It's Friday night. The neighbor starts texting me. We go back and forth for about 10 minutes during which time he says he's home watching TV. Then he invites me to come watch TV with him and I tell him I will in a little while after I [insert excuse]. I do my [insert activity], then walk the two doors down to his apartment and plop down on the loveseat, perpendicular to the couch where he plants himself. We pick a movie, he tries several times to get me to sit on the couch with him (I stay on the loveseat), and we begin watching.
About three minutes into the movie he begins touching me, extending his arm awkwardly to my knee/lap, stroking it. I place my hand somewhere between his hand and my crotch - because invariably, his stroking hand will start roaming north. His damn roving hand distracts me from the movie and I, exasperated, finally say something bordering between blunt and cute along the lines of "Get your hand off me you idiot, and JUST STOP TOUCHING ME" only it comes out more like "Your hand is distracting me; I can't enjoy the film! Tee hee hee."
I throw the tee hees in there to try and soften the blow.
It works, for about three minutes. Then he starts again with the hand on my knee/lap.
Somewhere around the three-quarter mark in the film, he asks me how my feet are. I lie and say they're fine. He picks one up and starts massaging it, kneading it expertly as only a former masseur can do. He's a former masseur. I am butter in his hands.
He gets up to retrieve some lotion and at this point the foot rub becomes orgasmic. And by orgasmic I mean, were anything other than clitoral stimulation capable of bringing me to orgasm, this would be it. Well, this a few other things I'll not go into here. In any case - you get the point: Best. Foot Rub. Ever.
The film hasn't even ended when he starts asking me for a bisou. Just one, he says. Just a little bisou, come on, come on. Give me a bisou. I tell him "Knock it off jerk, I'm trying to watch a movie here. Can you not freaking keep trying to kiss me?" only it comes out something like "Philippe, non! Je ne veux pas t'embrasser. Regardons le film... tee hee hee."
I use French to soften the message. I don't want to kiss, let's watch the film. But I'm not dicking around here; kissing this man is like bringing my lips in for a car wash and coming out with a Detail Supreme. My lips, teeth, tongue and the southern portion of my face get cleaned. I'm pretty sure if I do it often enough the paint's gonna come off the finish. So I try to keep it to a minimum.
The credits start rolling as he leans over again. "Give me a kiss. Give me some bisous. Come on. Let me have some. Just one. Just one bisou." By this point I'm worn down, exasperated, relaxed from the orgasmic foot rub, and just not wanting to fight anymore. But the memory of big, sloppy lips making their way all over my mouth is strong. "Philippe, tu me fais folle. Je te donne UN bisou," I say, hoping my cutesy offer of one kiss while simultaneously telling him he drives me crazy will make it quick and simple. Alas, the tactic fails me miserably and I have to tell him to stop kissing me.
I'm going to leave, I say. Good night Philippe. No, I don't want to hug you. Really, having you press your semi-erect member against me while you lick my face, ear or neck ain't doing it for me. Goodnight!!
Call me, he says. Call me.
Out I go. It's a long 10 second walk home.
I sometimes wonder if I'm living in purgatory, heaven being somewhere where French men kiss me hotly on the neck without leaving a trail of saliva, hell being a round room with no door and a big set of wet lips chasing me around and around and around. God save me.
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