Being this far away from the motherland has not significantly altered my M.O with men, namely, love ’em (read f**k ’em) and leave ’em. I know this makes me kind of a slut. Ok, no. That makes me a whole lot of slut, but feigning affection in order to get a little sum’in-sum’in smacks too much of hard work. And as for long-term, so called steady relationships, don’t even get me started.
So, I hooked up with a Frrenchman recently and he was a whole bag of sum’in-sum’in. And chips. With buffalo wings. Ne Koka Kora yacho pa side. He could do things with his tongue that I do declare are bordering on illegal, nay, are probably illegal in some bible-thumping states.
That aside, now M’sieur le Frenchie is refusing to be rambwa-ed. Bleating on about ‘ow ‘e lurrves me (said in that very sexy Thierry Henry/Arsene Wenger/ Robert Pires kinda way that is hard to resist – memories of Prince Tendai’s ‘I can’t resist your tempation’). And ‘ow ‘e wants to make me ‘is wife, and that I should carry ‘is babies (the age old barefoot and in the kitchen routine. or was that naked and in ‘la cuisine’? whatever).
Now. The problem arises in that:
a) I have all the maternal instincts of a gnat, never mind the fact that my womb is not for hire.
b) Like my girl Tina said, what’s love got to do with it?
If I give you your marching orders, what self respecting man sticks around to get more of a pounding on his ego as you force my hand to mete out further punishment (and not in some kind of S & M, I am wearing clear heels or black patent leather kind of way)? Pray tell me, once shown the scenic route, why would any one refuse to take it? Only our esteemed leader can get away with being red-carded and then refusing to walk.