"Your utmost gratitude hasn't seen the best of me yet. I have yet to show you how one is to be catered upon. I am not done serving you." The Frenchman
Long before the internet, I was a collector of beautiful words. When I was younger, I used to go through my mother's National Enquirers and cut out all the quotes found in between each week's juicy gossip.
And with each boy I met and liked, I bought and began a new journal to collect his sweet words. I would hand write all of my favourites. I was still doing that up until about 2011/12.
I needed them documented because they moved me somehow. I wanted proof. And I wanted to be able to return to those words for seconds and thirds at any time.
Now I collect them online privately and also share some publicly.
And before Facebook, I collected the beautiful words of another Frenchman and gifted wordsmith - Keveen Gabet - and turned that into my second book, The Poet & The Butterfly. It was a compilation of our delicious emails. They were filled with passion and magic.
I don't share these sacred lines to exploit or to reduce. I share to enhance and elevate. To show what exists. To showcase beauty.
Words for me are pure art. I like to craft things with them. I like hoard them. I like to get lost in them. And I am deeply aroused by them coming from the right person.
If a man can move me with his words, he has a greater chance than any other. He holds my attention longer. He receives my devotion faster.
My Frenchman knows how to properly woo a lady. As did Keveen. As did my man in the van.
I find that wooing is a lost art though, especially in this day of dick pics right swipes, so when I come across a man who takes the time to abundantly cater to a woman, to get to know her, to do all the little things that add up to the bigger things, I gravitate to him like no other.
There is a reason I text and speak with the Frenchman endlessly.
He has never given me any reason not to. He pulls me closer to him every time because he is not trying to get me. He's simply offering himself day after day and I keep choosing to respond.
I am experiencing more true intimacy with him than I have with any other man, and all we have shared physically are two hugs.
But I share myself and my life with him every hour. He is part of my daily rhythm and my random thoughts. And only because that interests him more than some end goal of sleeping with me. Of course he'd love the honour. But he'd never dream of asking for, or expecting from another, what was not freely and joyously given to him.
What a man.
It's a pleasure to not be reduced to something as small as sex. For me it's nothing without many other things surrounding and infusing it.
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