Hot for Teacher

I have always had a thing for older men. Even now, if given the choice, I would prefer to pass my time with a gentleman, than a guy. So, it should come as no surprise that I am crushing hard on one of my teachers. Actually, he is no longer my teacher; because I moved up from level 4, I don’t see him in class every week. I do, however, see him on campus and always make a point to flash a big smile. He is an elementary teacher but teaches a couple oral classes/week. Monsieur Dupont is one of maybe 20 Frenchmen—ever -- over 6ft tall, he’s in his early 30s (okay, not that much older), with thick black hair and an amazing smile*. He has a deep voice and he rolls his r’s as though he was from the south of France. In fact, I have no idea where he is from, what he does in his spare time, or what kind of car he drives; but as I plan to stalk him, I will keep all of you posted.
Friday last, I spent the evening drinking margaritas at my new favorite Mexican restaurant, followed by several pints too many at the local Irish pub, where who should I run into but François-Michel. He was sitting in a corner with friends, but stopped over for a few minutes to say “hello.” He was forced to stand very close to me and whisper salutations in my ear, but I became too nervous to respond in French, and simply admitted to being much to drunk to do so…in English (which he, of course, speaks beautifully). So, very drunk, I was unable to be “clever, enchanting Serena” in French and made a few lame comments--again, in English about the French country-western band playing bluegrass covers, and how I was much better suited I was in level 5. After making a complete ass out of myself…ironically, in my native tongue, M. Dupont returned to his corner where he was joined by a teeny, tiny Asian wearing ‘man-eater’ boots (even with a 4-inch stiletto, she couldn’t have been more than 5’3”)
During this time, my drinking companion had taken a liking to a Croatian sailor sitting nearby (they are docked here for the week). He and two friends joined us—or rather trapped us in our corner, and bought us a round. Unfortunately, a flower man found his way to our table, and one of the Slavic semen bought us each a rose. Sweet, I guess, but I was not at all interested. Awkwardly holding my rose, and silently drinking my beer as Megan exchanged numbers with the cute, English-speaking sailor, Monsieur Dupont passed eyeing my flower and giving me a “Not Bad” look. To which I responded (in French), “A little help would be nice.” But he didn’t understand what I was asking and simply asked nudgingly if I was making friends. Dommage.
He spent the rest of the night playing with his precious little doll (fetishist! I’ve seen My Size Barbie’s bigger than her!), and I stumbled out of the pub a couple hours later much, much too drunk to walk myself—or my friend home. Thankfully, our not-as-drunk friend, Joey, guided us to safety.


Update: Serena is feeling the strain of being in France for several months...alone. Needs are not being met and she is going a little stir crazy: picking up a few facial ticks and has begun to bite fingernails.



*French dental hygiene = *shudder* Floss didn’t make its way into this country until the mid 1990’s.