CC and I reach his room simultaneously and sit down on the edge of his bed. We hug and kiss like tentative teenagers. He makes no demands or pressures on me; we just enjoy a shared feeling of togetherness and unity. No pulsing passion pushes us forward, just a soothing sense of satisfaction in the closeness of each other’s company.
A feeling of security wafts over me like a warm wind wafts over a lonely moor. With no words spoken, we lie down together and he wraps me in his arms, cradling my body and kissing me tenderly on my face and neck. The atmosphere in the room assumes a dream-like quality, the outside world and everything in it having disappeared under a blanket of freshly-fallen snow. All is silent save for our soft breathing and sweet sighs. Inside our private cocoon, I gaze up at him in wonder.
'I sometimes dream of just being held like this...' I whisper '...held by someone who cares enough about me not to want anything more.'
He gathers me closer and murmurs into my hair:
‘I can do that…’
A surge of true emotion, often concealed yet ever close to the surface, rises up in a racking sob and erupts in a shudder as I press my body deeper into his. I crush my head against his chest and we cling together rocking, like two lost souls riding a terrible storm. I feel vulnerable yet safe, safe and sheltered in his strong, protective arms.
Despite my slapper tendencies, I’m just a woman who wants to be loved. And like any other woman, I sometimes look for this love in all the wrong places…
The lazy afternoon drifts by unhurriedly as he calms me with his kisses, and our slow and subtle exploration of each other inevitably becomes more sexually charged.
With no need for question or answer, CC and I begin to undress each other, a mutual need now to be skin to skin. The gentleness of his touch takes my breath away, and he takes me to a place so blissful and serene, I want to stay there with him forever.
In Xanadu did Kubla Khan a stately pleasure-dome decree...
If this is what he is offering, I accept it with all my heart, forsaking all others as long as we both shall live.
When he enters me, it’s like coming home and I welcome him with every fibre of my being.
We do not have sex. We make love.
Tuesday, 19 February 2008
Saturday, 16 February 2008
THE DAILY MALE - continues...16/02/08
During the afternoon, somewhat to my surprise as I was convinced he’d be on to his next assignation by now, Hot Frog texts to say how much he enjoyed last night and would I be free to meet again after the show on Saturday?. Saturday will be the last night of my holiday. I text him back: ‘Bien sur. Pourquoi pas??’
In the context of men being like buses, ergo three come along all at once, I receive a text from Eurotrash inviting me to the theatre on Saturday night. I haven’t heard from him in weeks and he's probably got to the Ws in his phone book. I leave it for a few hours before replying. I should, of course, have ignored it altogether.
Your text interrupted my champagne lunch. I’m away skiing not back til Sunday.
Let him stick that in his fire and stoke it.
Friday. CBF has had a relapse; she’s been sick again and there’s a whiteout brewing, so I forsake my skiing and stay in the hotel to look after her. Hot Frog texts to say he’s in meetings with the Club Med head honchos all day and CC has gone off to ski for England.
At lunchtime, CC texts me: Some afternoon time alone with you is tempting me off the mountain early. I am battling through a blizzard towards you. 5 mins together would be so perfect…x
Heart pumping with all this male attention, I text back: Why only 5 mins?! and go into the bathroom to change into sexier undies.
I get CBF some pasta from the lunch buffet and take it back to our room. She looks and feels like shite but I make sure she's comfortable and settle her down for her afternoon nap. A curdling combination of exhilaration, anticipation and guilt mingles inside me like guests at some sinister cocktail party. Why does doing so wrong sometimes feel so right?
I bump into some other non-skiers in the hotel bar, reject the offer of a game of Scrabble with a guy who pulled a muscle Day One and has been hobbling around forlornly ever since, and I pace around waiting for some afternoon delight to materialize out of the mist.
CC arrives freshly-showered and changed and studiously ignores me as he helps himself to cheese and biscuits and a cup of coffee. He sits and chats with the others while he eats, then gives me the soupçon of a smile and a surreptitious wink, and we sneak away separately like naughty children escaping the teachers on a school outing.
(If this screwy ski trip is part of some pre-ordained Feast Cycle, I’d better embrace it for all its worth...for when the famine returns, which it will, I’ll only have the memories to feast on).
In the context of men being like buses, ergo three come along all at once, I receive a text from Eurotrash inviting me to the theatre on Saturday night. I haven’t heard from him in weeks and he's probably got to the Ws in his phone book. I leave it for a few hours before replying. I should, of course, have ignored it altogether.
Your text interrupted my champagne lunch. I’m away skiing not back til Sunday.
Let him stick that in his fire and stoke it.
Friday. CBF has had a relapse; she’s been sick again and there’s a whiteout brewing, so I forsake my skiing and stay in the hotel to look after her. Hot Frog texts to say he’s in meetings with the Club Med head honchos all day and CC has gone off to ski for England.
At lunchtime, CC texts me: Some afternoon time alone with you is tempting me off the mountain early. I am battling through a blizzard towards you. 5 mins together would be so perfect…x
Heart pumping with all this male attention, I text back: Why only 5 mins?! and go into the bathroom to change into sexier undies.
I get CBF some pasta from the lunch buffet and take it back to our room. She looks and feels like shite but I make sure she's comfortable and settle her down for her afternoon nap. A curdling combination of exhilaration, anticipation and guilt mingles inside me like guests at some sinister cocktail party. Why does doing so wrong sometimes feel so right?
I bump into some other non-skiers in the hotel bar, reject the offer of a game of Scrabble with a guy who pulled a muscle Day One and has been hobbling around forlornly ever since, and I pace around waiting for some afternoon delight to materialize out of the mist.
CC arrives freshly-showered and changed and studiously ignores me as he helps himself to cheese and biscuits and a cup of coffee. He sits and chats with the others while he eats, then gives me the soupçon of a smile and a surreptitious wink, and we sneak away separately like naughty children escaping the teachers on a school outing.
(If this screwy ski trip is part of some pre-ordained Feast Cycle, I’d better embrace it for all its worth...for when the famine returns, which it will, I’ll only have the memories to feast on).
Sunday, 10 February 2008
THE DAILY MALE - continues...10/02/08
I lick my lips and brush them lightly against his. With a quiet gasp, he gets it in one and mirrors my motion. Our moist mouths slide sensuously across each other’s, our tongues licking, flicking, in a less-is-more kind of way. If I achieve nothing else on this holiday, at least I’ll have sent this delectable Frenchman on his way with one proficient sexual skill.
He unbuttons his shirt and takes my hand, guiding it over to his erect nipple. I rub it lightly and he groans, and presses the length of his body against mine. His hand is flat on my butt, pushing me into him as his increasing hardness strains at the front of his pants. I gyrate against him and he breathes in sharply, whips me around, and with his hands on my hips and his pistol in the small of my back, he walks me towards the sofa, where I sort of collapse in an abandoned heap.
He stretches out alongside me and pulls up my top, cupping my breast while he dips his head to take my nipple in his mouth. The sensation shoots through me like an arrow straight down to my nerve centre and I emit a hot moan of desire.
He flips open the button at my waistband, pulls down my zip and dives his hand inside my trousers, prising aside my panties to find my moist and creamy wetness. I begin to pulsate immediately against his rubbing finger and we rip the rest of our clothes off until we are both naked and rolling around on the sofa. He stands up abruptly, his profile making a perfect hoop-la, and pulls me to my feet. We hurry into the bedroom and down onto his big white bed.
‘I want to kiss you everywhere’ he pants into my mouth.
‘Well no-one’s stopping you…’ I pant back and he tongues his way down my body until he reaches my raised-up mound. He dives between my parted thighs and devours me hungrily. I push and buck against him until I come again and cry out joyously at that special compliment which MLP would never pay me.
Hot Frog eats and licks me avidly until I wriggle away from him, begging for mercy. The sensation is too sharp and sensitive now. He climbs up to sit astride my chest, his huge and urgent cock bobbing just inches from my face. I stick my tongue out and lick its tip. He moves it forward and I suckle on it gently. He withdraws quickly and reaches to his bedside table, rips open a pre-prepared condom, slides it on, wriggles back down me, gets into position and plunges in. With a sharp intake of breath, I throw my head back and grind in rhythm until he cries out, stiffens and comes.
He relaxes off me and wraps me lovingly in his arms, murmuring ‘Chéri, zat was wonder-fool’. I am surprised that he is so tender and gentle. I thought he’d have been a WhamBamGoodGodIsThatTheTime man.
He hugs and strokes me until I say I must go. We put our clothes back on and he sees me politely to the door. We kiss goodnight and I sneak back through the quiet corridors to the safety of my room. CBF stirs but doesn’t wake. With a pang, I think of CC down the corridor...he too must be sleeping soundly.
If he knew what a slag he was getting involved with, I’m sure he’d stop himself right here, right now.
He unbuttons his shirt and takes my hand, guiding it over to his erect nipple. I rub it lightly and he groans, and presses the length of his body against mine. His hand is flat on my butt, pushing me into him as his increasing hardness strains at the front of his pants. I gyrate against him and he breathes in sharply, whips me around, and with his hands on my hips and his pistol in the small of my back, he walks me towards the sofa, where I sort of collapse in an abandoned heap.
He stretches out alongside me and pulls up my top, cupping my breast while he dips his head to take my nipple in his mouth. The sensation shoots through me like an arrow straight down to my nerve centre and I emit a hot moan of desire.
He flips open the button at my waistband, pulls down my zip and dives his hand inside my trousers, prising aside my panties to find my moist and creamy wetness. I begin to pulsate immediately against his rubbing finger and we rip the rest of our clothes off until we are both naked and rolling around on the sofa. He stands up abruptly, his profile making a perfect hoop-la, and pulls me to my feet. We hurry into the bedroom and down onto his big white bed.
‘I want to kiss you everywhere’ he pants into my mouth.
‘Well no-one’s stopping you…’ I pant back and he tongues his way down my body until he reaches my raised-up mound. He dives between my parted thighs and devours me hungrily. I push and buck against him until I come again and cry out joyously at that special compliment which MLP would never pay me.
Hot Frog eats and licks me avidly until I wriggle away from him, begging for mercy. The sensation is too sharp and sensitive now. He climbs up to sit astride my chest, his huge and urgent cock bobbing just inches from my face. I stick my tongue out and lick its tip. He moves it forward and I suckle on it gently. He withdraws quickly and reaches to his bedside table, rips open a pre-prepared condom, slides it on, wriggles back down me, gets into position and plunges in. With a sharp intake of breath, I throw my head back and grind in rhythm until he cries out, stiffens and comes.
He relaxes off me and wraps me lovingly in his arms, murmuring ‘Chéri, zat was wonder-fool’. I am surprised that he is so tender and gentle. I thought he’d have been a WhamBamGoodGodIsThatTheTime man.
He hugs and strokes me until I say I must go. We put our clothes back on and he sees me politely to the door. We kiss goodnight and I sneak back through the quiet corridors to the safety of my room. CBF stirs but doesn’t wake. With a pang, I think of CC down the corridor...he too must be sleeping soundly.
If he knew what a slag he was getting involved with, I’m sure he’d stop himself right here, right now.
Tuesday, 5 February 2008
THE DAILY MALE - continues...4/2/08
As CC shuts his bedroom door behind me and draws me close again, I feel the beginnings of a vibration deep in my cleavage. I pull away from him suddenly, talking loudly to divert his attention.
‘Gosh, your room’s tidy for a bloke!’ I shout, disturbing the romantic vibe between us. He looks slightly puzzled as well he might. Knowing that my phone is set to repeat at one minute intervals, I dive back in for a quick clinch then pull away again just before my tits go off for the second time.
This hokey cokey is hardly conducive to connubial continuation but I’m pretty sure he hasn’t noticed. Feigning a girlish modesty, I say I must go, give him a quick hug, peck him affectionately on both cheeks and reach for the door knob. He stands there like a starving man who’s happened across the only restaurant in town only to be told the kitchen is closed.
I feel very sorry and rather guilty, but tonight I am driven by unfinished business with a bad news bastard who’s had more women that Winner’s had dinners and for some reason, he is my choice du soir.
I hare off to my room to touch up my make-up and when I emerge, I bump headlong into CC who is walking past my door on his way back upstairs. We both stop dead in our tracks and blurt out our excuses at the same time.
‘I need to get some water,’ he explains.
‘I’m going to use the loo down the corridor cos I don’t want to disturb CBF…’ I fluff, and though my heart’s pounding, I silently compliment myself on my quick thinking.
We wiggle a wave at each other and go our separate ways. Close call…
I dive into the stairwell and leg it up to the fourth floor. Hot Frog’s door is ajar and I slide in quietly. He is sitting on his sofa resplendent in all his Gallic glory, deliciously decked out in an open-necked black shirt and gabardine trousers, his hair slicked back but long and curling at the nape.
He pours me my fruit juice and I flop down on the sofa and we chat about the day, then all at once he’s in my face again with his big, wet kiss. Do I dare tell a Frenchman how to perform the most basic sexual act? Needs must.
‘Can I show how I really love to be kissed?’ I breathe seductively, and not waiting for an answer, I close his mouth gently with my thumb and forefinger.
‘Ferme ta bouche…’ I command, ‘…and do exactly as I do.’
‘Gosh, your room’s tidy for a bloke!’ I shout, disturbing the romantic vibe between us. He looks slightly puzzled as well he might. Knowing that my phone is set to repeat at one minute intervals, I dive back in for a quick clinch then pull away again just before my tits go off for the second time.
This hokey cokey is hardly conducive to connubial continuation but I’m pretty sure he hasn’t noticed. Feigning a girlish modesty, I say I must go, give him a quick hug, peck him affectionately on both cheeks and reach for the door knob. He stands there like a starving man who’s happened across the only restaurant in town only to be told the kitchen is closed.
I feel very sorry and rather guilty, but tonight I am driven by unfinished business with a bad news bastard who’s had more women that Winner’s had dinners and for some reason, he is my choice du soir.
I hare off to my room to touch up my make-up and when I emerge, I bump headlong into CC who is walking past my door on his way back upstairs. We both stop dead in our tracks and blurt out our excuses at the same time.
‘I need to get some water,’ he explains.
‘I’m going to use the loo down the corridor cos I don’t want to disturb CBF…’ I fluff, and though my heart’s pounding, I silently compliment myself on my quick thinking.
We wiggle a wave at each other and go our separate ways. Close call…
I dive into the stairwell and leg it up to the fourth floor. Hot Frog’s door is ajar and I slide in quietly. He is sitting on his sofa resplendent in all his Gallic glory, deliciously decked out in an open-necked black shirt and gabardine trousers, his hair slicked back but long and curling at the nape.
He pours me my fruit juice and I flop down on the sofa and we chat about the day, then all at once he’s in my face again with his big, wet kiss. Do I dare tell a Frenchman how to perform the most basic sexual act? Needs must.
‘Can I show how I really love to be kissed?’ I breathe seductively, and not waiting for an answer, I close his mouth gently with my thumb and forefinger.
‘Ferme ta bouche…’ I command, ‘…and do exactly as I do.’
Sunday, 27 January 2008
THE DAILY MALE - continues...27/01/08
I stay with Calm Best Friend until the doctor arrives then go down to the village to pick up her meds. I pop into the dining-room at lunchtime to get her some plain boiled rice et voilà! Hot Frog is there as usual. Despite his urgent need for snogging lessons, he still has sexuality oozing out of every pore.
We share a secret smile (I’m going to run out of these if I’m not careful…) and my attraction to him increases. If I could just train him to kiss my way, all holiday fantasies would be fulfilled. When I get dressed for the evening, I don my ‘just-in-case-I-get-lucky’ undies - just in case. Be a shame to waste them, wouldn’t it?
Because I have no problem fancying two men at the same time, CC and I spend the evening continuing our chemical bonding. This man has long-term potential but Hot Frog might have to be climbed because, like Everest, he is there. He is also irresistibly randy eye candy, and MLP, I’m happy to say, has been relegated to the Third Division.
CC and I play footsie under the table over dinner sharing long looks and whispered confidences. He is such a fantastic raconteur, and I am increasingly drawn to him. His humour is addictive and I match him as best I can, hanging on his every word, and trying to make him laugh as much as he makes me. Being slightly pissed on unlimited Mojitos, my tongue is as loose as a chav’s morals, a fact which I shall live to regret.
Just before midnight, CC offers to walk me back to my room again and we end up having a huge snog in the corridor. Now here’s a chap who really knows how to kiss, tenderly, exploringly, yet with an underlying passion that promises great things. And he really turns me on. How cruel and shameless of me to use him as my warm-up man, but he doesn’t know this and what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.
I pull away before we both become overly engaged, but he begs a few more moments alone with me which I find hard to refuse. I go into his room, mindful of the fact that the midnight text from Hot Frog is due through at any moment. Not having any pockets in my trousers, my mobile is wedged firmly between my breasts...
We share a secret smile (I’m going to run out of these if I’m not careful…) and my attraction to him increases. If I could just train him to kiss my way, all holiday fantasies would be fulfilled. When I get dressed for the evening, I don my ‘just-in-case-I-get-lucky’ undies - just in case. Be a shame to waste them, wouldn’t it?
Because I have no problem fancying two men at the same time, CC and I spend the evening continuing our chemical bonding. This man has long-term potential but Hot Frog might have to be climbed because, like Everest, he is there. He is also irresistibly randy eye candy, and MLP, I’m happy to say, has been relegated to the Third Division.
CC and I play footsie under the table over dinner sharing long looks and whispered confidences. He is such a fantastic raconteur, and I am increasingly drawn to him. His humour is addictive and I match him as best I can, hanging on his every word, and trying to make him laugh as much as he makes me. Being slightly pissed on unlimited Mojitos, my tongue is as loose as a chav’s morals, a fact which I shall live to regret.
Just before midnight, CC offers to walk me back to my room again and we end up having a huge snog in the corridor. Now here’s a chap who really knows how to kiss, tenderly, exploringly, yet with an underlying passion that promises great things. And he really turns me on. How cruel and shameless of me to use him as my warm-up man, but he doesn’t know this and what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.
I pull away before we both become overly engaged, but he begs a few more moments alone with me which I find hard to refuse. I go into his room, mindful of the fact that the midnight text from Hot Frog is due through at any moment. Not having any pockets in my trousers, my mobile is wedged firmly between my breasts...
Sunday, 20 January 2008
THE DAILY MALE continues...20/1/08
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.
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.
Tuesday, 15 January 2008
THE DAILY MALE continues...15/1/08
CC and I walk quietly along the corridor hand in hand and he tries to kiss me goodnight outside my room. I coyly avoid this without, I hope, hurting his feelings, thinking that I can’t possibly kiss him now and potentially, despite my best intentions, Monsieur le Grenouille Chaud later on.
I wave CC goodnight as he retires to his room down the hall. I wait until I hear his door close, then hotfoot it back upstairs where the bar is just closing. I secrete myself in a large, leather wing chair to await the midnight hour. (Just to remind you, I am also awaiting the guy I vowed not to touch with a sterilised bargepole which I have somehow failed to acquire and hide about my person.)
At 11.56 p.m. Hot Frog texts to say he’s free if I still want to meet him and if so, where am I? I text him back painstakingly one letter at a time, as I’m too excited to reset my phone to French predictive, and a few moments later, he appears as if by magic at my side. Mercifully, the red satin pantaloons have been exchanged for grey flannel trousers and a black cashmere polo shirt. God, he is gorgeous. All thoughts of MLP, CC, STD and the BBC are instantly forgotten.
‘This isn’t very discreet’ I whisper, conscious of my ‘reputation’ (huh?) and the odd staff member who’s still around.
‘Comm and ‘ave a dreenk in my rrroom’ he suggests disarmingly.
I shake my head slowly and say: ‘I don’t really want to do that…’
He appears not to understand why and I cave immediately. He gives me directions on how to access his roof apartment, slopes off with a satisfied smile on his face, and I follow him up at a discreet distance.
He lives in a studio at the top of the hotel. It looks like a panther’s lair: dark walls, deep pile carpets, soft lighting, leather furniture, TV droning quietly in the corner. I’m pretty sure this place has seen a not inconsiderable amount of sextracurricular activity. Am I about to become another notch on his bedpost or is he on mine?
He pours me a fruit juice (I’ve drunk quite enough for one night) and takes a small bottle of water from the fridge for himself. We sit down on separate sofas and talk. The expected plying of alcohol to weaken me for seduction does not take place. He tells me he never drinks, neither on nor off duty. We discuss the career of a Club Med ‘Chef de Village’ and the rootlessness attached to a life spent six months here and two years there. He says he loves it except when the customers complain, but the only real complaints he gets are from his own countrymen. I didn’t realise the French also hate each other!
I enjoy chatting with him as I hardly ever get a chance to practice my French and he repeatedly compliments me on my linguistic skill. He ain’t seen nothing yet! After a pleasant half an hour or so, I finish my drink and look at my watch. He asks if I’m tired and I say not particularly.
‘Zo why you go?’ he queries and in one move, he’s kneeling before me and his tongue is swirling around in my throat.
I think how recently it was that I was kneeling before MLP mourning his imminent demise and I marvel at the serendipity of life and how quickly a heart can heal. I also fleetingly consider the future possibilities with CC and my cup runneth over…
I wave CC goodnight as he retires to his room down the hall. I wait until I hear his door close, then hotfoot it back upstairs where the bar is just closing. I secrete myself in a large, leather wing chair to await the midnight hour. (Just to remind you, I am also awaiting the guy I vowed not to touch with a sterilised bargepole which I have somehow failed to acquire and hide about my person.)
At 11.56 p.m. Hot Frog texts to say he’s free if I still want to meet him and if so, where am I? I text him back painstakingly one letter at a time, as I’m too excited to reset my phone to French predictive, and a few moments later, he appears as if by magic at my side. Mercifully, the red satin pantaloons have been exchanged for grey flannel trousers and a black cashmere polo shirt. God, he is gorgeous. All thoughts of MLP, CC, STD and the BBC are instantly forgotten.
‘This isn’t very discreet’ I whisper, conscious of my ‘reputation’ (huh?) and the odd staff member who’s still around.
‘Comm and ‘ave a dreenk in my rrroom’ he suggests disarmingly.
I shake my head slowly and say: ‘I don’t really want to do that…’
He appears not to understand why and I cave immediately. He gives me directions on how to access his roof apartment, slopes off with a satisfied smile on his face, and I follow him up at a discreet distance.
He lives in a studio at the top of the hotel. It looks like a panther’s lair: dark walls, deep pile carpets, soft lighting, leather furniture, TV droning quietly in the corner. I’m pretty sure this place has seen a not inconsiderable amount of sextracurricular activity. Am I about to become another notch on his bedpost or is he on mine?
He pours me a fruit juice (I’ve drunk quite enough for one night) and takes a small bottle of water from the fridge for himself. We sit down on separate sofas and talk. The expected plying of alcohol to weaken me for seduction does not take place. He tells me he never drinks, neither on nor off duty. We discuss the career of a Club Med ‘Chef de Village’ and the rootlessness attached to a life spent six months here and two years there. He says he loves it except when the customers complain, but the only real complaints he gets are from his own countrymen. I didn’t realise the French also hate each other!
I enjoy chatting with him as I hardly ever get a chance to practice my French and he repeatedly compliments me on my linguistic skill. He ain’t seen nothing yet! After a pleasant half an hour or so, I finish my drink and look at my watch. He asks if I’m tired and I say not particularly.
‘Zo why you go?’ he queries and in one move, he’s kneeling before me and his tongue is swirling around in my throat.
I think how recently it was that I was kneeling before MLP mourning his imminent demise and I marvel at the serendipity of life and how quickly a heart can heal. I also fleetingly consider the future possibilities with CC and my cup runneth over…
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