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!

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.

An American in Paris

Yesterday I arrived in my old stomping ground, Paris. I lived there for four years during my 20s and had the most amazing time ever. I lived in a top floor flat in the Marais with my roommate and partner in crime, Dahlia. We both worked as fashion industry interns getting paid almost nothing while being rewarded with every glamorous party invitation under the Parisian sun. Between borrowing clothes from work and begging our parents for extra spending money, we actually made do. When our internships were over, Dahlia (originally from San Francisco) took up a magazine job in London and I moved to New York to start my own company. However, last year Dahlia was transferred last year back to Paris and is now living on the Left Bank in the swish San Germain-des-Pres. I was so excited to be reunited with her again and look up all the boys from our past. What had happened to them? Had they married? Had they gone bald? Would they remember us? And more importantly, would they still adore us if they did?

Dahlia had organized for us to go to a White Party. We had to dress in all white and the food would be all white and so were the drinks....and yes, because it is France - the people were all white too. Thank God I was tan for once - because usually white is not my color and all of the boys would supposedly be in attendance.

The party was fun, the music was great, and we did see the boys, but it wasn't exactly as I had hoped. They all said "hi" like they had just seen us yesterday...not some ten odd years ago. Some were married and some were indeed bald - but most of them were largely just nonchalant. I suppose due to all the crazy nights we had together, I would have expected a little more excitement from them - but maybe when people are "party friends" it doesn't mean as much in the long run? Had they all moved on and Dahlia and I.....still single, still swilling cocktails, and dancing our 30-something hearts out a pathetic sight to them? Did we look like the aging party girls who didn't hear the music turn off a few years back? Ugh....I just wanted to shout at them that I had grown up. I own a multi-mullion dollar apartment in Manhattan and I run a successful business, but did it matter? Maybe not. By European standards, I was starting to look like an old maid.

There was one bright reunion in the evening, however. I had the most unbelievable crush on this French count with the largest blue eyes ever for the longest time. We used to call him "Bambi" behind his back because of those massive eyes and his slightly fragile stature. He is (and was) sweet, charming, and incredibly stylish. I adored him for almost the entire time I lived in Paris, but he had a girlfriend, so nothing ever happened. He broke up with her a few months before I left - but it still never happened. He is one of those guys who can be so disarming that you lose your game and your nerve - and hence - me, never one to be shy, could ever get up the guts to make a move on him.

Count Bambi did seem genuinely happy to see me though. He instantly wrote down my European cell number and he had a giddiness to him that I had never seen. Even Dahlia noticed it and she informed me that he had just broken up with his latest girlfriend. What brilliant timing. Bambi is the type that would fall under the "future potential" category and definitely not in the "holiday hook up" category. I adore him. Always have and I can't wait to see what happens.