I only slept for a few hours before being awoken to a myriad of kisses on my breasts. He was hard and ready to go again. We had sex in a different position. I loved how experimental he was. I wanted to learn something new and Jean-Pierre was my instructor.
Sex lasted for over an hour before Jean-Pierre insisted we go to his favorite café for brunch. He said we needed to eat to keep up our strength. I insisted upon a shower for us both first. My intent was to actually get clean in the shower but of course, he had other ideas as he soaped up my breasts. We were in the shower until the water ran cold.
Finally! Dressed and out the door, we walked the few blocks from my apartment to the café. We dined on strong black coffee, beignets, and fresh fruit. Jean-Pierre’s desire was to spend as much time with me as possible. I didn’t mind. I actually liked him and enjoyed his company immensely. I wasn’t even desperate to get away. Kudos to me for sticking this one out.
We talked about anything and everything while we ate. Upon discovering a small, trivial fact about him, I couldn’t get the shocked expression off my face. He let out a hearty laughed at my surprise.
“I like older women,” he began.
“What do you mean?” I asked with a quizzical look upon my face.
“I’m only 20. The women I see are older as I imagine you are as well.” He said this with smug pride.
I dropped my beignet onto my plate, hence the shock on my face.
“I’m, uh, I’m…” I couldn’t help stammering.
“You are what? Don’t American women like younger men?”
“I’m not that much older than you!” I laughed.
Jean-Pierre joined me in laughter and then kissed me across the tiny table.
“Oui, Je sais. J'aime vous entendre rire.”
When he speaks to me in French, I go weak in the knees. Wow, he loves hearing me laugh. Some things I can pick up on but for the most part, I needed him to translate. We sat in the café for hours and spent the time with uninterrupted conversation. I learned so much about him in a short amount of time. He asked me about my childhood, my family, and what life was like growing up in the United States. He had been to a few places in the U.S., like San Francisco and New York City. He wasn’t even from France! He was actually French-Canadian, from Quebec. We talked about Montreal when I found that out! Why was he in France? Coworker was his cousin and he was going to school here.
After a while, a friend of Jean-Pierre’s came over to our table to say hello.
“Bonjour, Marcel!”
“Bonjour, Jean-Pierre. Ca va bien?” Marcel replied.
“Oui, et toi?”
“Très bien. Qui est votre amie?” He asked.
“C’est ma petite amie. Elle est de l'Amérique et parle un peu français,” responded Jean-Pierre.
I exchanged greetings with Marcel after introductions were made. I couldn’t believe Jean-Pierre introduced me as his girlfriend. Maybe it was a term they used loosely here. In America, it’s a term of possession in my opinion. I decided to ask him about it before throwing him out of my life. I needed to do it privately and waited until Marcel left.
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