THE FRENCH MODEL

I saw him leaning against the railing at a hot downtown nightclub, an enigmatic elegance in his demeanor. Tall, lean, with dark eyes…he looked quite attractive in the dim light.

He was talking to a high maintenance girl with implants, a visible weave, and long red nails over by the stairwell. I felt a pang of regret: Why do those trashy broads always get the sexy boyfriends?

But then the girl went away, and he was left standing alone, staring at me. I realized he was not actually with her.

He stood and watched me for about 10 minutes. At one point it looked like he was going to leave, so I half-smiled.

This was the only invitation he needed.

“Hello, nice to meet you,” he said in a thick European accent, “I’m Franck. I would love to take you to dinner sometime.”

“Where are you from?” I asked, straining to understand him.

“Paris. I live there till six months ago, then I go to L.A. Then I come to New York two months ago. I stay in Brooklyn, but I want to find place in Manhattan.”

“Why are you here?” He was so pretty I forgave his terrible grammar.

“I am a model. I will make more money in New York.”

“A professional model?”

“I am 33. I have been model since I was 15. I work with Jean Paul Gautier long time.”

“That’s the only job you have ever had?”

“Yes. I will work 10 more years then retire and buy a place on the beach, have kids.”

“Oh.”

He wrote down his cell number, and took my information.

Immediately the next afternoon he started text messaging me: Nice to meet you, beautiful. I want to see you. Kisses. Good luck.

Due to snow, I didn’t see him for a couple of days. We went to Cafeteria late for tea.

Instead of sitting across from me, he sat beside me on the bench, putting his arm around me.

“You’re a nice girl,” he declared. “I could take you home to meet my mom. You are my baby now.”

Was this for real? I felt a bit strange – although I have worked as a model, I have never dated a model. I didn’t know whether he was intelligent or not because of the language barrier. But he was hot, so it didn’t really matter if he was dumb. He seemed sweet…and simple, a contrast to all my recent guy drama.

He tried to take me out to a couple of nightclubs where he ‘knew people’ but they were either closed or closing so he put me in a taxi, kissed me good night nonchalantly, and sent me several text messages thereafter.

Their content seemed to always follow a template:

Nice to see you.

Nice to meet you.

I have appointments today.

I book job.

Are you feel ok? I miss you.

U my princess.

U my baby.

U my superwoman.

Kisses.

I want to make massage with you.

Good luck.

Okay, I admit to thinking the text messages were a bit dumb, but he was consistent and at least he was attempting to communicate with me.

He came to see me at work, and if we went out he sat beside me on the seat. He gave me a tiny medallion necklace with the symbol of the goddess-like Marianne on it (the feminine embodiment of the French republic). He told me he never knew his father but it didn’t matter. He said his agent wanted him to go to the clubs so that clients could see him, and that he was hoping to make a lot of money in this cold hard city.

He kissed me, and I felt like I suddenly understood what French Kissing actually meant. It’s a far cry from the typical North American tongue-ramming move.

“I want to sleep with you,” he whispered.

But I was not at all ready to sleep with him.

He gave me his comp card and emailed me tons of photos without his shirt on. I was enjoying the feeling of having a trophy boy in my life, but I didn’t really know what to do with him because here he was declaring his love without really connecting with me mentally. The text messages continued to come with rapid fire, several times a day.

We went to see the film Closer.

“Let me make massage,” he whispered in my ear, and beckoned for me to sit on his lap.

Oddly, I complied. We were in the back row after all, and I had never sat on someone’s lap during a movie.

“You’re my baby,” he whispered every half hour or so, his arms around me.

I was starting to feel uncomfortable and I was getting suspicious of him. I was beginning to hear bad things about him around town – how he tended to screw girls over once he got them into bed. Was he so into me because I was a challenge? How could he profess such adoration without knowing anything about me?

I decided almost overnight that I was no longer into the French Model.

I faked sick so I could have a few days to think about how to break it off. The text messages got disproportionately desperate:

U don’t love me anymore - I miss u - if u have someone - let me know kisses princess

Is there someone else?

Why you won’t text me?

What you do last night? You not text me back? Is there someone else?

He sent me a series of bizarre emails asking for his JPEG model photos back, if I didn’t want them anymore. Guess this guy didn’t quite have a grasp of digital technology.

What? Was I dealing with a potential stalker here? We had hung out 3 TIMES!

Following his lead, I sent him a text saying I needed my space and I wasn’t interested in a relationship with him.

He replied:

U hurt me. U just show me I’m nothing but u want be friend. Thank u. Don’t worry for me I understand this is New York. Good luck.

I don’t understand u decision. I never complain. U always busy I wait for 1 month I pass to see u in different place. I was happy to meet u now I’m sad u my bad news.

Why now I never make u drama because u focus for u writing never. Maybe u love someone else. Good luck. I confirm Louis Vuitton, 4 days shooting.

Repulsed and a bit freaked out, I wrote back that I didn’t appreciate his aggressive behavior and not to contact me again.

“Well, A., you did sit on his lap at the movie,” my friends joked.

I learned a valuable lesson. A pretty face does not a suitable boyfriend make. In future I will let the trashy broads have those types of guys…and I am burning the French model’s comp card.