Monday, June 01, 2009
living on the edge
So I fucked up the dates. Was told yesterday morning that actually the Franch Man was to be le keeping on my couch last night, not tonight.
What a considerate man he is though, only arriving in Joburg after 8:30pm, which meant I could catch one final episode of Grey’s Anatomy before he’d do me in with a blunt instrument.
Speaking of – because that’s all I was thinking of yesterday – while meeting with clients, banging away at my computer, pushing paper, etc etc – was my possible demise via French axe-murderer going to be a messy one?
I suppose when the forensics swept through my apartment the next day with cotton swabs, they’d go: Shit….what a mess….serial killer. For sure.
Then on closer inspection: She came to an untimely end…but she sure had great side tables.
And if they’re even half-thorough, they’ll find my dildo(s) in my drawer.
This is my first ‘hosting’ experience, and granted I’ve fallen for the oldest trick in the book: he is hot. I’m wondering how many naïve and easily-impressed females like myself who came to a sticky end by accepting a request to stay on my couch for a night, said, ‘Oh but he was smokin’. And French.
Just look at Ted Bundy. Chicks were hot for him. Some even sent him love letters after he was imprisoned for multiple instances of death-by-scythe. Or whatever.
If all goes well, and to the plan, I won’t:
2) Be harmed
3) Live to regret this
If all goes well and to the plan, I will:
1) Practice French with him all night long over a bottle of Diemersfontein Pinotage
2) Not die, but rather be revived…in a joie de vivre type of way
3) Realise all this angst was for nothing because he might possibly be gay. He’s that hot. And I haven’t experienced a straight man this hot since I was, say, 8. So it’s very possible.
What does one buy a French man for dinner? A kg of lasagne, that’s what.
Because if it can’t be warmed in an oven or smashed into a toaster, I can’t cook it. Do you think his French culinary skills would be impressed by the likes of the Woollies Family Range?
Salads are on sale for ten bucks, FYI.
I’m over-thinking this situation purely because I am extremely talented at over-thinking. If you need overkill-analysis from every angle for any situation, I’m your bitch. And this wasn’t the most streetwise move on my part.
Usually I’m very sensible. I’m hosting an Italian girl in July, but she’s a girl, so I could throat slam her in self-defence.
Now it’s a boy, and that’s a bit scary and perhaps totally stupid on my part. Please oh please may he not be a criminally insane crazy psycho stalker with a thirst for South African blood.
I’ll try my best to butter him up so that he decides against any rash acts of illegal and murderous nature by speaking his mother tongue all night long. He’s from Toulouse and I’ve been there before, so maybe I’ll just go on and on and on about how perfectly fucking lovely it was and how cordial and non-barbaric the people were?
Sleeping with one eye open tonight. Would it not err on the side of caution to sleep with the breadknife under my pillow or am I really ripping the ring out of this?
Hell, my trusting nature says that this guy is probably the shizzbomb, and very sweet. God I hope my instincts aren’t fucked. Completely. They have been off on other occasions.
So if you don’t see a blog post from me again, you know what happened.