True Stories

Bad Dates

#1: Please, Soeur

When Phil came back from two years in France with a new bride,
he was the envy of all his male friends.

Françoise was every inch a 'Mademoiselle'; petite, fiery, sexy, 'come-to-bed-and-stay-there' eyes, an accent that made everything sound like a come-on and a grasp of English that created a stream of single-entendres.

We all flirted with her terribly, but only I fell for her. I hid it well, but she probably noticed when I stopped flirting after the first week. Obviously, the flirting went nowhere. She was committed to Phil with that unrestrained passion the French reserve for l'amour and pretty-much nothing else. Except maybe striking.

She jumped on him when he arrived, and kissed him goodbye so hard she must have tasted brains each time.

We loved her candour. "That shirt, it looks like a vagrant sneezed on it," she would tell you. And if one of us had their eye on a girl in a bar, she would lean over and say "You would like sex with her, I think?".

One day we were alone in a bar, waiting for the others. I had spent two minutes trying to think of something incisive to say, but could only think of, "Do you think satin was invented to cling to breasts or was it just an accident?" So, I said nothing. Suddenly, she spoke.

"You would like sex with me, I think?"

It was pretty much an unanswerable question. I hung my head. "Sorry. Is it a crime?"

"But of course not," she answered. "It is flatteur... flattering. But I am with Phil. We French are not all promiscuous, like in the American movies. We are not even promiscuous like we are in French movies."

I mumbled something about not expecting anything, knowing it would pass and realising it was just one of those stupid things.

"It is not stupide," she demurred. "It is sweet. Maybe you would like my sister." A calm, sensible voice told me that would be a bad idea. "Sure," I said.

Jeanette was only over for a brief stay, because she ran a busy model agency in Paris. With assurances that she would be easily recognisable as Françoise's sister, I waited for her in the lobby of the most expensive restaurant I could afford

It turned out that Jeanette was, if anything, the more attractive sister. It was difficult to tell precisely, as Jeanette wore make up, whereas Françoise never wore any.

Where you could really tell them apart was their manner. Jeanette had eyes that kept focused long and hard. She would follow waiters crossing the floor with a piercing inquisitiveness. She looked at me like I was a specimen. Not an unattractive specimen, but part of me felt as if I was being experimented on by a gorgeous scientist. But hell, if she'd have called me 'Sample A' and only touched me with tweezers, it would still be the most exciting date I'd had in a while.

Jeanette's English was not good at all. We spoke a mixture of English and my school French, sticking to small-talk. But the essential information – that we liked each other – was communicated with ease.

After emptying my bank account into Signor Paningotti's coffers, we had a drink in a nearby wine bar. It was here that she kissed me. One thing was for sure, that kiss was a family trait. Jeanette tasted my brains. I expect the bottle of Italian red we'd demolished gave it a fruity, dry tang.

When she finished and I stood gasping for air, she huskily whispered a suggestion in my ear. Within three minutes we were in a taxi heading for my place.

All the way back I was expecting the small voice in my head, but there was none. Perhaps it had been sucked out.

The following evening, I was sitting in our usual bar, with a grin on my face the size of Tokyo. Phil was the first to come in. I toned down my smile, remembering Jeanette's early-morning plea to tell no-one.

"How's it going, Phil?" I asked, way too perkily.

"Fine," he told me.

"Françoise coming tonight?" I wanted to say a special thank you to her, that was for sure.

"Oh, she's not coming." he explained. "Spent all night out with her sister. Funny thing is," he continued, toying with his drink,

"I didn't know she had a sister."

~ P.M.

Illo: M.D.

 

#2: The Ice Queen

This story is not about a date as such, but it does involve a woman, embarrassment and semi-nudity.

One afternoon, an -agency called and asked me to attend a casting for an ice cream commercial.

"Look geeky," they said. Not a problem. To emphasise my natural geekiness I wore a tasteless wide collar shirt, ill-fitting trousers, glasses and black & white checkerboard trainers.

On the way I ran into a friend I hadn't seen for ages. I asked her opinion and she said I looked "incredibly geeky". She then gave me her new phone number which I typed into my phone, then accidently deleted after she'd gone. I was getting into character.

I arrived at the casting and was given the script. The first paragraph went something like this:

"A semi-naked woman lies on a bed watching TV. At the door of the bedroom, her boyfriend arrives wearing just a towel and holding a tub of ice cream. He jumps onto the bed and they frolic for a while, him teasing her with the ice cream."

I scanned down the page, desperately looking for a bit that said, "Then a geeky guy arrives and does something amusing". There was none.

Just then the door to the casting studio opened and a model-looking bloke walked out fastening his trousers.

I exchanged glances with the only other guy in the waiting room. He was wearing a Hawaiian shirt, sandals and a tank top. There was obviously some misinformation at work, but at least I wasn't alone.

Now, I've no problem with getting my clothes off but I'm no actor. This makes convincingly frolicking with a complete stranger in front of two other complete strangers and a camera quite an unpleasant prospect.

The director had already lost several female applicants who hadn't been told about the semi-naked bit (more misinformation) and were wearing 'unsuitable underwear'.

The young lady I was now auditioning with was no exception, but at the suggestion of Mr Hawaiian shirt, she popped out to a nearby shop to pick up some shorts and a crop top.

The first thing I had to do was look into the camera and state my name and agency. fought the urge to say "Hi, I'm Sam and I don't know why the hell I'm here."

So, anyway, I got frolicking.

If you've never dripped ice cream down the cleavage of a colleague you've just met, then let me set the record straight. It's not erotic: it's acutely embarrassing.

This is especially true when you are clearly there by accident and the director is just going through the motions to be polite.

To ensure maximum levels of awkwardness, my co-star and I had to run through the scene twice. So, for a full 10 minutes I frolicked on the fine line between acting and sexual assault.

I hope she wasn't too offended. She certainly played along quite happily, but having a skinny geek in boxer shorts smear you with frozen dairy products must test even the most tolerant of women.

A video of this disaster now exists and will undoubtedly emerge to haunt me in later life.

Needless to say, I didn't get the job.

~ S.V.

Illo: M.D.

 

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