365 Days In Paris: Ready Or Not

Oh my God … the holidays are approaching. That dreaded time of year when those who are single are reminded over and over again that they are, you know, single. I’ve already decided I’m not going home for Thanksgiving, nor will I make a visit for Christmas, which means I’ve had holiday planning on my brain. Stay in Paris and hope friends are around? Or take a little trip by myself, maybe to Venice or Brussels?

Le sigh. The way things stand now, I’ll probably spend New Year’s alone, without a kiss. Ah! Why do I think this way? That conclusion comes from my neurotic, rational side which tracks my future from today to December 25th—no serious boyfriend prospects right now, plus 47 days or so isn’t enough time to fall in love AND get invited to his house AND get kissed on NYE. It’s just how it is, folks.
Unless … in some crazy twist of fate, Alex does a 180, decides I’m the love of his life, and I’m on a train within minutes to see him. Not like we’ve talked at all in the past month. I know that I really, really need to move on from my fantasies. But it’s just a place I go without thinking about it. Sorry, I can’t help it! It could be that since nothing else in my life is screwed up at the moment, I’m looking to Alex as a situation that I know will cause me pain. For someone who has been depressed most of her life until now, living without emotional turmoil sometimes makes me feel weird and even guilty. My thing with Alex either has to do with that, or it’s a wish to get rejected hard to know that there is no sliver of hope for us. And yet, I already know this. I recently unblocked him on Gchat, which I really shouldn’t have done. Bad idea—drunk chat session waiting to happen.

Anyhow, that’s not to say that there is no romance in my life. It’s just not the kind that really makes me consumed or excited, and even makes me wonder if I’m ready for a relationship now. The idea of one sounds great; the reality, I’m not so sure about. In my last post, I told you about my date with TDH, which was a horrible (and, OK, hilarious) experience, but I didn’t have time to squeeze in the info about my latest fling — an American Boy whom I met through a mutual friend about a month ago. When he called to ask if I wanted to get dinner, I accepted, although I wasn’t sure if it was a date. American Boy is a flirty type with lots of friends who are girls, and I figured I could have really embarrassed myself by assuming our rendezvous was romantic. Did I want it to be? After I had hung up the phone, I wasn’t so sure. AB was definitely attractive, very smart, and easy to be around. But he wasn’t French. And things could get awkward considering we hang with the same people.

Throughout the evening, I was still unsure what our dinner meant. Our conversation wasn’t necessarily flirty, but definitely more personal. When we parted ways at the metro, I got my answer when he assertively pulled me in for a kiss. And let me just say … wow. Wow. An amazing kisser—easy on the tongue, soft and slow, taking cues from my movements, one hand in my hair, the other on my waist. I literally walked away dumbstruck. (This has never happened to me before.) On the way home, I became so obsessed with replaying that kiss that I immediately started mentally thumbing through my catalog of make-out experiences. American Boy had to rank in the top five, I thought. No … maybe even top three; it was that good. Is that even possible?! I then knew I wanted to see him naked.

Which I did, a few days later. (And a few more times since.) So funny, these boys who act like such players. Sometimes you realize how it’s just an act. Which kind of surprised me about American Boy. I expected to find him detached and selfish, but instead have found he’s incredibly sweet. This makes me keep my guard up even higher—could we really get serious? Why is my reaction to the possibility so cynical? I start to wonder if it’s me who, in fact, isn’t into the idea of a boyfriend.

It’s kind of what turned me off from Mr. Cupid (man, I felt so free after breaking up with him). And with American Boy, I start to get pissed off at the realities of having boys in your space. The space, physically, is actually kind of a problem that isn’t just specific to AB, and I’ve considered the dilemma before—my studio apartment is small. Very small. I absolutely love it for its curtained-off sleeping area and two little windows that look onto the Seine, but it’s not a place for a couple to share. The bathroom has a sliding door, which it might as well not have because you could continue a conversation from the other end of the room without raising your voice. Seriously, how are you ever supposed to take a poop there with a guy around? Although, as I’ve found out, they just go ahead and do it. Boys! They’re just such … boys. The other day as I was making coffee, I heard AB take a piss, and my jaw literally dropped open when I realized he hadn’t shut the bathroom door. It’s been a while since I’ve lived with a guy, or even had one around regularly, so I guess everything is a shock. I do try to be that easy-going, one-of-the-guys girls, but in reality, I am a girly-girl. And I never want to expose any of my bodily functions to the guy I’m dating (even though my bodily waste smells like roses).

Anyhow, I’m not sure what I’m doing with American Boy. For the moment, we’re in that “casual” zone, and I’m beginning to think that it’s important to keep things there for the time being, especially considering that he’s going home to the States soon for a month, and will be gone through New Year’s. Not sure I would trust him to stay faithful over that time. And now that I think about it … I definitely don’t trust myself, either.