I hate the word “lover.” For me, it calls to mind the book covers of Harlequin romance novels, the really bad ones that only lonely housewives read, and can be found in overabundance at the grocery store. Proper books do not belong in grocery stores; proper stories of romance should not have a man with long blond hair flapping in the wind and rippling muscles kissing the neck of a woman wrapped in a sheet. In other words, great love stories don’t need such covers.
I also hate the phrase “make love.” It’s dreadful. I’m not sure if this has to do with my generation, but every time I hear the phrase, “I want to make love to you,” — and it’s been rare — I squeal and squirm like a worm that’s caught halfway under a shoe. I want to escape just as much as I wish someone would be put me out of my misery all together. I do not make love; I have sex. I fuck, I bone, I bang, and I make the beast with two backs if we were to get all Shakespearean about it. Basically, I’ve never had a lover and have never made love. That is the lesson to be learned.
I have had flings, boyfriends, friends with benefits and one-night stands. I have slept with American guys, Irish dudes, a Swedish fella, British chaps, that one darling in Barcelona and a handful of French men. I would never say I’m worldly in my sexual experiences, but I can say that of the men that I’ve known, it’s the French who have won me over in bed.
I can now, with a French “lover” (actually, he’s more than that at this point) and having “made love” without wishing I were a dying like a squished worm under a shoe, confirm the stereotype wholeheartedly that French men do make the best lovers. Or maybe I’ve just been lucky, and I’ve allowed the stereotypes to sway my thoughts on the topic. I am, after all, just some silly American in Paris, so all of this just might be bunk.