How I met Marion, and learnt how to ask for fellatio politely…

Meeting Marion

Montpellier 2007: When I first met Marion, she was not really looking for work, and had a comfortable routine of waking up at 15:00, and then meeting friends such as me for multiple coffees. This routine changes a little towards the end of each month while she awaits the new month’s allowance from the government: She still gets up late, but doesn’t have quite as many coffees.

I met Marion by chance the day that I moved into my apartment. I was waiting on the doorstep for Cecile, the buxom young friend of my future housemate, to come with the key, and was reading a book with my feet resting on all my bags. “You looked like a tramp,” Marion later recounted. She had seen me from her window overlooking my doorstop, taken extreme pity on me and promptly invited me up for a coffee. It had obviously been later than 15:00.

Where the hell do I live, then?

From her window I could wait in comfort for Cecile to arrive with the key. I could also see the kitchen of the apartment I was moving into. “It’s a nice one, I think,” said Marion. Through its window I could see the floating kitchen bench. I’d forgotten about that. A warm feeling surged through me. Life here was going to be great!

15 minutes past, and no sign of Cecile. 20 minutes, 25. Where the hell was she? I rang her. “Where the hell was I?” she asked. She was at the doorstep too. But she clearly wasn’t because I was looking directly at it. “What street are you on?” she asked.

As it turns out, Marion lives around the corner from me, and the apartment I moved into was not quite the luxurious penthouse I could look into from Marion’s balcony. I could however see into Marion’s bathroom from my small, dank nooky bedroom, and also from the toilet.

It turned out to be quite practical. If I ever want to see her, and vice versa, we just call to each other through the window. Apparently that’s quite a French thing to do. Mobile phone rates are so expensive here!

Anyway, I digress. I’d invited Marion round for dinner as well as Pam, my American friend. Last night Pam had come around, raging drunk, and we’d had a 1.5 hour ‘debate’ about whether or not Americans would be outraged if they found out that America was buying Uranium from dodgy countries. The only salient point made was that a ‘dodgy’ country could be defined as ‘any landmass lying outside American borders’.

Tonight’s talk was rather lighter. I wanted to talk about why the anchovies I had finally found in Montpellier where the size of sardines once I pulled them out of the jar. I was cooking my favourite pasta sauce – with anchovies, capers, tomatoes and olives, and now with the added crunch of throat-chokingly large fish bones.

What does blow job mean?

Pam, studying linguistics, wanted to talk about why she doesn’t understand half of what I am saying because of my accent, at which point Marion jumped in and said that her level on non-comprehension was in excess of 100 per cent.

“You know the thing is with communication,” I started, about to draw on a vast supply on invented figures and loose facts acquired during 30 minute seminar on customer service at a catering firm I worked at seven years ago, “The thing is that 60 per cent of what we communicate is through our tone and body language, not the actual words.”

“We say that about dogs,” said Marion. “So therefore, when I speak to you, I should speak to you like I’d talk to a dog.”

Marion then wanted to know what ‘giving head’ meant. She speaks good English, and is very attentive when it comes to picking up new slang and colloquial speak. She extrapolated: “So in English, I would say ‘to make someone a fellatio?’”

Now Pam, who speaks French a little better than Marion does English, threw some confusion in to the mix, by wondering what the ‘polite form’ or giving someone a headjob would be in French. “Well, that’s easy,” I said. “Please fellate me.”

Later that night The conversation soon degenerated further as Marion revealed that she has a one of those detachable front teeth. “Can you give someone a headjob through the gap then?” wondered Pam and I aloud.

“No, but one time I’d picked up this guy who was the absolute stud of Montpellier. He slept over at my house, and I woke him in the middle of the night by accident as I was searching for my tooth.

“After patting the mattress beside it, he found it and gave it back. That night turned out to be a one-off.” Pam and Marion left about 10.30.

I stayed in as I was leaving to Rome the next day to meet dad, and needed to pack. I was also flat broke. I showed Marion my newly acquired yellow bicycle as she was leaving. “It’s painted!” she said. “That means it’s probably stolen.” But I no longer cared.

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One Response to “How I met Marion, and learnt how to ask for fellatio politely…”

  1. Pam Says:

    HAHAHA fuckin hell i’m crying from laughing so hard, i do remember this night!! thanks for painting such a lovely portrait of me by the way…

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