and started to sulk, just like a child. So I said 'maybe it would be better if I left' and he said 'yes, maybe it would' and folded his arms and looked the other way. I honestly didn't care either way so I began to get dressed.

As I was carefully putting on my second stocking (with 1950’s style seams up the back - miam!) I saw in the corner of my eye that he was watching me so I looked up and instantly he turned away as a child does when you catch them looking to see if you're watching them sulk. He actually wanted to know if I was taking any notice! When I didn't stop at my stockings he started to realise that maybe I wasn't joking after all and that I actually was leaving so he tried to talk me out of it with little kisses and charming words. But I'd had enough and just carried on getting dressed without saying a single word. At seeing he couldn’t get his way, he reacted, very maturely, by saying 'quelle méchante: qu’est ce que t’es froide' (translates roughly as ‘what a cold bitch’) in the same whiny tone as a child would when you take his toys away. I had to bite my lip to stop myself laughing as I put my black velvet gloves on and my mink scarf. I walked out of his studio, he sitting sulking on the bed, went down the stairs and burst out laughing outside under his window. Then I took the métro home, had a shower, made some toast and continued reading ‘Six Wives’ by David Starkey enveloped in a warm glow. The whole thing seemed completely surreal, but I have to admit that it did me good, because I've never had such a laugh for a long while. It was as though I had discovered that I hadn't lost my touch after all. In spite of M, I was still attractive and this time, I actually felt attractive. My friends have remarked that the sparkle has returned to my eye. I seem to be back on my feet for the time being. But we’ll see how long that lasts - I have to see M tomorrow night in a professional context, and that promises to be tense.