Sword-Fishing

As Dahlia, the all-knowing one, predicted - Count Bambi called and called again! What a refreshing change to those cooler-than-thou New York City men who hardly know how to use a telephone. Bambi let me know he had a dinner party the other night, but could either try to get out of it or get me invited last minute. I insisted he stick with his original plans - trying to create added desire through tension - although in reality, I dislike dinner parties (particularly those where no one is speaking English.) Plus, I already had a girl's night planned with Dahlia. He didn't need to know the real reasons...and the thought that I was just gracious and not overly eager would definitely put me in a better position for the rest of the weekend. I was sure of it.....and so was the all-knowing one!

Bambi did invite Dahlia and I out to a party on Saturday night with some of his friends...and he invited me over to his apartment by myself earlier this afternoon to watch a film, since I was unable to join him later. Those French men are not thrown off easily, nor are they ashamed to relentlessly pursue, I am quite happy to report. I think they feel if you are not worth chasing heavily, then you are not worth it - period. They enjoy the chase. They are hunters - literally...and when they are not actively targeting deer, boar, or birds in the countryside - then they are hunting women in the city.

Count Bambi is a man of leisure - so why not watch a movie in the middle of the day? I had placed an order for a kiss with him over ten years ago and I was hoping to pick up my bisou on his couch, 1/4 of the way through a romantic film that we had no intention of finishing. I threw on my sexiest jeans and a ridiculously soft, low cut, grey t-shirt over lingerie that cost about the same as my hotel room did for the night. Not that I was expecting it to go that far, that quickly....but your most impressive bra and pantie set is a sure fire way to ensure it doesn't happen. The Murphy's Law of Love. Had I worn old granny panties with holes in them then it definitely would have gone there. So, thank you, La Perla for keeping my virtue intact this early in the game.

The Count answered the door in a tailored button down shirt and a blazer making me feel suddenly under-dressed or wondering if I had mis-interpreted the invitation. Behind him, I heard giggling French people in his salon and immediately realized this wasn't a solo invitation. I got a quick and efficient peck and an approving glance at my décolleté and I followed him down the marble hall to the salon which looked more like the lobby of a grand hotel than the living room of a 33-year old bachelor.

There was a couple sitting on the couch who shot me a bemused look and a tiger print fabric lying on the floor in front of them. I was quickly introduced to the shiny, pert, newlyweds before being instructed to lie on the floor, on the animal printed fabric, as if I had fallen down. I was not given an explanation as to why, nor did I ask for one. The moment I was down, Bambi straddled me and started tracing my form with a piece of chalk while the couple looked on. The chalk went down my nose, and along my throat, up my arms, and in between my legs. There wasn't one inch of my periphery that was untouched by Bambi and his stick of chalk. The end result was quite cool. Almost like one of those I-Pod commercials of the dancing silhouette people.

Shortly thereafter, the four of us took our flutes of champagne further down the marble hall to Bambi's screening room to watch "Swordfish" with Halle Berry and John Travolta. That was honestly the last film I had expected to see, but apparently it was the only one they had in version originale (otherwise known as an American film in English with French sub-titles.) Bambi and Monsieur and Madame Giggles sat perfectly still on the couch, all wearing clothing requiring dry cleaning, sipping champagne, chain smoking, and intently watching the film as if it was some riveting piece of cinematic brilliance. Meanwhile, I was on the floor propped up by pillows I took from a nearby chair, in my jeans, wishing my champagne would turn into a Coca-Cola because it felt so wrong at 4:00 on a Thursday afternoon to be drinking on an empty stomach. Was I in a twilight zone? Was this the real existence of the gainfully unemployed French population? Hmmm...

At the end of the film, Bambi turned the empty champagne bottle upside down in the bucket of melting ice. The afternoon was over. Doesn't he realize how sexy of an afternoon this could have been? Why did he invite that other couple? Was the chalk tracing foreplay for the party on Saturday night? Maybe I should have agreed to join him at the dinner party tonight instead.

Ugh - I feel totally off my game. I really like Bambi. What on earth does he think about me? I did feel as if they thought of me as some exotic creature who watches movies lying down. They did ask about five times if I wouldn't prefer joining them on the already small couch - leaving zero room for a modicum of personal space...which didn't seem to bother the French one bit. I honestly didn't feel there was room and I had hoped that Bambi would leave the couch to the lovebirds and pull a pillow up next to me on the floor, but we remained separated like a smoking and non-smoking section. Perhaps I should have tried to squeeze myself sideways on to the last remaining five inches of couch space? I know I am over-thinking this. I can't help it. I can't remember the last time I was this excited about someone. Was he really paying attention to Swordfish...or was he plotting his next move? There is a mere 48-hours left to make something happen.

He had better kiss me - and soon - or I might explode just like one of those cars, vans, and trucks did on the rather un-romantic film I was just made to watch.