Up until this past January, I was practically a Tinder virgin. Despite having a steady stream of Frenchies on my roster, my only real-life encounters involved the Incredible Hulk scare and a painful Sunday coffee with an SFR technician. It was proving to be a long and boring winter, and so I decided to give it another try with a fellow we will call Cyrano de Bergerac, a nickname he earned due to the alarmingly large size of his nose.
As usual, the warning signs were there from the get-go. To start, Cyrano arrived on our date a full hour late, which I excused only because we had arranged to meet within a 200-meter radius from my house. He was very handsome – a miracle, considering that he had one of the biggest shnobels I had ever seen on a human being. Somehow, he managed to make up for it with his Tarzan-esque wavy blonde hair, light green eyes, and deep, sexy voice that I found irresistibly charming.
I assume that I wasn’t the only person to deem him attractive, for he had a cocky attitude proportional only to the size of his nose, the second warning sign of the night. After apologizing for his lateness in a very non-apologetic way, he sunk into the couch and informed that we would be speaking French “so that I could practice”. (I love when this happens, because its not as if I’m living in a France or anything? What language does he think I speak here, Chinese?)
I decided to give him a taste of his own douchiness by commenting on the inadequacy of English skills in his country. Shamed, he ordered a bottle of wine and a plate of charcuterie, a gesture I appreciated. After thirty minutes of small talk, two of his friends happened to miraculously “show up” at the cafe, most likely to ensure that the conversation would be held entirely in French. They soon began reminiscing Cyrano’s epic 35th birthday party, at which point my Don Juan felt the need to mention that four of his ex-girlfriends had attended, and had even gotten into a catfight over his big nose. BZINNGGGGGG. The warning ringer went off again, yet I ignored it.
A few days later, Cyrano texted me to arrange our next date. Magnetized by his charm, I eagerly complied, agreeing to meet him for drinks at Beaucoup. Over another plate of charcuterie (the guy had a real thing for cold cuts), Cyrano kissed me, and, boy, was it great. Drunk on cocktails and cold cuts and Cyrano lovin’, I proclaimed I wanted to try “something new”. Cyrano commanded his Uber to take us to a Chinese karaoke place in Belleville, the Paris version of da hood. After singing a few Joe Dassin tunes (Salut, comment ça va…), we headed to a club called Le Bellevillois, where I did cucumber shots and grinded against Cyrano in a way only a girl who’s been to a real hood can.
I could not wait to see Cyrano again. The fun I was having with him gave me an incomparable adrenaline rush, and I was ready to unleash my inner Rihanna and make the next move. The next time Cyrano messaged me, he didn’t even bother trying to make real plans, simply inviting me to come over. At this point, I had heard all about his apartment and was eager to check out this Don Juan lair for myself. I was certainly not disappointed: the place encapsulated every douchey bachelor pad gimmick, my favorite being the giant bathtub in the middle of the bedroom. All it needed was a sex swing to make the Tristan fantasy complete.
That evening, he took me to an Asian restaurant a few blocks down from his house, where we were joined by more of his friends, typical Parisian kids that I have learned to coexist with. At some point, I decided to stop wasting time and pitched the idea of smoking a joint in his Playboy bathtub. (Lets just pretend it was the Rihanna in me talking.) What happened next can be saved for the book. All I will say is that Cyrano did not disappoint – that nose was proportional not only to his ego.
I have to give Cyrano points, for he really had the morning after routine down. Prancing around with his white fluffy bathrobe and freshly-washed golden locks, he cooked me a decent breakfast and hung out with me long enough to make me feel at ease with my uncharacteristic promiscuity. Around 3pm, he reached his threshold of kindness and proclaimed that he needed to head to Saint-Germain to take care of a Airbnb rental, a creative excuse that I plan to reuse myself.
For the next three weeks, Cyrano and I exchanged messages, making empty plans to meet up and rekindle the sparkle. As his words took on the forms of emojis, I understood that it was over. While I wasn’t that happy that he wasn’t in love with me, it was ok. He had served his purpose, that Cyrano.
