“Non, je ne regrette rien”
No, I Regret Nothing
I first met her as “Paige” via eHarmony. She taught French at a High School in Springfield, Missouri. I was working and trying to stay alive in Mosul, Iraq, circa 2008.
After about a week or so, we ditched eHarmony and exchanged emails, more photos, and phone numbers. And she confided to me that ‘Paige’ was her middle name and that her first name was ‘Elizabeth.’ I told her that if she didn’t mind, I’d prefer to address her like that. She said, “Bien sûr!” (Of course)
About two weeks later, as Parsons owned me an R&R I broached the idea of her rendezvousing with me in Paris (France, not Texas).
She was all for it, but then confided in me that she did not have the funds for the plane ride.
“Silly Girl! I will purchase your plane ride and I will pay for everything else—I am Rich!” (She would ‘rectify’ this ‘situation’ a few years later—but I am getting a little ahead of my narrative.)
She could only get one week off from her HS French teacher job and I had two weeks of R&R owed me, so I told her I would spend a week in Dubai and then meet her in Paris.
Good to go.
So I went to Dubai, stayed drunk, and hung out at the pool every day in the Five-Star Hotel where I was staying. (I wanted a tan so as to look my best for her.)
I even brushed up on my Français, hoping to impress her with that in case my awesome tan and hard body did not move her (I had been working out like a mad-man in the weight-room there in Mosul)
I was READY for some Great Sex.
On the short plane ride from Dubai to Paris, I downed a few vodkas (Prepping myself).
Hooked up with her at Orly International Airport and we grabbed a taxi to our hotel.
She demonstrated her command of French, speaking to the taxi driver.
I was properly impressed.
Oh, and yes! She was just as advertised in her photos:
Long blonde hair, six feet tall, and absolutely stunning.
Built like a Brick Shit-House, to use the Texas Vernacular.
She had a soft, very sexy voice, but I knew this already from our many telephone conversations, but live and in color it was even mo’ bettah.
I was already in love.
Pretty sure she was falling for me too (Yeah, I was that confident and vain)
I could not wait to get her into bed.
But she said to me after we had settled into our hotel,
“Can we take this kinda slowly? Maybe go down to the Champs-Élysées and hit a side-walk café, like Café George V. It is one of my favorites. They have awesome Canard à l’orange.”
“Sure, I said. We can do that.” (Over the course of our time in Paris The George V Café became ‘Our Place’ and we went there at least twice a day—sometimes for food, sometimes for coffee, often for vin rouge. (Red Wine)
Our hotel was within walking distance of the Champs-Élysées so we started walking. (I had picked the hotel for its location and it was very expensive, but I didn’t care. I had a woman to impress.)
As we were walking to the café, she said this, “I thought I smelled alcohol on your breath when you picked me up at Orly.”
“Uh, I had a glass of wine on the plane,” I lied.
Anyway, we got to George V Café and spent a wonderful afternoon there, over duck, red wine, conversation, and some building sexual tension. We were very hot for each other. This was obvious.
When it had reached critical mass, I quickly used my French and said to the garçon, “l’addition s’il vous plaît” (Check please)
Then we hastily beat feet back to our hotel and fucked each other’s brains out.
And it was glorious!
But then as we were basking in the warmth of the sexual afterglow, she said something incredibly stupid:
“Lance, I have never been faithful to any man in my life.”
This honest revelation of hers threw me into a tailspin.
(Fidelity was important to me back then, especially when relating to a woman I intended to wed.)
She had sucked the wind right out of my sails.
It was rather devastating, in fact.
And from that day forward, that one concise statement became an albatross around my neck.
I eventually married her anyway.
(Against My Better Judgement)
To Be Continued…
My much admired and respected by me, Great, Good Friend, John Coyote, wrote this recently.
I had to lift it, as it perfectly adds to and fits my narrative
(Link to John: https://johncoyote.wordpress.com/2021/01/28/damn-your-eyes-2/#comment-122267)
“Damn those eyes
Light and dark collide when I found you.
You are my black magic woman who make me wish for enchanting nights where you and I.
Are free and wild. Free of locked door and dormant passion. We will become wild in spirit and we will try to consume the night like the wild beast.
My Gypsy woman. Let’s find the sea and share some vodka and juice. Let’s dance for the midnight moon and the stars. Let’s pray to the sleeping gods. Pray for them to come alive and join us in the dance of freedom.
Damn your eyes. Those eyes make me forget I’m a prisoner of controlled and useless life. You make me want to stripped down to nothing. Run nude and denounce my ordinary life and self-made prison. I want to be locked-up in your eyes and your embrace.
You and I have found the sea at Monterey. The Monterey sleeping ghosts come alive for us and we danced the movement of freedom. You and I. We beckon sacred place where love can be true and we can show real face. Dispersed of fake goals and dreams. I whispered to you. Your eyes, your face, your wild heart make me want to live and die in your embrace.
Tonight we will live and tomorrow?“
This is just a ‘Teaser’ for my upcoming Chapter Two On Elizabeth.
I emailed her Chapter One,
(Which if you have come this far, you have already read above)
Not sure how it would ‘fly ‘with her.
I gave it fifty-fifty: Pissed, or Flattered.
Turns out she did not ‘Flame’ me.
But She was gracious and sent this respond. Perhaps She and I could give it another go?
Never gonna happen, but is a Pleasant Fiction to Ponder.
I did love her once.
“You write well, and your talents are known by just a fortunate few.You are so full of words, but with me, you don’t need to be. We were more than words.The other day this song came on the radio, and my Lance Anthony came to mind immediately. I trust you remember how I referred to this song- about you, about us.”
She attached this song,
(Pasted in a few lines in below)
And so very apropos, given our history.
“Ela, you were never much for words, but you spoke volumes to me in other, better ways.”
I still love you.
I never stopped loving you in fact:
I just could not live with you anymore.
I will send this back at her.
It describes me (and her—and our ‘Relationship’ to a T)
She talking at me, not really verbally.
(Verbosity was MY THING.)
But her message was always clear.
“Well, I’ll be damned; Here Comes Your Ghost Again.”
“Now you’re telling me
You’re not nostalgic
Then give me another word for it
You who are so good with words
And at keeping things vague.”
Video Credit: Dave Bing
Hey Asshole Dave Bing! We do not need the lyrics fucking up this vid! Most of us have ears.
Here is a Teaser Song which will be a Centerpiece of Chapter Two.
(Elizabeth, How I first Saw you–Us–Together–A Wicked Game, but so, oh so… captivating!)
“Ela, I once called you ‘Ethereal’–I meant it when I first said it, and I say it again–Some things I hang on to, and will never let go.
You were My ‘Magical Mystery Tour-de-Force.’
I am playing a very dangerous, potentially deadly–for my heart–game with Elizabeth.
She is the quintessential Game Master–Mistress.
I am good, but not in her league.
Not even close.
She is much more skilled than me.
I may be in over my head.
But you know what?
I love The Game, or to quote Omar
From “The Wire”,
“It’s all in the game Bro.”
And it never fails to excite or stimulate
And as an aside, & IMHO,
Christine McVie was/is The Most Underrated Member of The Super-Group
That Calls itself
Stevie Stole All The Glory.
Now, Do Not Mistake Me:
I love Stevie Like Cash Money, but…
Christine was/is also
‘Top Shelf’ and Deserves
Much More Recognition
Most people who write about ‘Fleetwood Mac’ Write about Stevie.
I write about Christine.
I only drop this one in for Elizabeth.
Of course She was the only one who understood that “The Joke” was always on me.
But instinctively I knew it too, but did not care:
I was ‘in-love–lust.’