The Bent Cock…

…that got lost in translation…

Bonjour mes amis! I still have another week of hiding in France and I’m starting to turn native (last night I drank wine and smoked for 40 minutes before I even LOOKED at the menu). The downside is the dating scene in the rolling vineyards of Bordeaux is crap, but there’s plenty of wine which the closest thing I’ve got to a stable relationship. There was some flirting from the owner of the only local restaurant, but his fiancee being there gave me the feeling that being new trumped attractiveness around here… (you’d walk a mile in high heels after 100 in trainers just for the sexual thrill).

That’s not to say there is NO dating scene, I have been receiving some cheeky messages from a french lad nearby. I say cheeky, I honestly have no idea what he’s saying, for all I know the conversation might translate to this:

Frenchie: Hey, got a spare kidney?

Ignorant me: Thanks for the compliment! I’m twenty four 🙂

Frenchie: What? Is your blood type O?

Ignorant me: Haha! Well I’m pretty vanilla but I’m not apposed to handcuffs 😉

Who knows? But that’s what dating is like, kissing a series of toads until you accidentally meet an angry organ harvester in a dimly lit alley… (hopefully he’ll be a gentleman enough to drug me before I’m disappointed again by online dating)

Organharvester.jpg
Mother always wanted a doctor in the family…

 

I am still getting messages from Hank, but that’s a whole different type of lost in translation. Somehow, after blowing him off underneath a table, he wants to get to know me more? Now I admit I’m not great at picking up signals, if a man came up to me with a blood stained apron and asked me to come back to his for ‘a meal I’d never forget’, my mind would jump to artisanal butcher before crazy murderer… Hank on the other hand has met someone who is willing to give out sexual favours at five in the morning after drinking a lot of grey goose and thought ‘potential partner’.

Top tip #36: A nice guy with a hero complex won’t want to ‘save’ anyone who’s mentally stable, pound a tequila and punch a bouncer to reel in those boys…

Hank’s determined interest in me is all very well and good, I’ve always loved a smidge of attention (smidge here meaning the amount of attention a rabid rhino would garner in Times Square) but these non-sexual chats are very confusing. It would be much easier if he gave me something, anything, to work with but whenever I ask about himself Hank replies with “No, I’m boring” (even paint changes colour as it dries, my standards are not sky high babe). Currently the only thing Hank has going for him is my tan will looking fucking amazing against his skin, which is whiter than Morris dancing.

morris-dancers-01
English culture has the oddest blend of looking like a harmless idiot whilst genocidally colonising other nations… 

 

It makes me almost pity him… which I kinda find attractive? I have a strange power complex thing, Monopoly is my favourite board game mainly because other people rely on your ‘benevolent’ charity to stay in the game if they owe you £10,000 (this has never translated into a sexual thing, unless any guys out there are looking for a Mr Monopoly themed dominatrix *wink*)… Just to give you an idea how sad it all is, have a look below:

 

20160725_024306.png
There’s an opportunity in there to invite me to your house and see your ‘pole’…  

 

Not only am I being sexually suggestive but I’m giving Hank jokes to play around with too! How hard is it to be confident with someone after they’ve already given you a blowjob?! The hardest part of climbing Mt Everest isn’t taking pretty selfies at the top (apart from you  Steve Buscemi, even all of gods splendour can’t detract from that face…) am I wrong readers? Do any of you have an explanation for this odd behaviour? Am I so jaded by terrible men that I can’t see a sincere and emotional guy when he’s being boring right in front of me?

Well… As I’ve stated, I’m not the best at reading into messages. I was once at a party (the sort of party where you lie and say you read the bible and went to bed early that night) where a naked man in a hot tub started to chatting to me. I was joking about curvy dicks when he outright told me his was also very bent, which was slightly embarrassing because I spent five minutes complaining about them. He assured me it was a good shape though, and I rather naively asked:

“What shape is it?” (oh god Sam, bats could spot a trap quicker than you…)

He mumbled on about how it was difficult to explain (in hindsight I can assure you it was easy to explain…) and grabbed my hand and wrapped it round his cock. Now in this type of situation there are three types of people. The first will spot this as an advance and say

“Sorry, not after that tonight,” or “Fuck off mate!” or maybe “Period, I am literally internally bleeding right now…”

The second will laugh and just jump on it, equally good answer, no slut shaming here just wrap that curvy banana up. Then there is me, who upon feeling the definite but not indescribable curve of his penis said:

“Oh, that is quite a curve! Well I’m going to grab a drink but tell me if you spot someone you like, I’ll try and help out…”

The saddest thing is I actually liked the guy, by the time I had worked out that putting my hand LITERALLY on his dick was a move, I was leaving…

sex
Oh. My. God. I LOVE balloon animals!

 

So this is why I need some more information from Hank, a guy forced me to grope him and I still didn’t clock the message! On the bright-side at least I have another week before I have to decode of all Hanks language into simple “yes I want to fuck”, maybe not understanding my illegal french organ donor is a positive after all…

Join me next week where I talk even MORE about how to work out what men are saying to you, as a top expert in misunderstanding men, you know to not trust my opinions…

Stats:

Ciggarettes: I’m dyeing my lungs black this year, I hear its super chic

Exercise: When people ask me about exercise I quickly say “I’ve been hitting the gin loads this week”, and they assume I mean exercise

Dates: One when I return home, where I have to be quirky as hell to make it interesting… (more on that next time)

Mood: I’m in France surrounded by bread and pastry, someone could tell me ISIS took over the southern hemisphere and all I’d ask is “Where’s the peanut butter?”

 

 

 

 

 

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