Prelude to a Kiss

The party was neither exciting nor a total snore...especially compared to the amount of time Dahlia and I had spent talking about it before it had even happened. What else were we going to do on our girl's night out but discuss wardrobe, strategy, and possible dreamy outcomes of the evening? Dahlia had an on-again, off-again romance with Bambi's friend, Count Party Pooper. God knows what she saw in him - however, with the new twist of us all being together again and Bambi and I being so close to running off in the sunset. The thought that she would become Countess Party Pooper and I'd be Countess Bambi and we'd have bi-lingual and incredibly chic children to raise in our respective castles was, at the very least....the most exciting idea we had come up with in a long time.

All of Bambi's friends were pretty similar to him....small, proud, and sporting navy blue jackets. They all had the signature "de" in between their first and last names indicating their aristocratic status and at least half were wearing gold rings bearing their family's coats of arms. I suppose back in the day, they would have used the ring to stamp a wax seal on an official document - but these days it is just to show you that 300 years ago that your family was probably working in the fields owned by their family or something close to that picture. Few still have possession of their castles and even fewer have the liquid assets to maintain a castle to this day without opening it up to the (gasp) public - including loads of American tourists in white sneakers and jeans. Count Bambi is one of the few who not only still owns a few fantastic castles, but he maintains them in spectacular style with nary a tourist or the French government to thank for it - thus it makes him the "cream of the artisto crop" for every social climbing French girl, gold digger, or some Henry James-ian type character who needs Bambi's wealth to save her own family castle. Luckily for him, I fall under none of the above categories.

The girls at the party (whom I viewed as my competition) were about as small as the men, without a stitch of make-up on, or a single manicured hand between them. They had imperfect noses that would have long ago been fixed by plastic surgeons should they have been raised in the States and tiny breasts that were not given a likely boost with the aid of a bra. I have to say - it has been a while since I have seen so many sets of nips that have gone incredibly unnoticed. My own ample cleavage seems remarkably out of place in this sea of what seems like pre-pubescent boobies. Where was the young Bardot of the crew? Luckily for me, nowhere!

Dahlia and I took our places at the stars of the evening - glowing brighter by the glare of angry French girls' beady stares. Count Bambi, Count Something de Someone, and Prince Pepe le Pieu bantered and danced the night away with us. Just like the old days. Just the way I hoped it would be. Well, except that Count Party Pooper was a no-show, as usual, but who cares about him? Dahlia could just as easily become Princess le Pieu....and have her arms kissed up and down by Pepe. Although, I think that Prince le Pieu is without castle at the moment? Details, details!

Bambi - who generally never dances...made an exception to dance "Le Rock" (a form of French swing dancing for the Upper Crust...generally to disco or 80s music) with me. He wrapped his twiggy little arm around my body so tightly that his fingers were often grazing the side of my boob - which, even if it wasn't accidental...was exceedingly sexy.

We ended the night with a smaller group - at Mathy's...a small lounge off of the Champs Elysees. We drank pink champagne with ice cubes in it called a piscine (swimming pool) and Bambi and I were giving each other "love eyes" all night. It was heaven. Madame Giggles was among our crew and she told me that Bambi had been waiting for months for the perfect form to trace for his "disco rug" and it was quite an honor that he had chosen me above so many others. Apparently, he is having a seamstress cut out my form and sew it onto some other fabrics to create a fun rug for the Winter to give a sense of humor to Bambi's prematurely mature apartment. She thought that his choosing to have my literal body in his apartment to look at and admire every day is quite a statement - and gave me a knowing glance with a nod. Who knew Bambi was this creative? And he didn't even say a word about it. Me - on a disco rug....what next? The possibilities seemed almost endless!

We had planned for my last night in Paris to get a group together from the old days for a small dinner party (in English!) at Bambi's palatial flat, but he pulled me aside when we were leaving Mathy's and asked if I wouldn't mind terribly if it was just a tête-à-tête because he desired more intimacy with me. I suppose being the gentleman he is, he couldn't bear to kiss me in public and required a more private prelude to accomplish what I had been hoping he would do for years. Oh yes, please...I honestly can't take it anymore. I want my kiss and I want it now!