Despite my presumption of HotFrog being a galloping Gallic love machine, he has no idea how to kiss. He opens his mouth far too wide for a start, and his lingual swirling is too wet and sloppy, the intended prelude to passion not arousing me one little bit. He’s got me pinned against my seat and I don’t want to start a major struggle, so I go along with it for a while then push him away gently and stand up.
He takes this as an invitation to lunge back in and kisses me again, but still, sensuality is in absentia. Not even close. Definitely no cigar. Apart from the Upmann Gigante growing in his trousers…
I push him away again, shaking my head gently in mock disapproval and he takes the rejection in good heart. Well, he wouldn’t want to jeopardize his career by having a client cry ‘Rape’ now, would he?
‘Can you find your way back?’ he asks.
‘I think so’ I reply. ‘I found my way here, didn’t I?’
He takes hold of me again but I wriggle free and he opens the door to let me out.
‘Come back if you get lost’ he calls after me, and I return to my room feeling somewhat virtuous, a sensation I’m not overly familiar with.
CBF is waiting up and I tell her that despite his stunning good looks, he’s a lousy kisser. We giggle and chat awhile until we fall asleep, but in early hours, the poor girl is propelled out of bed by a violent attack of gastro-enteritis which lasts the rest of the night and into the dawn.
First thing in the morning, I ask Reception to call her a doctor and use it as an excuse to text HotFrog – he needs to know what’s going on in with the hotel guests, doesn’t he?
He texts back that he’s sorry to hear this, to let him know if there’s anything he can do, and not to forget to wash my hands at every opportunity. He tells me he’s in meetings all morning, but would be free to see me again this evening if I’d like…
I think about it for a nanosecond and decide, for the sake of the sisterhood, to take him up on his offer.
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