I was recently making out with a French guy in a country foreign to both of us. We found each other online and he spoke enough English to get by on more than just body language. His name was Charles, but you have to kind of slur it and ignore most of the ‘r’ sound to get it right. I mostly just avoided saying his name.
Our first date involved rose sparkling wine, making out on a bridge (french kissing a frenchman was tre cool), and staying out until 6am talking on a park bench while he smoked cigarettes and adorably messed up certain English words.
The French have quite the reputation as romantics and I was excited to see how Charles lived up to this stereotype of being a good lover. Oh, and he was 10 years younger than me. I was feeling very “Diane Lane in Under The Tuscan Sun”-ish and jumped at his invitation to grab dinner and then watch a movie at his place.
We ate with little make-out breaks sprinkled throughout the dinner and I was hoping that his kissing skills translated to sex skills. Finally, we got back to his apartment and exchanged the awkward -yet necessary – pleasantries with his roommate. Both of us were sweaty from our day, so when he asked if I wanted to shower I was stoked. Sexy shower time with the Frenchman! Well, no. He didn’t join me. Clean and refreshed, I peeked my head out of his bathroom and heard him chatting with his roommate. Hmmmm, do I walk out naked? Do I put my clothes back on? Do I just roll out in the towel? His bedroom door was wide open, so I opted for the conservative clothes-back-on choice.
Charles showered after me and came out in his tight boxer briefs. Here we go. . . But, he turned on the movie and didn’t make a move. Hmmmm. I positioned myself to maximize access to my body and cuddled up fighting the urge to get overly wrapped up in the movie (it was so good, but this girl has priorities). Finally, we started kissing and over-clothes touching. That went on for awhile and I began to slowly rub my fingers underneath the elastic of his boxers. Then, he mumbled something that sounded like, “I’ve never done this before.”
Screeeeeeeeeeeeech. Hold up. “Like, ever?” I slightly gasped, “You’ve never had sex before?” “No.” He semi-defensively responded, “I’ve never has sex with an older woman.” Screeeeeeeeeeech. Hold up again. What the fuck? French Don Juan over here is calling me an older woman? I mean, 10 years is a chunk of time, but seriously? I started cracking up with laughter at the absurdity of the whole thing, but pulled it together when I realized he was having some feelings. “Have you been with younger men?” he asked bashfully. “Um, yeah. I have.” I responded. He told me he was incredibly intimidated and nervous that he wouldn’t be able to meet my expectations given my greater experience level. He apologized. He said he needed a little time.
I was now in a predicament. I wanted sex, but Charles was frozen with the burden of having to live up to the stereotype of a French lover with a woman who had 10+ years of sexual experience on him. The poor guy just couldn’t do it. I tried to be encouraging, but everything that came out of my mouth sounded like a pedophile and I realized that I needed to get out of there. Things got even worse when it became clear he thought I was spending the night. I had to break it to him that I wasn’t there for a sleepover and would be catching a cab home.
Ever the gentleman, Charles walked me out and saw me off. We exchanged brief texts the next day, but I knew we wouldn’t be seeing each other again. He has probably either sworn off older women forever or is now committed to becoming the #1 French Cougar Slayer. Either way, I wish him the best and hope he tells his dad to hit me up sometime.