... The naked man....

On a typical Monday night you can find me safely tucked away in my cocoon of an apartment. Paris in the fall is normally blistering, the wind is howling, the rain coming down. Nothing is better, than cozying up in your favourite chair with a good story, magazine,  or a great movie to watch. Nothing that is except the prospect of cozying up with someone else. I met V two weeks ago, when having a drink with a girl friend. I gave him my number, because as a single girl in Paris, if a super hot bearded "director" asks for your number, because he thinks you're "so beautiful" you do it. He called me three times that night, and four the following day. 

I have long since gotten over the surprise that French guys call. If they didn't want your number, they wouldn't ask no matter how much of the night you spend talking to, or flirting with them. So when he called I was not surprised. Not even by how frequent it was. He seemed polite, cool, wore a leather jacket and rode a scooter, and did I mention he had a beard.  Win, win, and some more win in my books. 

Finally on Monday when I returned his umpteenth message, he was happy to hear from me, and wondered if I wouldn't grabbing a drink.  Again, this is all normal procedure here. You meet up for drinks, talk a bit then proceed to dinner talk some more. Followed by a night cap and a cab ride home ( if its that late, naaaaasssstttty).

The rain finally let up as I walked up the metro stairs. Not there I send him a message. Strike 1. I walk the 50 meters to his place and he's not waiting at the door. Strike 2. I enter his apartment after much hesitation to find him lying there like king of  the couch, with no refreshments out. Strike 3.

Just smile.

Normally I am a three strike kind of girl,  but I went against my better judgement and decided to stay. I was there, I thought to myself, "whats the worst that could happen". I never think truly awful things can happen to me, which is both naive and foolish given my history. But, like I said, I was there; in hot not-so-polite directors house, and his sexy beard was even sexier that night. Refreshments were finally served. I don't why, but the Orangina, was extra crisp and the bubbles extra tingly. 

I excused myself to use the bathroom, and once out, I expected to see V there smiling, getting on his jacket so we could grab a proper drink. Instead, and this is a big instead, I found V, balls out naked. As naked as the day he was born lying arms across the back of his head, with a shit eating grin on his face, and asking for a massage. It took all, and I literally mean all the strength in my world, not to kick him in his junk. And when he walked past me, and motioned me towards the bed room for a little "lie down" because he was " so tired", it took all the strength I had left not to light his body hair on fire. 

I took the classy root, because its never to late to class it up, and put on my jacket. Collect my purse and umbrella, and left. His goodbye, was "are you going to leave me like this" followed by, "call me when you change your mind". I just laughed when I walked down the stairs. 

Were all flesh and blood,  and we all have a facade. V's facade was that of a latherio, he wanted to seem like the bad boy who pulls the "naked man" on an unsuspecting woman.  The truth is he's just a man with an ex and a ax to grind doing what he thinks he should be doing to get over that hurt. I know this not, because I'm a wise omniscient being, but because he told me so. And if I have learned anything from my 13 months in Paris, other than a guy will call you is if a man says something to you, do yourself the favor and listen. Plus, this dude pulled "the naked man". Wtf was that.