L'homme Français, la partie deux

I woke up early the next morning. I was looking forward to a day of peace and quiet after a trying week. I had some things that needed to be done but weren’t pressing. I laid in bed, debating upon how to start my day. Laundry needed to be done. Boxes needed to be unpacked. Life needed to be organized in general.

I decided my first order of the day would have to be some exercise. Otherwise I would just sit around all day. I hated that. I never had energy if I didn’t get some sort of exercise in. A run would be a perfect way for me to learn more about my new surroundings. I had to find my workout clothes and running shoes. Now which box is that stuff in? I scanned my note about which box was which. Found it! I ripped the box open and grabbed what I needed. I was out the door in less than 5 minutes.

My run took me along the Quai de Rive Neuve, the street that ran along the river. There are a lot of boutiques and restaurants along the waterfront. Traffic wasn’t heavy so it was easy for me to get lost in the music on my iPod as I ran. Until someone called my name from one of the cafés.

“Chelsea! Chelsea!”

I stopped dead in my tracks to see who was calling me. It was Jean-Pierre.
“Come, lovely. Have coffee with me,” he said.
“I need to finish my run. I have lots to do today.” I replied.
I kept bouncing in place to keep my momentum.
“Non, you shall stop and have coffee with me. I wish for your company today.” He insisted.
“I really cannot today. I have to do laundry, unpack, and organize my apartment.” I was begging for a way out of seeing this man today.
He gave me a sad pout with puppy dog eyes. “Ok, shall I call you later?”
“That would be fine. Good day!”

I continued on with my run. Don’t get me wrong, Jean-Pierre is an incredibly sexy man. Especially when he speaks in French. I have heard that French men are very passionate in everything they do. Especially in bed. This is one theory I was looking forward to. If anything, I could make Jean-Pierre my boy toy.

I rarely get obsessed with men but I was looking forward to Jean-Pierre’s call. I thought about him all day as I unpacked. I thought about what he did for a living, what he looked like without clothes, and what his lips would feel like as he kissed the inside of my thighs. Yes, I went there. I knew I was going to have a miserable weekend if I kept thinking about him though. I kicked myself for not telling him where I lived.

I took my sexual frustration out on unpacking and cleaning. Once I made a mess of the place, I knew I could work my OCD compulsion for organization to help relieve the frustration. An easier way to end my agony would be to find BOB. Who’s BOB? He’s my Battery Operated Boyfriend. Every girl must have one. Cucumbers are no match for BOB.

Unpacking and organizing lasted late into the night. I had lost all track of time until I heard a knock on the door. I froze. It was after midnight and I was not accustomed to people knocking on my door. My landlord was not awake at this hour so it certainly wasn’t her.

“Oui?” I nervously asked.
“Chelsea? It’s Jean-Pierre.”

I quickly opened the door for him and invited him in. How in the world did he find out where I lived? Was he stalking me? I had to know where to place him on my creep meter.

“I asked my cousin where you lived. I could not stop thinking about you all day, “ he said.
“That’s perfectly fine. Come in, find a seat.” I truly didn’t care that he was there and saw me in my sweaty state and the mess of my apartment.

“Shall I help you with anything?”

“Yes,” I breathlessly replied.