My French scene

As usual, I was late for about 15 min. I know it’s a bad habit to keep but it’s getting more difficult over time. When I finally got into the meet up location, I saw Olivier already waiting for me outside the lobby.

He looked a bit older than the photos, a bit of grey hair, with a nice enough amount of beard running around his double chin, which is what I always find attractive in a man. He was wearing a jeans, polo shirt and a jacket, very chic, fashionable but still elegantly polite. That’s exactly what I’d thought a Paris born and raised would look like.

“Maybe you’re late, maybe I’m late, I don’t know?” he greeted.

“No, I’m late. I’m sorry,” I said. Feeling super embarrassing, I tried to make up by speaking some French. “Comment ca va?”


And then he went on with something French that was way out of the curriculum of my 2 month French course I took 2 and a half years ago. It was an awkward meet and greet session to begin with. Then we went for a walk around town, heading to my all time favorite pub in town.

Along the way, I picked up some pieces of information about him, how he worked in the education industry, greeted here by the Embassy, all fancy. No sooner had the entire conversation been diverted to the subjects regarding Gerald Depardieu and Jean Dujardin’s hotness in the so-called French version of 007. Unlike the Italian guy, I think I broke through the extreme politeness wall that’s frequently seen in suit and tie people. It was a good sign.

We made our way to the pub. After he politely opened every single door for me (which I also tried to do for him as well), we settled in a cozy corner on the second floor, where we could watch the whole scene downstairs but be seen by only a few. Olivier ordered a Caipirinha, I got one B-52 and 2 bottles of Singha (which is the Thai beer that I drank frequently back in Thailand). Fueled with alcohol, our conversation regarding anything cultural kept going on and on.

He asked me about gay community in town, about my love life and so on. He said that I looked practically the same as the photo, with more hair. He asked if I thought he looked French and I told him that I liked his nose, a very typical Daniel Auteuil-esque nose, or maybe European nose, how could I know… But I like it. And then when Bon Iver’s Skinny Love came in, I found myself staring at his nose longer than I should.

He told me that he was leaving to Bangkok the following day, after another meeting, and then back to Paris. He shared with me stories about how Frenchies love to make babies, and he did make 2 and used to be married but claimed to have always been gay since 15. He told me that he’d only been with around 15 men for all his life. He had a thing that went on for 3 years with a Colombian guy and was rather complicated. And he also taught me how to correctly pronounce some French words. We felt each other’s throats while trying to get the correct “R” sound. That was our first touch.

And then that song, Est ce que tu viens pour les vacances, came on, as my request. Man, you should see his reaction. I wished I had a camera at that time. He was hysterically laughing and then used to beer bottle as a mic to sing along. We did chant to that classic song while receiving some strange looks from people downstairs. At that time, I believe that he might be 40 something but his soul is still young, just like mine. He was willing to drop down the guard to enjoy a silly moment.

“So French people usually need alcohol before doing something wild and fun?”

“Sometimes yes, sometimes we just want to get to the core,” he replied, looking directly in the eyes.

I could feel the sexual tension rising pretty quickly. He stared at me in the eyes pretty long, you know, that eye.

“Are you sure no one could see us?”

“I think so,” reluctantly reaching my body out to overview the whole public scene.

“Swinging in the backyard, pulling up your fast car, whistling my name…” Lana Del Rey was singing in the background music.

The cozy atmosphere, the retro, laid back style, the wall with Fidel Castro and James Dean portraits, the Video Games song, the alcohol starting to kick in, everything, everything in that moment was so perfect, or perfectly timing. And that’s when he leaned in towards me for a kiss, just like my favorite word in French, bisous.

It started out as small kisses like that but then I could feel his tongue knocking on my mouth, asking to come in. I opened my mouth wider, 1 hand running on his beard, allowing his tongue to invade the whole new territory, tracking down the traces of my tongue, and then let them intertwined. I could feel a dramatic blood pump rapidly flowing down to my cock, allowing it to form a new shape inside my blue jeans. My other hand was holding his.

“Let’s get out of here,” I said.

“Let’s get a cab,” he replied, wittily.

We then grabbed a stand-by taxi back to his fancy French hotel. Our hands were locking all the way. He led me to Room 808 where we then undressed each other slowly. I could see that his underwear had already been soaking wet.

I took him to the bathroom, which took quite an effort since he was much heavier. We enjoyed a passionate shower session before heading to bed. The rest was, well, how things usually go.

He allowed me to go inside him but since it’d been so long since the last time I really penetrated somebody was long ago, plus, considering his much bigger body size, I didn’t fuck him as much as I wanted to. We cum on each other’s body, with me collapsing on his hairy chest, breathing heavily and lingering there for a couple of minutes.

Next thing I knew, we were by his window chain smoking. We just sat there, completely naked, hands holding, eyes fixed on each other and talking about Moulin Rouge. It was around 2 am.

From this view, I could see the whole French influence building area, the opera house, the square, the opposite hotel, the balcony and the street with sidewalk coffee down below. The road were quite, everything had been put to sleep by the darkness and fancy hotels’ neon lights. The only sound that was alive were of our kisses. It’s funny how I didn’t feel vulnerable at all, exposing my whole body to the world in that winter night. And the whole moment felt as if Olivier and I were two broken characters finding each other in a very poetic frame in one of those French movies.

He asked me to stay. Of course, that was my wish. Normally, I would head straight back home, without even being asked, feeling either broken or disgusting if the sex went wrong or if I sensed there was too much emotion all over the place. Yes, I was very glad he said that.

We spent the night together, with our naked bodies side by side. Sometimes I would cuddle him. Sometimes he would be woken up by some urgent messages and then turned to me and touched me, not the sensual kind but the caring kind. Sometimes I would give him more small kisses on his shoulder, his arms, his back. I was going down with the flu so I did try not to cough or make any noise with my stuffy and runny nose but when I did, he would smile and reached out to comfort me.

To sum up, I didn’t get that much sleep, probably like 2 hours. And I was a bit nervous as well because it’s been such a long long long time since I shared the same bed with someone I have feelings for, like we were much more than just the physical contact. The last time I was in bed with Ben, sleeping, was in April 2013.

We woke up at 7. No words spoken, we knew this could be our final moment. I crawled down, lurking under the bed sheet, gave him some gentle kisses and then a long deep head. I don’t normally give head to my partner since I consider it a vulnerable act which I could only do to actual lovers only.

I could hear Olivier moaning harder and harder. Next thing I knew, he grabbed me by the head and pushed it back and forth faster and deeper. Me, being unfamiliar to such treatment, started to gag really hard. Oli let me go right away. He gave me that thankful look. “Now, it’s time for payback.”

I moved up and fucked his throat hard. Afterwards, we changed our position, adjusted the light and decided to record some of the moment. There was a part of us kissing. There was another one of Olivier taking my body downtown, giving me passionate head and his eyes gazing innocently at the camera from time to time. And then we cum again.

The sun’d caught up on us. While I was getting dress, Oli gave me Kit Kat bar, afraid I might go hungry. He then pulled me close, fixing my plaid scarf as I put my hands around his waist.

“Inform me when you arrived home safely, will you?” I said.

“Tu est mon bebe.” He whispered slowly, using the hand sign to explain, assuming that I didn’t know what it meant.

At last, we kissed goodbye as I headed out for work. It was 8 o’clock in the morning and a bit chilly outside. The rain was drizzling as they dropped against the hotel glass windows. I tore my Kit Kat, trying to recall the sweetness on the tip of my tongue and wondered if time and place would ever bring us together again.

Goodbye, monsieur.

This entry was published on December 10, 2014 at 11:58 am. It’s filed under Bon, olivier, one night stand and tagged , , , , . Bookmark the permalink. Follow any comments here with the RSS feed for this post.

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