Easy Come, Easy Go

On Saturday I was in the Irish pub having a few drinks with the Scot, his friend and his friend’s colleague. The colleague, who was French (of course), spent the entire evening trying to smooth talk his way into my “affections” and when the clock began creeping towards twelve he decided to take a slightly more forward approach. He came up from behind, wrapped his arms around me and began pawing at my waist. ‘Take your hands off me,’ I snapped and elbowed him in the ribs. ‘Believe it or not,’ I wagged my finger at him, ‘an English girl doesn’t jump into bed with every man who offers.’ This news, combined with my unexpected outburst, seemed to render the man speechless. I yanked at the Scot’s coat sleeve. ‘Come on,’ I fumed as I dragged him away, looking back at the Frenchie with disgust, ‘I’m fed up with the men around here thinking that British women are easy.’ The Scot, with half a pint left in his glass, was resisting my tugging, ‘Well aren’t you? Not British girls generally I mean but…’ ‘I am not EASY,’ I screamed. I must have resembled mad Carrie at the prom because my friend’s face was suddenly stricken with fear. ‘Oh don’t worry about it,’ I turned on my heels, ‘I’m going home. ALONE.’

I flounced all the way back to my apartment with the word “easy” ringing in my ear. I was in a sulk, this was so unfair: since the mop-topped barman, I had been nothing but a model of virtuousness. And that was New Years Eve (so it doesn’t even count). This adds up to weeks of good behaviour. Weeks that have seen me wooed by the Silky One, enticed by the Neuroscientist and drunkenly hit on by the Crazy Canadian. I have refused all their persistent advances and for what?

I’d never had a problem with my promiscuity before I moved to France. In fact, compared to my other single girl friends, I’d always considered myself normal, even angelic. Then I came here and people assumed that I was a slut simply because of where I was from; it had the effect of making me question how normal I was after all. One evening, dancing in some Old Town dive, I fell into the arms of a Glaswegian with a huge blonde Mohican. He’d mastered this hypnotic back rubbing move that I was, apparently, powerless to resist. The next day, as I lay paralyzed, still drunk, in my bed, my mother gave me a lecture. ‘Dear you’re terribly easy,’ she said matter-of-fact. ‘He only had to rub your back…’ It pained me to admit it but I knew she was right. Then, in my tango class, José suggested that I work harder at resisting men. ‘You are too easy,’ he barked, ‘don’t be so easy. Resist. Resist!’ Obviously he was referring to my technique but, after giving it some thought, I decided to apply his advice to my life more generally. And thus, I ended up in my present predicament: English but not easy.

Post-dinner at the Silky One’s a couple of weeks ago he moaned, ‘You are like a French girl, not English at all. You’ve been taking lessons?’ It was a genuine enquiry. ‘Oh please,’ I shooed him away like a fly, ‘I may be English but I am capable of restraining myself.’ I scrutinized him and went on, ‘Incredibly, I’m actually finding it pretty easy to say no to you right now.’ Still, I was confused. Was it good for me to be like a French girl or was it bad? According to my Neuroscientist it was the latter. ‘Women here treat sex as if it is an oath,’ he explained. ‘They pull out the white dress after one sexual encounter. In Argentina it’s different, sex is without expectation; six months down the line you’ll wake up together and think this is really cool, this is a person I want to be with.’

Gabrielle, however, was adamant that this approach couldn’t be more wrong. ‘Men,’ she told me over lunch yesterday, ‘are stupid. That is why you can – no it is why you MUST - play them.’ ‘Huh?’ I was baffled; what happened to having a laugh with them? ‘These days,’ she continued, clearly taking to the theme, ‘sex is too easy. Men can get it anywhere, anytime. Women give it away. Give it away right at the beginning. Why then will a man bother hanging around? They’ve had everything they want.’ I thought about my Neuroscientist and tried to reason with her, ‘But sex isn't a gift, Gabrielle, to be bestowed or held onto and dangled in front of a man to trap him. Shouldn’t it simply be fun, happy, relaxed? Surely then a guy will hang around.’ ‘Well, anyway,’ Gabrielle narrowed her eyes at me accusingly, ‘it is true about English women. My friend who lives there says all the girls have sex really easily.’ So that was that then, I shrugged with resign: I’m damned if I do and damned if I don’t.

This morning the Scot called. ‘Sorry,’ he began, ‘I don’t think you’re easy, not at all, in fact not easy enough by half. Besides, you were right about that French guy, turns out that he’s married, removed his wedding ring at the start of the night just so he could pull…’ And here I was questioning my morals? The French women, I thought, are welcome to their games and to their men. From now on I was English, easy (if I wanted) and proud.

Contextualisation

Every Sunday morning I go through the English papers with a croissant and a coffee. The experience feels less authentic these days - rolling my mouse leaves no opportunity to rub inky smudges on my cheek – but still it is an important ritual. Last Sunday, as I was following the links on The Times website, I fell across an article entitled “He’s Just Not That Into You: …Even Though He Says So”. The piece was about the game playing endemic in sexual relationships. The journalist’s argument was that modern women seem to believe that they must stick to certain rules if they want to attract potential suitors, and yet in practice such rules are idiotic, inane and inaccurate. Her theory was sound, of course; trying to second-guess a man on the basis of a text message is as pointless as using a sieve to carry water from a well. So why, as I read along nodding my head, did I have half an eye on my phone waiting for word, literally any word, from the Silky French One?

I rested on the final full stop and began to mull over my recent behavior. Do I waste whole days looking at my phone expectantly? Do I scrutinize messages for clues and place emphasis on small gestures (e.g. Is there a written bisous or an x? Is ☺ a friendly brush off or a more subtle way to be flirty?)? Do I purposefully delay replying? When he doesn't respond at once do I freak out and assume he's not interested? Worryingly, for each question I could answer in the affirmative. I was starting to feel uncomfortable: this had all the hallmarks of OCD. It is almost exactly one year ago to the day that I last went through something similar. Ironically, I was just starting to get my obsessive compulsiveness under control when the boy in question dumped me unceremoniously, without even so much as a text.

Presently, I am awaiting messages from the Silky One with the same rabid, mouth frothing as I did when I first started dating the “man who never dumped me”. I’ve tuned my ear to pick up the chime of an incoming SMS so that even if my phone is hiding in the bottom of a bag or under the duvet cover I’m able to jump to attention. On Saturday, I followed my sensitive hearing to a coat in my closet. I assumed that it was a message from Orange France; they update me on my credit status around twelve times a day. It’s very considerate of them; most weeks, they are the only ones bothering to get in touch. ‘Coucou Hannah! Comment vas-tu?!’ Orange France was never this friendly. I registered the date and time: 9pm on Saturday. The most social night at the most social hour and the Silky One had thought to enquire into my wellbeing. This had to be a good sign. I emailed my friend. She has a Blackberry. She confirmed that it was, indeed, good. When, my obsessive behaviour spirals out of control this is the girl who tells me to get a grip. If SHE was saying that it was a good sign then it was a GOOD sign. I replied to him straight away. According to Orange, I had until midnight to utilize my remaining 89 cents; sod looking keen, I was working to a deadline.

An hour passed, no reply. To prove that I wasn’t hanging out for him, I recklessly sent half a dozen text messages to my friends in the UK. The OF Control Centre went into overdrive: Attention! Votre credit de 0.80 EUR; Attention! Votre credit de 0.62 EUR; Attention! Votre credit de 0.50 EUR. I imagined the kind of fascist regime Orange France would implement if they were running the country. At eleven thirty, half way through an episode of GREY'S ANATOMY, I finally received more from the Silky One. He said that he was away skiing until tomorrow. He suggested that he test me on my argot vocabulary when he returned. GOOD SIGN. There were a couple of punctuation wobbles. Was he drunk? Even better.

By Sunday lunchtime, having fully digested the article, I had resolved to turn over a new leaf. There would be no more afternoons messaging the Silky One with my little ward (‘Yes send him an SMS,’ she advised last week, ‘and say “I love you”'). There would be no more psychoanalysis sessions with my best friend in Australia (‘If I want to text a guy then I just do. I can’t be bothered with all these stupid rules. What a waste of energy. Text him. If he’s not interested then there are plenty more tasty men out there.’). There would be no more research into the textual behaviour of the Gallic male (attempting to establish a few facts at a dinner party recently, I enquired into whether it was good if a boy signed off with a bisous and the woman next to me said I shouldn’t get excited. I wasn’t sure what was more annoying: that his bisous wasn’t a declaration of love or that I was hinging my future happiness on one word at the end of a message).

So, OCD put away with the lid firmly screwed back on, I tucked myself into bed. My phone tinkled. An invitation from the Silky One: dinner at his on Tuesday. There, you see? Sometimes all you need is a little patience.