My Spinny ValentinePosted: February 14, 2012
My ex ex boyfriend and I were in France for my 40th birthday.
It was my dream scenario.
Goddamnit, if I had to turn 40, it may as well be in the most beautiful part of the world over-looking the vineyards of the Languedoc, sharing the experience with the man I thought would be in my life forever.
It was the very definition of romance.
I’d cracked it. Smug. Me.
On lazy sunny afternoon, I thought I’d kick start a little sexy romantic fun as we lounged around our perfect vintage French living room. We’d opened a bottle of local wine and were enjoying the complete and utter French-ness of it all.
Did I mention it overlooked vineyards? And that it was perfect in every way?
So while he was reading in the living room – the one that over-looked the vineyards – I went upstairs, stripped down to just my thong and attached two pasties to my nipples. They had long hanging tassells that effortlessly swung as I walked. (I’m no teeny-tiny Frenchwoman I can tell you). And had been given to me by a friend, who with a twinkle in her eye, said “Enjoy yourselves”.
I put on some soulful background music and sashayed into the bright open living room that looked out over vineyards and Josephine Baker-ed myself around the floor in front of him.
He was in an armchair reading The Economist.
I did an amazing upper body bobble that made the pastie tassells swing 360. It was I thought, magnificent.
But he just stared at me.
And so I carried on dancing, like a Jewish burlesque dancer, who’s self-conscious yet determined to see it through to the end, picturing him carrying me in his big strong arms out towards the vineyard, or just up for a quickie on the divan (either or).
For what seemed like ages. And more ages. But was probably only 30 seconds or so.
The ticking of the clock got louder and louder.
My dancing got less enticing, less Moulin Rouge, and more third cousin’s second wedding after a few pints.
Without any kind of positive response, I soon tipped over the edge from sexy, giggly and romantic to feeling, well, just plain stupid.
“I’m reading”, he finally said.
“Oh,” I replied, standing still as my tassells swung forlornly, like two sad back up dancers.
Inwardly I wanted to kill him. It didn’t compute.
It also felt utterly humiliating.
He carried on reading The Econonmist. The mother fucking Economist.
I backed slowly out of the room trying to save face – difficult I know but my reasoning was that he didn’t deserve to see my bouncy ass-cheeks, and I ran upstairs to dress.
We broke up when we got back home. Funny that.
Turns out my friends loathed him and that he was prolonging the relationship so that he could have a cheap holiday in Europe.
I’m still mad with myself that I didn’t read the signs better.
But I suppose my point is two-fold: If you can’t make a man have sex with you on holiday in France while skipping around the room in hand-embroidered pasties, maybe you deserve to be single?
Or should it be that romance cannot be manufactured?
Not by people.
Not by time.
And certainly, not by a date.
Happy Vals everyone.