I want a man lying over me ...
Then it was as simple as the election of Nicolas Sarkozy, a few pokes on Facebook, which lead to a few emails, which led to a Eurostar booking, finding my way to his office near Paris Saint-Lazare. Collecting the keys and me waiting for him to come home from work and fuck me. Sitting on the couch in nothing but a pair of hold ups. Quirky Chantel Thomass hold ups. He strutted in his in a suit, dashed to the bathroom and came out naked and said let's fuck. What can I say, I was instantly smitten. That was one hell of a first date, we fucked then went out to dinner with his friends at which someone asked that we both looked tired, had we been fucking. There is no way not to look sheepish when asked that question. He asked me to stay the weekend and that weekend become three months. There is a reason why I look at 2008 as the new Belle Époque. Three months of fucking. Fucking in the morning, in the evenings, on the back of his motorbike, in restaurant toilets. I like to think that it was Paris that sexed me up, but it was not, it was him. I have only come across two men in my life who personify the Anaïs Nin quote:
“I do not want to be the leader. I refuse to be the leader. I want to live darkly and richly in my femaleness. I want a man lying over me, always over me. His will, his pleasure, his desire, his life, his work, his sexuality the touchstone, the command, my pivot. I don’t mind working, holding my ground intellectually, artistically; but as a woman, oh, God, as a woman I want to be dominated. I don’t mind being told to stand on my own feet, not to cling, be all that I am capable of doing, but I am going to be pursued, fucked, possessed by the will of a male at his time, his bidding.”
Somewhere in the last 10 years, we have lost the ability to engage in unscripted random fucking. The alchemy is still there but the freedom and time to indulge in selfish pleasure has gone. Now? Well, now it's child care schedules, work schedules, wife whereabouts, being in Paris at the same time travel from London, travel across London, hotel bookings and last minute cancellations and work meetings. and then someone moved to a fucking island.
Not sure why we keep doing it. I really don't. I pre date his marriage and I will post date it too. I was at the wedding. On occasion, I have said that I can't be arsed to meet him, more than once he has knocked me back. I adore listening to his little girls natter in French. Not sure why we keep doing this (did I say that already?), he is not as young as he once was but I am impressed nonetheless that his sexual stamina has remained the same nor am I as pretty or as thin as I used to be but we still sexually meet in the middle even though he does not really get me nor I his elements of misogyny which I happily dismiss as him being Parisian in the name of sport fucking.