So, the one who ruined it all for me was Hot Frenchie of February 2014 fame.  Things would never be the same again.  The bar was set impossibly high in Paris that weekend.  With charm, dinner, a night time tour of the city of lights and well, you know…..

Fast forward to this year, and it seems that French is where I’m mostly at.  There was French Charles Manson,  who disappeared off the radar after suggesting sex would be a great idea for a second date, after just 45 minutes of chat over a café con leche.  With his tangle of unruly hair, and impressive beard, I must admit though, I had had a little caveman fantasy going on there.  But this was swiftly killed.  Dead in its libidinous tracks, when he popped up again a couple of weeks ago to tell me he’d shaved it off.

*NOTE: Men, NEVER, but NE.VERshave off your beards.  Think Samson, of Delilah fame.  Your power is gone.  Forever.

French Chaarrllles Manson, in the bathroom at work. Sans beard and hair…… *sob

And then he sent me a picture of himself nekkid in the bathroom at work.  You know, like you do.

My guffaw on the metro was more for the situation he was in, rather than he himself, but I also think I might have discovered the missing link that day.  We all know that harsh, overhead lighting is never a girl’s best friend, thanks to the tantrums we have thrown in numerous changing rooms from Zara to Marksies.  Dude, what were you thinking?  The light bouncing off your downy shoulders, also helped to compound my ‘son of Manson’ perception, by creating your heavy, sullen gaze, peering from under a shadowy brow.  If a blood-soaked  axe had been dangling from your hand, I wouldn’t have been surprised. Or the carcass of a freshly killed deer.

I’d have laughed myself silly, if he’d been caught at it.  *Insert your funniest ‘excuse for being undressed in the bathroom at work.’ in the comments box at the foot of this post.

The second one who compounded my obsession with all men French, was the delicious boy from Toulouse, who I have just text, to advise him to start running workshops for men everywhere, called, “How to Seduce a Woman”.  I thought he should know how wonderful he was, after I had the most dreadful first kiss, possibly EVER IN MY LIFE (well, apart from the one that was accompanied by Eddie Grant’s “I don’t wanna Dance”, in the school disco, circa 1983).

You’ve either got it, or you haven’t.  I’m beginnning to think it’s innate.  Toulouse boy was rem. ark. able.  Chap last night, also from Toulouse coincidentally, however (let’s call him JC and not the saviour of the world), jabbed me with his exploratory probe, while pecking at my lips like a hungry sparrow, that just got the crumb.  He was French too, why couldn’t he French Kiss.  They bloody invented it!!  *sigh

With some gentle coercion, I cajoled him to put his foot on the brake, and soften  up a bit on the jabby and the pecky.  And yes, I could spend time ‘training’.  But honestly, who’s got the motivation for that?  He is good company, we have had some really interesting chats, and been to see some music and had something to eat, etc, etc. so date three, which I believe is on the cards, will be crunch time……

Is it really too much to ask that a man is French, one metre eighty tall (or thereabouts), with a beard possibly a few strategically placed tattoos, cultured, well-mannered, charming, owns a French bulldog called Pierre, and can KISS PROPERLY??

I think JC  might just blossom into a cool friendship.