Tag Archives: The French Boy

To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before…

Today I am feeling nostalgic.  I want to look back at the  fine young gentleman that I spent time with over the past year-and-a-half.  You were all so very lovely and I will remember each and every one of you fondly.  This is my love letter to all of you.  

The French Boy

You taught me exactly what NOT to put  up with in a relationship, and how to stand up for myself and what I need.  Self-respect was a stranger to me the entire time we were together but I have found it once again by remembering how low I felt when I was with you.  You taught me the importance of letting go when something is not working, of paying attention when one’s words and actions contradict each other, of honoring the little voice inside that is screaming that things just ain’t right.

However, there was also so much good that came out my time with you.  Being with you showed me that I have the capacity to open up and love someone, even if I didn’t choose very wisely when I gave that love to you.  Your feedback that I was too cool, too detached and too busy protecting myself was spot-on.  Allowing myself to be vulnerable, to let a man know how I’m feeling  has brought me to the wonderful, peaceful place I find myself in today.

You are truly how I got my groove back!  You reminded me that I wasn’t just a mom – I was a woman.  A fucking sexy one.

The Body

I imagine that this is what you look like right now

While our time together was cut short by the fact that you accidentally got your ex-girlfriend pregnant right before we met, I still enjoyed you.  Sneaking into your house, where you lived with your parents was exhilarating and made me feel like I was back in high school again.  You had a rockin’ ass body and I hope you’re enjoying fatherhood!

Soldier Boy

God Bless the USA!

Supporting the troops took on a whole new meaning when you allowed me to buy you several Jack and Cokes and then take you home for a 21-gun salute.  I learned more about the war in Afghanistan and Iraq from spending a few nights with you than I did from reading countless news articles over the years.  I saw the pain and the haunted look in your eyes when you spoke about your time there, a pain I knew existed in abstract but never saw so up-close.  You were also the first Republican I ever went on a date with.  You taught me that I can never, ever again go on a date with a Republican.  I thank you for your service, both at home an abroad.  You made me feel so very patriotic and proud of the fine young men and women representing us around the world.

Big C (and Not-So-Little C)

I think I will miss you most of all.  Your charm, your wit and way with words, your amazing cat, your amateur gangster rap (which was actually quite good) and of course, the ridiculously mind-altering sex.  Had you been a few years older, I would have seriously considered trying to turn our once-a-month marathon sessions into something more.  You are more talented that you realize, and it makes me more than a little sad to know that we have eaten our last basket of french fries at 1 o’clock in the morning.  You taught me that casual does not have to be disconnected and disrespectful.  You put the “Friends” in Friends with Benefits.  But please – do not EVER grow back that horrific mustache.  That thing almost prevented you from getting laid once and it will prevent you from getting laid in the future. Trust.

Baby C

I will never look at my backseat the same way

Thank you for giving me the experience of being aggressively pursued.  Nobody in the history of all the men I’ve known has come  at me with as much swagger, confidence and persistence as you.   No matter how many times I told you that you were “too young” for me, you wouldn’t give up and you made a great case for the old adage that age really doesn’t matter.  You showed me that a mini-van, although dowdy on the outside, can be turned into a first-class shag-wagon with the flip of a switch.  You’ve got some serious game little man.  Now go forth into the wilderness and use it!

The Last Boy (for the foreseeable future, that is)

Hope it's not too awkward running into each other in the futureThank you for giving me the chance to be the pursuer and to fully live out the cougar fantasy.  You resisted me for months and right when I was about to give up, you finally gave in to my advances.  The way you looked at me – a mixture of fear, fascination and lust, was intoxicating.  Never have I felt so powerful, so in control.  You handled me in bed with a skill and tenderness that was astounding for someone as young as you are.  I felt like a total goddess in your hands!  Our time together was short, and I bet you’re kicking yourself for not surrendering to my many attempts at seduction much sooner than you did.  You’re gorgeous, sweet, and musically gifted.  I’m so very glad that you were my last stop on the cougar express.  What a fantastic way to close out this chapter in my life!  I know we’ll be running into each other many times in the future, but I have no doubt that you will handle things with maturity and respect.


Karma’s a Bitch – and I got Her on Speed Dial

We’ve all got our “man done me wrong” stories.  But sometimes there’s a happy ending.  No, not for him (after all, he didn’t get the girl, did he?) but for you. Because who doesn’t love to indulge in just a wee bit of Schadenfreude from time to time?  Or constantly.

I recently got back in touch with the French Boy.  You know, the one that was the impetus for this sad piece of blog-posting.  Enough time had gone by that I felt mostly over it and was amenable to a quick “what’s new in your life chat.”  He was starting to be just restless enough in his new relationship to do a quick market check.  You know – where you hit up old flames and fuck buddies and the like to see if they are still in the market to meet and revisit old times again.  And of course by “revisit old times” I mean bang.

Never EVER attempt to peel your own banana.

My what’s new included being laid off from my old job, finding a new one and preparing to move myself, my children and all of my shit back to my childhood home.  His included a broken frenulum.  (A what?  Whatever you do DO NOT GOOGLE IMAGE THIS.  You will see things that cannot be unseen.  A text-based description is more than enough in this case.)  Yes folks, he had broken his dick.  While dry humping the girl who he had left me for.  The girl who was, as he described to me in his own words, so much like me.  Only younger.  And with bigger tits.  Obviously, this was not well received at the time.  If I had known what a frenulum was back then, I may have attempted to break it right then and there.  Luckily, I had the universe on my side to do the…procedure for me.

I am only slightly ashamed to admit that as soon as I understood the nature of his injury and the manner in which he had sustained it, I laughed.  Right there on the phone. I laughed at this poor boy’s frustration. The injury to his most prized possession.  And the fact that he had to abstain from any kind of sexual activity for 1-2 weeks while it healed.  The more he explained things to me, the harder I laughed.  Harder than the time that he hit himself in the balls with my leather belt.  (At least that injury was sustained while he was doing something for my benefit.  That is DEFINITELY another blog post – the dangers of amateur S&M.)

Need more proof that the universe is indeed on my side?  My soon-to-be-ex husband recently came down with a rather severe case of kidney stones.  Or, as I have re-named them, Karma stones.  Dozens of them, just chilling in there, taking their sweet little time passing through.  Each of them a miniature ginsu-weilding ninja of pain and despair leisurely making its way through the urethra.  From what I understand, this is an indescribable pain like no other and the only thing a man can experience that comes even close to childbirth.  Because this man is the father of my two precious children, I gave him the benefit of waiting until after he was out of earshot to laugh.  Then I called all of my friends and had way more fun than should be legal at his expense.

The moral of this story – beware men of the Greater Bay Area.  You fuck with me and my very best friend Karma will be along shortly to smite you.  Probably in the dick.  Because apparently that’s how she rolls.

Moment of “Ick”

The boy needed underwear.  The boy ALWAYS needs underwear.  Why? Well, he’s a boy.  So skid marks.  Yeah. But that’s not even the icky part.  I’m digging through the racks at the discount store trying to find the cheapest possible package when I happen upon some highly discounted Calvin Klein boxer briefs in black, all small and adorable as they are in my little guy’s size.  Then, the horror washes over me as I realize that these are THE EXACT SAME UNDERWEAR THAT I JUST RIPPED OFF OF THE FRENCH BOY A FEW DAYS EARLIER.  Someday, some predatory older woman may do the same thing to my little guy.   I reach for the Thomas the Train undies and high-tail it out of there.  I have the urge to call the French Boy’s mother and apologize.

How I Got my Groove Back or Becoming a Cliche

Close to a year ago I found myself, for the first time in my adult life, single.  It wasn’t a total shock.  I had been preparing myself mentally for months, maybe even years but when the blessed event finally took place I didn’t realize that I would feel  so unmoored.  This man who had been my life, to the exclusion of all else in the world had been my anchor.  Cutting that line freed me, but also set me adrift into the unknown.  How would I steer the ship?  Where would the currents take me?  Why could I only think in maritime metaphors?

I wasn’t someone’s wife anymore.  Sure, I had my kids and my family and friends.  They were invaluable during this time but how long could I call them, day after day, wailing and sobbing at the indignity of it all before they got just as sick of me as I was of myself?

So I did what any woman, descending rapidly into her mid-thirties and single for the first time since the Clinton administration would do – I took a lover.  A young one.

Just six weeks after the end of my marriage, I was on my way to becoming that which I had relentlessly mocked and scornfully derided.  My timing was impeccable, as the older woman/younger man dynamic had reached a cultural critical mass.  The term “cougar” had become ubiquitous.  How convenient for me to have a brand new label to try on.

It all happened quite by accident.  There he was, fumbling for his keys on the doorstep of my friend’s apartment building in the small, ugly hours of the morning, unable to insert key into lock and make the half-turn necessary to get inside.  And there I was, fresh off an evening of vodka and sorrow and the heady intoxication of a freedom I never imagined I’d possess again.  Of course I had to help him open the front door.  That’s where my assistance should have stopped.

I’d love to blame the vodka for following him up to his apartment and into his bedroom, despite his insistence that he no longer needed my help.  I’d also love to blame the vodka for flirting so shamelessly there in the dark that he felt obliged to kiss me and ask me for my phone number, which I gave to him without hesitation.  But if I’m being honest (and why wouldn’t I be, safely ensconced in the anonymous arms of the internet) it was just the catalyst, the truth serum I needed to admit that I wanted to dive right into the dating pool.  I just didn’t realize I’d be wading waist-deep in the kiddie pool my first time out.

Imagine my surprise when the next day, as I watched my kids cavort in the actual kiddie pool in the front yard,  my phone made a strange, short beeping sound.  What was this envelope icon flashing on the screen?  A text message.  Up to that point in time, I had maybe received a dozen of those.  It was my first indication that I was embarking on something I was woefully unprepared for.  In broken, abbreviated English, which I would later figure out was a function of text-speak and the fact that he was from another country, he let me know that I had left my sweater in his room, no doubt on purpose, and would I like to come by to pick it up?

For four weeks I deliberated and tortured myself. Should I text him back? Or would a call be better? What do I say? Should I have my friend that lived in the building get it for me and forget any of this happened?  As maddening as it all was, he was able to do for me what nobody else, despite their best efforts, could.  He distracted me, almost completely, from having to think about the painful reality of my disintegrated marriage and the fact that I was now a single mom with a special needs child.  That psychic space was such a relief and allowed me to function when all I wanted to do was curl up in a ball, eat ice cream and watch Hugh Grant movies.  After all, I was now solely responsible for the two little people who I had brought into this world.  Their father drifted in and out unevenly, wrestling with his own issues.  I had to be the rock, the stalwart.  Hard to do that when wallowing in self-pity and misery is your first and overwhelming instinct.

And let’s not forget the flattery angle.  I was nearly 10 years older than him, slightly overweight, and convinced that my best years had already passed me by.  Abused emotionally for years by a cruel and unrelenting alcoholic, my self-esteem was non-existent.  Yet this young, cute European boy, with the sexiest accent I had ever heard, saw something in me, even if it was on a very superficial level, that made me take another look at myself.  He said those three little words that I didn’t even know I had been needing to hear – I Want You.  I couldn’t remember the last time anyone had wanted me for my physical attractiveness, instead of for my intellect, or my kindness or for my paycheck.  Against all my hard-wired feminist ideals, I was a sex object.  And I LIKED it.

I was no stranger to being wanted.  In fact, I was wanted on nearly a 24/7 basis by my kids, my husband, and my psychotically demanding job.  Sometimes simultaneously by one or more of the dependents in my life.  But this kind of want, the kind that was free of obligation, just a reciprocal exchange of one want for another was wholly new to me.  New, scary and unnatural as hell.

The first time we had sex was comically tragic.  At one point, right in the middle, he stopped and asked me, half in jest and half in seriousness if I had ever done this before.  By this, I knew he meant sex but for me, in a lot of ways, I could have answered no.  No, I had never done anything remotely like this before.  I wasn’t even sure if I could go through with it.  But in that moment, the horse, as they say, was already out of the barn.

I will spare you the intimate details, but suffice it to say that by the next  morning (yes, I slept over which presented a whole host of new awkwardness to deal with) we had it mostly figured out.  And now, after almost a year of doing whatever it is that we’re doing, we have become experts.  But that is a story for another day.