Wanted Ad - Une Femme
“WANTED:
Fiery girl. Untameable. Has sense of dress. Culturally smart (must know the name of the continent Morocco is in). Beautiful, knows she’s beautiful, but doesn’t let it get to her. Somewhat arrogant, but in a natural sort of way, and has everything to back it up. Must speak either English, French, Arabic, or Italian. Must make herself desired, but is honest and straight. No huge tattoos, no piercings other then ears and belly-button. No drugs. No childish games. I’ll cook for her, but really, no childishness.”
I gave this description to an ex-girlfriend once and she said I was completely irrealistic. That that sort of a woman doesn’t exist. Then I thought I had found her, and was pretty close, but after a month I was disillusioned. Broke up. What a pity.
Is this really so extraordinary?
Ah, French, what a beautiful language. French, as I see it, is a beautiful thirty year-old woman, a lawyer or director working at some top firm, wearing needle-point black-heeled stilettos with a strap, a tailleur and jupe, light make-up, dark red lipstick, dark black hair, and brown eyes behind black rectangular frames. Beneath that, she wears black lace lingerie and brown collants, and maybe, if you’re lucky, that’s the day she’s wearing her porte-jartelles (the absolute sexiest thing in the world). If French were a woman, she would be slender, wear black suede, have a sexy quiet voice, and would rarely look at you in the eyes. But if she did she would be Medusa’s nemesis, and whereas a look from the latter would turn you to stone, French would inflame your passions on fire.
It’s not that Italian isn’t more melodious (Italian, another woman, is sexier by virtue of her larger chest and long tanned legs), or that Arabic doesn’t have poetry to it (Arabic is an imperial queen, nothing less). But French, my friend, French is a woman who has learnt how to be a woman (Beauvoir). French is une femme, smart, beautiful beyond despair, daring, discrete, devious, stylish, sexy, witty, manipulative, a proper bitch perhaps, but oh so desirable. Mon dieu quelle beauté et quelle perfection absolue des sens et de l’esprit.
French is never old. When she’s 20 she’s cute, when she’s 30 she’s sexy, and after 40 she’s beautiful. Forget Botox, French is its own fountain of youth. She is une plume (a feather) writing on a parchment whose words become alive as they are written. French is where women look at you with a “regard exquis”, as exquisite indeed as a slice of paté and a glass of white wine.
French is a woman you take to the finest restaurant, drink the finest Bordeaux with, and while you are savouring a canard lacqué or a blanquette de veau, she takes her foot out of her shoe and slips it between your legs, slowly rubbing against your calf, then your inner thigh, and finally into your sanctity, completely disarming you. All while she is looking at you in the eyes, chewing with her innocent mouth closed, she cracks out an imperceptible smile that lets you understand that you’d better be up to par, because tonight she’s planning to take you on a crazy, racy, wild ride.
Make no mistake; French is not a woman you take in a Mercedes across Paris late at night. No no, that’s too cliché, not unique enough. French takes a walk through the lit Champs Elysees, up to the Place de la Concorde, and you stop at the “Café M” or “Buddha Bar” for a martini or champagne. French can dance, oh yes, like lines that have not yet been drawn, but at 3 am you and French will walk to the Pont Neuf, and sit atop the Seine river, moonlit or not, speaking or silent, it is irrelevant. Forget sex, what you share with French is an explosive orgasm concocted by the mere powers of mental desire and lust.
Of course there is sex with French. But it’s not typical sex. You don’t go clubbing then have sex. That’s Anglo-Saxon. You don’t kiss then start taking the clothes off. Non. With French, sex is unpredictable, it is hot-tempered, and you don’t know where or when it’s coming. With French, you are walking through Place Vendôme when, standing in front of the Bulgari store, you brush her face with your hand and feel a sudden urge for sex. You race down the stairs to the parking of the Ritz, and right there, between a Rolls and a Porsche, standing against the wall, you have mind-blowingly powerful sex. You throw her against the wall, pick her leg up and sling it around you, possibly lifting her black skirt in the process, and bury your mouth inside her neck. She might claw at you, but don’t misinterpret it, she means “ne t’arrête surtout pas ”. French is beautiful, French is a goddess, and wants to know that you acknowledge her status as a goddess. She wants to know you’d do anything for her, that you are so desperate for her you are ready to rip the walls as well as the clothes that stand between you and the desire of her beauty.
French is a woman, and if you know anything about women, you’d better know how to convince them they are unique. When you are with French, she forgets all else and you forget all else. When you are with French, there is no world except the one of your hands in her skirt and her hands in your hair. There is no tender kissing, only inflamed lips locked with teeth and tongues reenacting the battle of the Three Kings. When you are with French and you finally make your way to a bed, the sheets are red and you have a goddess lying naked in the middle of a red bed, and everything is perfect.
Lastly, don’t forget that French is unique, and will only be interested in a unique person. French doesn’t want someone who exists only to please her. French doesn't want someone who tries to fit or someone who conforms to a model. French wants someone who is himself, pleases himself, and who she can be honest with. As I said, Italian is sexier in a more obvious sort of way. But Italian is a diva. If you ask French, Italian is eccentric because she’s insecure. She needs a man to take care of her because she can’t take care of herself. French can, she doesn’t need anyone. She merely wants a hedonistic companion for the complete fulfillment of life. Italian is loud and roaring, French is noblesse, and her natural arrogance sets her high above all others simply by virtue of herself. French, my friend, is a wandering perfume unbottle-able, a tulip in a field that never sees winter, a tigress with purring skin and predator eyes. Don’t mistake French for something else, because French is...French.
Fiery girl. Untameable. Has sense of dress. Culturally smart (must know the name of the continent Morocco is in). Beautiful, knows she’s beautiful, but doesn’t let it get to her. Somewhat arrogant, but in a natural sort of way, and has everything to back it up. Must speak either English, French, Arabic, or Italian. Must make herself desired, but is honest and straight. No huge tattoos, no piercings other then ears and belly-button. No drugs. No childish games. I’ll cook for her, but really, no childishness.”
I gave this description to an ex-girlfriend once and she said I was completely irrealistic. That that sort of a woman doesn’t exist. Then I thought I had found her, and was pretty close, but after a month I was disillusioned. Broke up. What a pity.
Is this really so extraordinary?
Ah, French, what a beautiful language. French, as I see it, is a beautiful thirty year-old woman, a lawyer or director working at some top firm, wearing needle-point black-heeled stilettos with a strap, a tailleur and jupe, light make-up, dark red lipstick, dark black hair, and brown eyes behind black rectangular frames. Beneath that, she wears black lace lingerie and brown collants, and maybe, if you’re lucky, that’s the day she’s wearing her porte-jartelles (the absolute sexiest thing in the world). If French were a woman, she would be slender, wear black suede, have a sexy quiet voice, and would rarely look at you in the eyes. But if she did she would be Medusa’s nemesis, and whereas a look from the latter would turn you to stone, French would inflame your passions on fire.
It’s not that Italian isn’t more melodious (Italian, another woman, is sexier by virtue of her larger chest and long tanned legs), or that Arabic doesn’t have poetry to it (Arabic is an imperial queen, nothing less). But French, my friend, French is a woman who has learnt how to be a woman (Beauvoir). French is une femme, smart, beautiful beyond despair, daring, discrete, devious, stylish, sexy, witty, manipulative, a proper bitch perhaps, but oh so desirable. Mon dieu quelle beauté et quelle perfection absolue des sens et de l’esprit.
French is never old. When she’s 20 she’s cute, when she’s 30 she’s sexy, and after 40 she’s beautiful. Forget Botox, French is its own fountain of youth. She is une plume (a feather) writing on a parchment whose words become alive as they are written. French is where women look at you with a “regard exquis”, as exquisite indeed as a slice of paté and a glass of white wine.
French is a woman you take to the finest restaurant, drink the finest Bordeaux with, and while you are savouring a canard lacqué or a blanquette de veau, she takes her foot out of her shoe and slips it between your legs, slowly rubbing against your calf, then your inner thigh, and finally into your sanctity, completely disarming you. All while she is looking at you in the eyes, chewing with her innocent mouth closed, she cracks out an imperceptible smile that lets you understand that you’d better be up to par, because tonight she’s planning to take you on a crazy, racy, wild ride.
Make no mistake; French is not a woman you take in a Mercedes across Paris late at night. No no, that’s too cliché, not unique enough. French takes a walk through the lit Champs Elysees, up to the Place de la Concorde, and you stop at the “Café M” or “Buddha Bar” for a martini or champagne. French can dance, oh yes, like lines that have not yet been drawn, but at 3 am you and French will walk to the Pont Neuf, and sit atop the Seine river, moonlit or not, speaking or silent, it is irrelevant. Forget sex, what you share with French is an explosive orgasm concocted by the mere powers of mental desire and lust.
Of course there is sex with French. But it’s not typical sex. You don’t go clubbing then have sex. That’s Anglo-Saxon. You don’t kiss then start taking the clothes off. Non. With French, sex is unpredictable, it is hot-tempered, and you don’t know where or when it’s coming. With French, you are walking through Place Vendôme when, standing in front of the Bulgari store, you brush her face with your hand and feel a sudden urge for sex. You race down the stairs to the parking of the Ritz, and right there, between a Rolls and a Porsche, standing against the wall, you have mind-blowingly powerful sex. You throw her against the wall, pick her leg up and sling it around you, possibly lifting her black skirt in the process, and bury your mouth inside her neck. She might claw at you, but don’t misinterpret it, she means “ne t’arrête surtout pas ”. French is beautiful, French is a goddess, and wants to know that you acknowledge her status as a goddess. She wants to know you’d do anything for her, that you are so desperate for her you are ready to rip the walls as well as the clothes that stand between you and the desire of her beauty.
French is a woman, and if you know anything about women, you’d better know how to convince them they are unique. When you are with French, she forgets all else and you forget all else. When you are with French, there is no world except the one of your hands in her skirt and her hands in your hair. There is no tender kissing, only inflamed lips locked with teeth and tongues reenacting the battle of the Three Kings. When you are with French and you finally make your way to a bed, the sheets are red and you have a goddess lying naked in the middle of a red bed, and everything is perfect.
Lastly, don’t forget that French is unique, and will only be interested in a unique person. French doesn’t want someone who exists only to please her. French doesn't want someone who tries to fit or someone who conforms to a model. French wants someone who is himself, pleases himself, and who she can be honest with. As I said, Italian is sexier in a more obvious sort of way. But Italian is a diva. If you ask French, Italian is eccentric because she’s insecure. She needs a man to take care of her because she can’t take care of herself. French can, she doesn’t need anyone. She merely wants a hedonistic companion for the complete fulfillment of life. Italian is loud and roaring, French is noblesse, and her natural arrogance sets her high above all others simply by virtue of herself. French, my friend, is a wandering perfume unbottle-able, a tulip in a field that never sees winter, a tigress with purring skin and predator eyes. Don’t mistake French for something else, because French is...French.
posted by Ze Boss at 14:18
3 comments
