Last January I met a french man. He was tall and beautiful and surrounded by other tall and beautiful french people and I was holding a plate of burrata. In case you aren't familiar with burrata, it looks like this: (white cow shit?)
And it's quite strange to be holding it by yourself in a cool, crowded, parisian bar toute seule. Of course my friends were there, but they went to get drinks, and I offered to get the food. So I'm standing there paying for the burrata, and someone taps me on the back. I turn around, and there he is. We are gonna call him Pierre. He is tall (6'3"), and has big brown eyes. He starts speaking to me in French and one of the girl's he's with joins in and I am so lost at what they're saying and thinking I must look like I really love burrata.
Pierre realizes I don't speak that good of French (pas encore) and we switch to English. I thought he was perfect. Ridiculously handsome. I think I even thought I didn't have a chance, so I left and said I had to go find my friends. I found them, gave them the burrata, and told them about Pierre. They saw him and said he was looking at me. He came over to talk, and left with my number.
Now, about 9 months later, we just stayed in our second castle together. Pierre and I have had the best sex, and eaten the best food together. We make love well, we cook well, we travel well, we always have a genuinely good time. He plays with my sexuality in a way no one else does. And he is 28 and I am 21 but he doesn't act creepy about my age, he likes me for me. We have done it in Palais de Tokyo, his parents house in the south of France, a castle in the east of France, a castle in the north of France, a bee field, the car, the swimming pool, my roommates bed, his kitchen, and on the floor by a fireplace.
No, he's not my boyfriend, but yes, we are exclusive. I trust him more than I've ever trusted a boyfriend, and at times it's hard, because society and social media pressure me to think we need a label, but I've recently discovered that the reason we work so well, is because we are in fact without a label
We aren't together because we are "boyfriend and girlfriend," and our pictures are all over instagram and we are approved of by others. However, I am not judging couples that are like this. It's the age we live in. Pierre and I are together because we want to be, and we both don't want to lose our individual freedom, we exist on our own, and that makes us very happy together. It works très bien for me. In relationships I tend to cheat, and I believe there is a lot to learn from being single at this age. That being said, I have many friends who aren't single at this age, and they are incredibly happy. But for me, it's different. Having a boyfriend stresses me out, I feel like I have hives. And we either have to get married or break up and I always want to bang someone else, and that isn't quite fair to whoever the boyfriend of the time is.
So Pierre is my boyfriend without being called it. We don't sleep with, date, or kiss other people. We respect each other. He takes me to beautiful places. He makes love to me in a way no one has before. He is my sexual awakening. He loves my body covered in hair or waxed. It doesn't matter, all of that is my decision. He likes me just the way I come. After we have sex, we sometimes shower together. And he takes the time to wash my whole body, every inch of it. It's a surreal moment, we aren't having sex but we are so intimate as the water falls around us, and he sees everything I've ever been insecure over, and it's artwork to him. As he goes down my thighs and curvy legs with the soap, telling me he can't believe how perfect my body is. When all I've ever believed is that it is not perfect and could be better. I am not a sexual object to him, but a woman, a sexy, beautiful woman, capable of having sex be about pleasure. In fact, even a fucking princess.
Because he's taken me to two castles now. The first was a very sweet and old castle. We had a huge room to ourselves. A big bed with a red canapy, robes, and a shower the size of a walk in closet. At this castle we did it in the swimming pool. It was beautiful, wet, royal. We sunbathed topless and had picnics in the grass. We watched Hayao Miyazaki movies and cuddled in our robes. We went to a park and he couldn't help but play with me under my dress, the sun kissed our skin as we kissed each other; Knowing we had all the day to waste and a castle to come home to.
The second castle we just got back from. He took me for Halloween. Halloween, which is my favourite holiday. And the French people don't really get Halloween, it's another strange American-ism. But Pierre knew I loved Halloween and he wanted to make it perfect for me. The property was beautiful and the castle was the perfect amount of spooky. We had a little pink room this time with beautiful views. For dinner we went to the grocery store to get food to make in the room. We had a bottle of wine, olives and chips as the appetizer. He then made a "three course meal" for dinner. The first was avocado on a baguette, the second was tuna on a baguette, the third was salmon and avocado on a baguette. The dessert was beignets and each other's bodies.
I wore pink lingerie that I bought just for the castle, considering on the regular I don't wear underwear or a bra for personal and health reasons. But this time I had fun, I brought sexy pyjamas and all kinds of lingerie. I played adult dress up. I had just been waxed so my body was sooooo soft. (On the matter of waxing I have something to say. For me it works, I haven't shaved in 6 months and my body hair is softer than ever. I like the two weeks that I'm soft as a baby's ass and I like the two weeks that I'm hairy like a grown ass woman. In France, to get waxed from belly button down, it's only 48 euro and the waxers really know what they're doing. In America, at European Wax Centre (LOL) it costs about $150 to get belly button down, that's without tip, and it's not as good of a job. Considering I have had dark body hair my whole life, waxing is my savior. For some, it's just hell).
Halloween night we went to a little wine bar. We sat in the corner in these old chairs. We were on this little island that used to be an old fortress. In other words, I was in the middle of an old war zone, who-knows-where with a beautiful French man and endless glasses of cheap good wine. Thank you, France. We got drunk, went to a traditional French restaurant, ate too much, tumbled back to our room, had sex again, and then, he watched Hocus Pocus with me. A keeper.
Pierre lllovvveesss my body. Like more than anything. He can't keep his hands off of it and each time we have sex it's better than the last. His penis is the perfect size for me. He always makes sure I'm comfortable and always checks that I'm aroused. He goes down on me way more than I ever go down on him. Not because I don't enjoy giving him head, because let me tell you, I love it with him. He simply always wants to lick me before sex to make sure I'm aroused, and because licking me turns him on. He is always hard after and the rest is, well, you know.
Sex with Pierre is beautiful, poetic and dirty in the best way. I never feel like I am putting on a show, or having sex because I have an obligation to. I always want it, we always want each other. Even in the car we can't stop ourselves. I give him head, and he fingers me. He handles my sexuality in a way that American boys didn't/couldn't. They objectified me and misunderstood my thriving appetite for sex. Pierre honors it, treats me like a queen. We never stop discovering each others bodies, laying in bed, looking at each other naked. We talk about pleasure, how to improve. I can be myself with him, without him going to tell his friends "She's a freak in bed." What happens in bed is between us, and fuck, this blog?
One time we pitched a tent in the backyard of this house he was working on in the countryside; He told me we were going camping and we drove for four hours and pulled up to the cutest little cottage and he said "My friends live here we are gonna camp in their backyard." And I was so confused, and he said "Just kidding, I am working on this house for my parents." We stayed four or so nights in the cutest little 1500's cottage and the last day we "camped" out in the backyard. It was raining all day and we could hear the raindrops on the roof of the tent. We watched movies and stayed in the tent until about 3 am, but we couldn't go more than an hour without making one another come. When we finally went inside I made him tacos and we ate them after a long day of tent, movies and faire l'amour.
With Pierre, I am free. And it's confusing. Because I am used to a label and cute couple photos and the boyfriend/girlfriend thing. But Pierre allows me to experience living in Paris free from inhibition or the stress of a relationship. Which again, is a me thing. Have you read Sex, Love and Depression? He cares about me more than I think I really understand. And I don't want anyone else, my eyes don't wander. I found a French man who makes me pasta and fucks me better than I've ever been fucked. He never gets tired of my pussy, and I have fallen in love with his dick. I look at his body and I think it's incredible, a masterpiece. And each memory I have with him is stupid cute.
Sometimes, there is just nothing better than French men & castle sex. Don't settle for anything less than that, or your personal equivalent.