Total pages in book: 144
Estimated words: 133138 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 666(@200wpm)___ 533(@250wpm)___ 444(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 133138 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 666(@200wpm)___ 533(@250wpm)___ 444(@300wpm)
“And you and Autumn?”
“We won’t vote for each other, either,” I promise. “Besides, I can stick to a whole story just on New Yorkers. And I would really like to know about your home countries, to be honest.”
It’s a fair deal, and when our drinks arrive, Yori lifts her drink, a cocktail called Re:Birth, and toasts us. “To new friends, new adventure. Kampai!”
“Kampai!” we echo back, although I have no idea what it means. We clink glasses all around, and it’s time to talk.
“I’ll go first,” Yori declares, her voice going hard and steely. “Ugh! Okay, I’m from Osaka,” she says. “So many juvenile young men who don’t know how to take care of themselves where I’m from. Mama does everything for them, and then they want a wife to take over the same role. Some even still think kancho is funny when they’re in high school.”
“Honey, I don’t think that’s just in Japan that men need a woman to take care of them. What’s kancho?” Molly asks.
Yori sets her drink down, clasping her hands together, two fingers out like they’re a play gun, and jabs them up and forward. “Pow! Right in the butthole! Very funny, huh?”
“Ah . . . no,” Katarina says. “If they did that where I’m from, I think there would be death and dismemberment,” she declares. I can’t tell whether she’s joking or not.
Yori seems concerned, but when Katarina smiles, we all laugh along, praying she’s kidding.
Yori continues, “The last three men I dated were useless losers who believe women can be fit into a single cubbyhole.”
I think she means pigeonhole, but the message comes through.
Sensing Yori is done, Katarina sets her drink down hard. “Me next. Where I’m from, men are macho to the extreme. Posturing like tough guys all the time.” She puffs up her chest, beating on it with her fists. “No one fucks with me,” she growls in a voice deeper than it could seem a woman her size could produce. Rolling her eyes, she adds wistfully, “But they chase and woo too. And are fierce lovers, or at least that’s my experience.”
I wonder if she’s thinking of someone in particular and ask, “Did you leave someone back home? Are they waiting for you to get back?”
She nods her head. “But it is not serious, only a . . . what do you call it?” She taps her chin with a blood-red nail as she thinks and then says, “Fuck friend?”
Molly hoots out a big laugh. “Fuck buddy.”
“Or friend with benefits,” I add with a smile.
“Da. That,” Katarina agrees with us both. She takes a sip of her drink, her eyes troubled, which makes me wonder if maybe she wishes her ‘friend’ back home was more than a buddy.
Beatrice sighs and confesses, “My experience hasn’t been too bad. Chivalrous, romantic, passionate . . . but total chauvinists.”
Three to one great, but for all the excitement she’s giving, she might as well be listing off the days of the week . . . Monday, Tuesday, down to fuck all the time, Thursday, will pull out your chair, Saturday, Sunday.
“Yeah, but is it true? Are they really the best kissers?” Molly asks. “The Italian guy I dated was actually half French, and he was like kissing a limp noodle!”
“Are you sure that wasn’t . . .” Katarina makes a fist, moving it up and down as she sticks her tongue in her cheek.
We all laugh at her deadpan delivery of a blowjob.
Beatrice answers Molly’s question. “Of course, French men are the best kissers. You should see what they can do with their tongues.”
She smiles a secret smile, and I consider getting a little sample of an actual French, French kiss while I’m in Paris. Solely for comparative purposes, of course.
Unbidden, an image pops into my head . . . of Simon Corbin tilting my jaw up before slowly and purposefully lowering his full, sexy lips to mine.
No . . . stop that, Autumn.
Admittedly, Simon is sexy as hell, and the way he looked at me was insanely hot, but there’s off limits and then there’s blow up your life stupidity. He definitely falls into the latter.
“But they kiss everyone, not only you. That’s what you must remember. In my experience, French men are notorious philanderers, usually with a wife and a mistress at least,” Beatrice adds, dashing cold water on my momentary hot fantasy.
“That’s fucked up,” I growl.
Beatrice shrugs. “There are good men out there. I just haven’t had the best of luck. Tell us about American men. Are they all like we see on television?”
Molly answers first. “Depends on what shows you’re watching. Definitely not like The Bachelor, where they’re being romantic and shit, or Grey’s Anatomy, where everyone’s slept with everyone. It’s like a red flag test when you meet a guy on Tinder . . . What do you think of Joe Rogan? If he says anything positive, thank you, but next.”