Mine was named Ben. He was incredibly tall, chiseled and philosophical. We met when he attended one of my Pilates classes with our mutual friend Patrick. After the class, he asked if I would like to come over for coffee and brunch.
After eating pancakes with two Frenchmen, a Russian, and a few other foreigners, I was hooked. This man was so fun to be around. He made me laugh, had a great group of friends, was incredibly intelligent and loved rock climbing.
We spent the next couple of months meeting up for coffee and discussing our passion for adventure. I found myself hanging on his every word, each filled with wisdom and zeal. My only hesitancy was his wild heart. After several discussions, I realized any sort of relationship with him would be short lived.
That did not stop me from being attracted to his rugged dreadlocks and his strong jawline. Every aspect about him screamed man, yet he had this poetic softness about him.
One night, I heard rocks softly tapping at my second story window. I walked downstairs and met him in the street. He was leaving for Paris the next day and needed to see me before he left. Standing under the stars in my lace nightgown, Ben put his hand on the back of my scalp and pulled me in for a kiss.
It was perfect. Everything about it was. The night breeze on my smooth legs, the strong fingers of his hand in my hair, the gentle eagerness of his soothing kiss... yup... that was the best kiss ever. It was the kiss you see in movies that you think could never be real because it is too gosh darn perfect.
If you haven't kissed a Parisian yet, I highly recommend it.
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| Obviously, that is not Ben... |
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