This is for all of you(all three of you) who read my old blog(which is now locked) and remember the charmingly inappropiate Gaston. For htose of you who don’t know, Gaston was this guy I hung out with in Montreal. He was a mysterious man who ilved a large loft over looking the city skyline. Gaston had fabulous parties and a pleasure boat. His moeny came from unverifiable sources, sometimes he was an art dealer, other times he was building ski chalets. Gaston was french(european) and called me cherie and Huck Finn. He claimed to be in love with me and offered to whisk me off to some sort of Chateau in Normandy.
This is what I first said about him back then:
I went to class today though, then went up to the pub to prepare for my conference tommrwo, in oh…eight hours. Shit, I should go to bed. But I met this really hilarious man.
Are anyy of you familar with the continental? IT’s this 1950’s character that was later spoofed on Saturday night live, the “How about a glass of champagna?” man? So I am sitting there reading and then this guy asks me what happened to my knee, I’ll just call him Pierre,. He was from france and I guess he had a similar injury, which he sustained whilst dancing drunk on speaker and wearing some sort of boots with heels.
And he was straight(but not narrow????) He talked about how this injury effected the arcrobatics(wink wink) If you know what I mean,,,, Which of course I did because I’ve thought about it, and we talked for a while about buisness and france and French and he told me that I needed a french boyfriend to really learn. He showed me pictures of his charming loft and invited me to a house party there and told me how he was going to get a botat in the summer and float along the canal with wine. Cuase he is french. He likes wine, food and passion. Though his cat is the love of his life. It was really funny. Then we tlaked about politics and America and Wine and exchanged numbers.
When I wrote this entry, I wrote it under the impression that he would NEVER call me. But he did.
Guess who caleld today? None other than the Continental. He caleld this morning to ask me out on a dinner date this weekend.
He left a voice mail, and I chickened out.
You know, because he is the sort of person who complians about the workmanship on his marble countertops, I could just see him making reservations somewhere really nice, and i”d have to be duly impressed.
Before you think I am slipping back to the aformetioned pattern of doubting people’s sincerity who like me: Keep in mind this man is mildly sleazy, talks about alleged affairs with French pop stars, the difficulty of doing the “Atheletics” (Wink) with an injured knee, his nice lfot, cocaine, his yuppie top of the line applicances and his cat. I have no idea how old he is even. He could be anywehre from 30 to 45. I only gave him my number int he first place because I really didn’t think that I was his type. (he wanted to invite me to his housewarming party, I thought that maybe his friends were attractive.) Apparently I was wrong. He did call last friday night, to ask me out THE NIGHT OF for drinks with his friend. So I brushed him off, todl him I’d give him a call for this weekend. Why would hye assume that I had nothing to do on a Friday anyway?
But he called this morning. I decided I’d call him back alter on in the afternoon, but then eh called me two hours later, and now we’re getting drinks becauyse I told im I had to grade papers. I just couldnt’ committ to dinner with him. Perhaps I should have.
Monica told me that my problem with dating is this: I should date people and wait for the click to happen while I am dating them. And then if it doesn’t then I should break up with them after a month, if there is still no click.
I can’t imagine spending a month with a person I didn’t click with. I always thought the point of dating was to go out with people you liked or at least knew you could like. It seems rather unfair to date people you feel utterly ambivlanet about, like the Continental. She pointed out that had I asked ET Jorgen out a month ago when I wasn’t sure how I felt about him, the click could have happened when we were already dating thus avoiding any sort of complications.
I don’t know that I agree with her. And anyway, I feel gulity knowning that the contiental is going to buy me drinks and probably dinner and then I will go home and write a diary entry about how strange he is.
though nmaybe he will surprise me, maybe I”ll find out how old he is, maybe there will be surprisng depths to his character. Maybe I am not a total bitch.
God, I was so sincere and annoying, also an atrocious speller in my twenties. What happened? Anyway, then there was this:
The Continental…why dont’ I just call him Gaston from now on…invited us to a party at his house last night. We went. Again, it was one of those great gatsby sort of nights, people on coke, crystal, nice cocktails,….good food. My friend Tabitha thought it was sweet that he wanted to introduce me to his friends. I did try to explain to her htat it was nothing like that at all. I am sensible enough to know that Gaston is not trying to lure me into being his girlfirend, but rather, part of his harem.
HIs friends were all in their 30s and french speaking, which up until teh point I walked into the room, did it occur to me that I would have problems communicating with the majority of the party guests. Oddy enough, Monica and I were distinguished to be among the only people who have not slept with Gaston. He asked me if I wanted anything to eat, I told him, I’d hav ea drink instead.
I went Mod, because, as my wardrobe is bereft of nice stuff, I figure it’s better to go vintage-then it looks like you have an eccentric style, rather than none at all. So I wore my mod cocktail dress and a really tacky pair of vintage grape earrings.
Gaston is utterly charming, and gifted in his ability to say the craziest things and get away with them. He said the normal, you look sexy stuff, and then later as I was smoking in front of his living room window, he leaned in and whispered: “After you left the other night…(pause)….I had the most…incredible sex with myself.” And then he laughed int his increcibly french man way. Surprisingly, I wasn’t offended. I laughed.
He laughed and asked me if I thought of him.
Not being able to think of a witty comback, I reliedo n the snarky and asked “wouldn’t you like to know?”
Monica is blessed with diplomatic immunity from his advances. Apparently, despite being a manwhore, he values freindship above all else in his life, and thus, would never hit on two friends at once, he referred to it as his “code of ethics.” Though that iddn’t stop him from asking for a threesome, or kisisng Monica’s neck, which he then apologized for. Funnily enough he was picking up on a rather sulky persian woman at the party.
I wasn’t offended, realizing that with Gaston, this would inevitably be part of the deal, a deal which, one way or another, I had nothing invested in, besides having a good time at his party.. So I drank my gin and tonic with good humor. However, in watching him try to cajole her out of her unhappiness(caused by an earlier obvious flirtation with me) I knew for certain, that if there was ever a man I could not become involve with, he was standing before me.
To be honest, the last couple of days I’ve been tossing around the idea. He’s funny, entertaining, charming…..in kissing him, I am tolerably certain that he’d be good in bed.
And there is something intriguing about the idea of just sex and dinner and fun, not worrying about where it was going and whether or not he was good for me, because he is so obviously bad. But then…in watching him with the persian woman, I knew that this is the way it would always be.
Could I sleep with someone and not be jealous or care that they were picking up on someone at a party in front of me? No. But that is exactly what would be expected. And I wondered, how the hell does he even get away with this?
The persian woman left and apparently, she told him that if he ever wanted to sleep with him, he’d have to wait four years.
Four years! Imagine his agitiation. He told me that at least with me, I’d say maybe or never.
Later on, he came over to put the moves on me, with all the subtlety of pepe le pew.
He asked me why I wouldn’t kiss him? Did I find him replusive? Was I not attracted to him? Was it because he is a slut? Why deny him when I am such a heavenly kisser? I told him to ask me again in four years.
And then he made a french noise of protest and said “Ahh but uberfrau, Pride is such a terrible thing. That is your problem, why search for meaning when you can have intensity?”
And with that he kissed my hand to go and dance to Abba while staring at his reflection in the window.
Later on, he would try again, telling me that I looked like an Oblisique, reclinging on his couch, That he dreamt of giving me the most incredible oral sex of my life. But that he knew I thought he was a manwhore. And maybe that is why he gets away with it, becuasse he is so over the top, and then disarms you with nearly charming honesty, that one is completely thrown off. Again, I resisted his advances. But to be honest, and much to my own shame as a former baptist and a feminist.
While other people were dancing, Monica said to me, “uberfrau, this is fun, but you do know he’d be poison?”
I assured her that I did, that I wanted nothing but friendship with him.
We stayed quite late. the rest of the evening past with much drinking, eating and dancing. We were the last people to leave. Leaving only after we watched the sun rise over teh city. On the taxi ride home I reflected that I realy wasn’t having much luck in Montreal, meeting, thus far, an evil man, a man who dchose a domintrxi(is it bad that I have no memory of who this is???) over me, a man who can’t decide if he wants to be my friend or sleep with me, the insta relationship man, and now, a self described slut with a harem of women.
If there were only a happy medium between all of them.
Monica and I decided that Gaston is especially bad. Because, I end up a depressed cokehead like the girl in forest gump tettering over the edge of a tall building and wanting to die and that I’d getr accustomed to his world and then all of the sudden I wouldn’t be drinking pink ladies out of crystal glasses or eating patte anymore. And I wouldnt’ knwo what to do.
I’d ike to think that I have too much good, bourgeois sense for that. But even I don’t trust myself around him. Obviously I have to end this. I wonder if it’s naive to expect to still be friends?
Anyway, so I called him when I was in Montreal-he’s in Film now, because while I thought hanging out with him would be incredibly weird, I felt that being in town and not calling him would hurt his feelings. For some reason, over the years Gastona nd I have sort of remained friends. He sends me pictures of he and his girlfirend(the same one he had all those years ago) on vacation, and occasionally a screenplay. It turned out to be good timing as he and his partner are moving to Europe. He came and got me at Vilas house for a dinner at his. He was exactly the same. Only older. And again, even though I am a somewhat sucessful, albeit unemployed professional, with a graduate degree, I felt way out of my league. First it was the driving in the really nice car that cost more than I make in a year, and perhaps even a year and a half. At some point on the drive to his very nice loft, I felt like I was going to die, because he is such a horrible driver. Then his loft has gotten even bigger, as he took over the loft next to his. Secondly, I met his partner, who not only this extremely nice woman, but has this incredibly powerful job, and also another old friend, who is now a big exec at a pharamcutical company. If only I was something other than a public educator, it would have been a great time to network. Gaston then showed me his recent aquisitons in his art collection, and then I started drinking. The night was so weird. It was like something out of a clever french movie where nothing happens, but it’s strange all the same. Gaston kept making allusions to things that happened in the past, while his partner just laughed and was so kind. I made fun of his driving. Everything was so nice, the dinner, the cocktails, the lighting. Anyway. He drove me home and it wasn’t weird. He told me that he’s been “very good” lately. I don’t remember what I said.
And that was that.
