Wednesday in Paris. I was thoroughly exhausted and in pain from the traveling. Craigslist arrived at the hotel from work just as I arrived from the airport. Bad timing. I was hoping to get settled in and have some time to myself, but no such luck. He said he was starved, which actually worked out because I was too. So we left immediately to find food. I don’t know why, but he didn’t bother making reservations, and we ended up walking all over town. That’s fine as long as you aren’t ravenous and don’t have recent nerve damage to your foot. On top of the walking and the hunger, he kept stopping randomly and jamming his tongue down my throat. Nothing was natural or consensual about it. I’m sure it looked romantic from a distance: a couple kissing on a bridge in Paris. Upon closer inspection, though, you’d have noticed the pained look on my face. He’s a horrible kisser. I guess I hadn’t noticed in Santa Monica. He’s nothing but a strong, stiff tongue rammed to the back of my mouth. It’s a wonder he couldn’t feel my head pulling away. How can a forty-seven-year-old man kiss like that? It’s not like he hasn’t had kissing experience. What woman actually likes that? Interestingly, I’ve noticed that all of my johns have been shitty kissers.
We finally found a cute little bistro and I ordered a bottle of wine before our waitress could finish a sentence. In the middle of dinner, he started talking about marriage. Can you imagine? Not to mention that I’d only met him weeks ago. Aside from the absurd marriage talk and my earlier annoyance, the rest of the dinner was nice. The food was fabulous, and by the second bottle, I was feeling much nicer and more pliable. Time to go. Luckily, he hailed a taxi back to the hotel so I didn’t have to walk.
I had told him about my period being on its last legs, so he knew sex was going to have to wait, but as soon as we walked into the room he was all over me. I didn’t have a moment to relax. Or pee. Or breathe. Nothing! Just tongue thrusting and a body attack. It was awful. Give me a second to chill, motherfucker! At least let me take off my goddamn socks first, the ones I’ve been traveling in for the past twenty fucking hours. I finally tore myself away to take a shower. I felt like Penelope struggling to get away from Pepé Le Pew. Must adjust attitude. Must adjust attitude, I told myself. Deep breath. Repeat.
After my shower, I was a smidge calmer but still aggravated and exhausted. Pepé wouldn’t leave me be. It was quite clear that my bleeding wasn’t a deterrent, and that I was going to have to give this guy a happy ending in order to get any sleep. So I gave him a blowjob, and he finally chilled out—for a minute. Then he got hard again almost instantly. Luckily, this was also when all the wine and my magic sleeping pills kicked in and I passed out. I should have gotten more money. What am I doing? How is it okay to put myself through this? The crazy thing is, I thought it would be all right. Mere hours ago I was thinking we might have fun. I’m such a dumbass. Prada would have soothed the fact that I settled for less money than I wanted, but he doesn’t seem too keen on taking me shopping. When I mentioned something about it, he mumbled under his breath and changed the subject. I’m in fucking Paris and I don’t get to go shopping? Merde.