Frenchy – Survived by Tara

Sidenote from Tara:
While lounging on the beach in Thailand with no wifi and about 4 coconut cocktail drinks in me, I passed out for some vacation napping and then woke up remembering three dates from my past. They had been shoved down in my subconscious only to have resurfaced after being drunk. And sunburned. Sigh.

WHO: Frenchy. He had some other yummy-sounding French name but I can’t remember it.

WHAT: I’m fairly certain it was an OkCupid date

WHEN: I think it was 2011 but my timeline lately has been way off.

WHERE: Night Life at Academy of Sciences, then a bar, then his house, then my house.  You would think these were 4 dates. It wasn’t. It was one.

WHY: He was French. He had moved here a year before and he oozed sexy man-ness. At least he oozed it via messages. He was sarcastic, tall-ish, muscle-y, and laughed at all the weird American words I liked to make up (man-ness, ginormous, Radicalturbobadness, etc.). He bought tickets to Night Life and met me at my apartment like a gentleman. He was older, about 32. (I love that I thought that was old back then, seeing as how I’ll be 32 in November.) He also seemed like a “real” man. I was stoked.

THE DATE
He met me at my apartment. I wasn’t ready yet, so he came in and asked for the wifi password to check directions. When I moved into my NOPA house in SF, my friend Ben Red was helping move heavy objects. He very seriously mentioned that we should call this The House of Ass, since all of us girls had rocking booties. When I installed the internet, the pressure to name it was so overwhelming that it became House of Ass. Six years later it hasn’t changed. I tell Frenchy the name and he straight up giggles. What manly man giggles like a school girl?

Anyways, we walked to Nightlife and had a good time. We headed to a bar, and he charmed me with both French phrases and French wine. All of a sudden it was 2am, the bar was closing, and I was in no shape to get home. He said he lived around the corner and offered to make me his “famous” grilled cheese, and then he’d get me a cab home. I’m a sucker for food and I was oddly into this guy. Nothing seemed wrong with him, so why not?

We step outside and he lights a cigarette.

Me: “I thought you said you didn’t smoke?”
Him: “I don’t, just one when I drink wine. My place is just over there.”

He kills the cigarette, we head upstairs, we eat grilled cheese, we find ourselves in bed a little later. Feel free to fill in the blanks. After a bit he lights another cigarette. We’re naked in bed, and he’s smoking.

Me: “I thought you said you only smoke one?”
Him: “I did, this is the same one from earlier.”
Me: “I watched you put it out.”
Him: “Nope, this is the same one. I saved it. Also, I’m French. I always smoke after sex.” He leans in to kiss me. “It’s a compliment.”
Me: “That’s a new cigarette. I watched you take it out of the pack and light it. I’m literally laying next to you.”
Him: “You’re just in a sex haze and aren’t wearing your glasses.”

I get up and gather my things. I’m sobering up and decide a walk home may suit me perfectly.

Him: “Look, I’ll put it out, don’t leave.”
Me: “No, it’s okay, I need to head home anyways.”
Him: “It’s 6am. Come on.”
Me: “It’s nice out, sun rising, I’ll walk.”
Him: “At least let me walk you home.”

We head out and as soon as we hit the street, he lights another cigarette.

Me: “Seriously?”
Him: “I promise you, it’s the same one. They are these long-lasting French cigarettes that last ages, kinda like me.” Giggle, giggle, giggle.

Now I’m officially over it. He was ridiculous. And he giggled again. This time like a weird old man.

We get to my house, and I struggle opening the door. I forgot that I had a pile of old costumes that I was going to give away blocking the door.

I turn around to give him a wave or half hug because the smoke smell is so gross, and he is LIGHTING UP ANOTHER NEW CIGARETTE.

Me: “I just saw you light that brand new cigarette. In the future when you say you don’t smoke, you are totally lying.”
Him: “Seriously, mon cherie, you need to wear your glasses. This is the same one from earlier tonight. Maybe you need to get your eyes checked again. Hey! What is that shiny green thing? Are you tossing this stuff? Oh! Hot pink tights?”

He starts pulling out my old Salsa costumes and old dance stuff, and proceeds to PUT THEM ON. Somwhere in the pile of sparkle he looses his cigarette.

I look at him wearing my tub top as a skirt, and he PULLS OUT A PACK OF CIGARETTES, takes one out, and LIGHTS A BRAND NEW ONE.

I just stare at him.

Him: “It’s the same one, I swear. I only smoke one. Can I have this stuff?”

I throw the bag and him out, slam the door and lock it.

Him: “So I’ll call you?”