I am at the French Scientist’s place sampling beef steak cooked to medium-rare perfection. On the plate beside it is a scoop of pumpkin mash with dried herbs. Clan in nothing but a pair of taut cotton grey y-fronts (present of another ex-boyfriend), I lay on his couch and both of us are watching Animal Hoarders on Bio Channel on his cable: a woman has 32 cats living in her home with more dead cats under her furniture than she care to count. Friday night.
Seriously, there are dark nights of depressions when I ponder the universal unfairness of life in which all my friends are either straight and married happily with kids, or gay and attached happily with the regulatory dogs running around their apartments. Once I tried boasting that I have a wonderful Bank job in a regional bank to make myself sound less pathetic. Even that quickly fall flat when I (even I) start yawning the moment I describe my job in detail. I have an ex-chef and current scientist in a local and highly prestigious government agency focused on fostering science in the bio-chemical industry laboring in the kitchen for me for at least 2 hours + 1 hour of frenzied grocery shopping. This is clearly not one of those dark nights.
Introducing le French Scientist. A thirty-plus something French who anticipates all my needs before I say it, and the moment I say it, delivers it on a silver platter. No need to ask, play mindgames, weedle…etc whatsoever. No emo moods and drama tempers. Has a nice place with cable television and the most astounding cook. That’s only the good part.
Like every coin has a backside and bright clouds have rusty linings, he is a little lacking in the physical department. A waistline carefully cultivated with double servings of French chocolate (choo-ka-lat) ice-cream profiteroles and buttered potatoes topped with too generous portions of triple whip-cream. While not rich in any physical defects, looks wise he is on wrong end of the spectrum that spans between chiseled perfection and being utterly forgettable. Most of all, he has a high-pitched voice that can be truly grating at times and he is fond of whipping out his jack’d app on his mobile and, pointing at some random guy and go: he is quite cute isn’t he, maybe I should text him. Invariably, I always tell him to go ahead and do it. Oh, and he can be very queeny.
Picture this: plates washed. I am washed. Laying on the couch and he is playing with jack’d beside me. I was feeling a bit sleepy after a long day of work and seriously just want to get some action (quick) before I head into fluffy dreamland. I decided to take control and fiddle with his flesh on his stomach and making the usual mhmmmm sound – that can be mistaken either as I find your undulating rolls of tummy fats really sexy or interpreted as mhhmmm… how can anyone accumulate so much flesh while running 5 km a day and eating salads as a part-time job?
“Hey! (High-pitched) I got a message from this cute boy! Maybe I should answer him? Maybe I should get him to come over for a three-some!”
“Get him over. But I am picky. If he is shitty, you can have him.”
“No. We have a threesome. I like threesome. I love all you Singapore Sluts…”
I ain’t gonna spend the evening chatting.
“I am sleepy and you better have sex with me while I am half-awake or else I am really going to collapse…” (feigning a yawn)
I got up and headed to the bedroom for a quick shower (my second in the evening. I am obsessed about personal hygiene).
When I got out, all the lights in his home, except his bedside lamp, were switched off. My favorite pajamas of his that I always borrow (a pair of red shiny boxers made either of cheap polyester or raw silk, I can never quite figure out) was laid on the bed. I dropped the towel, turned around to examine my freshly washed ass and winked approvingly at the toilet mirror. I slipped the boxers on and got into bed with him. He switched off the lights mercifully and the action began.
I nearly forgot to mention, in the dark, he is a pretty good screwer. And thankfully a silent one too. I cannot ever recall a bad sexual encounter with him. Seriously I have had model types fumbling impotently (bad pun, I know) with their wobbling penis(s) drumming at my ass while I roll eyes, and on more than one occasion, visibly. And that seriously puts a dent into any evening and possibility of any future evenings.
That night, after sex, I lay spent on his bed and muttered that I had never watched the Underworld series before. He quickly downloaded it via cable.
He hugged me to sleep while I watched Scott Speedman and Kate Beckinsale bounce around the edge of the screen with fangs and jaws entangling with leather, fur and gunpowder. Drowsily I muddled through the film in a sense of vague contentment before my eyes shut. Over the evening, he muttered and wrapped his bear like arms over me.
It was not one of those dark nights.