School has started again and by chance I immediately ran into Louis, the handsome French father, kissing his two adorable and well-dressed children.
After my five-year-old daughter, Emi, reluctantly and somewhat disheveledly made her way across the playground, I glanced awkwardly at Louis. The last time I had spoken to him properly was when I kissed him goodbye… in his bed.
That was several months ago, when my boyfriend Eliot and I were in a down period of our then-on-again, off-again romance.
The fact that Louis, who is divorced, had children of his own was a plus.
I needed someone who could cope calmly with the hustle and bustle of family life; Eliot had difficulty accepting that I had three children, the eldest of whom, Hector, 15, is closer to his age than mine.
Louis was a good father and a well-known Dilf. He touched my arm. “I’m glad to see you, Annabel,” he said in his thick French accent.
I said a silent prayer of thanks for running a brush through my hair that morning and for bothering to wear actual pants instead of my usual dog-hair-covered leggings. Louis was dressed as always: smart taupe shorts, an expensive-looking hoodie, and a pair of Adidas Samba sneakers. His beard was carefully kept in check.
Louis was a good father and a well-known Dilf. He touched my arm. “I’m glad to see you, Annabel,” he said in his warm French accent.
“What have you been doing over the summer?” I asked. I was glad to have the dog to pet, my heart beating uncomfortably fast.
“I’ve been working non-stop,” she said. “The kids have been like a mother the whole time.”
As the other parents drifted off to sleep, Louis and I stayed behind, strictly limiting ourselves to small talk. He was a lighting technician, but as a freelancer he didn’t have enough money to pay rent and feed his children, he said.
I watched his face for signs of discomfort, but there were none. Maybe he had been with too many other women this summer.
I knew he’d hit on at least one other single mom. At the same time, I was considering whether I should ask him out for a walk with the dog or a drink. Did he have boyfriend potential? Louis was hot, though not as hot as Eliot. He was younger than me, but only by seven or eight years, rather than Eliot’s 21, which would please my kids, who were having trouble with the age difference.
(Hector had recently asked me: ‘What’s wrong with Eliot that he only hangs out with older people? Isn’t he ashamed of you in front of his friends?)
During the summer semester, after school was over, Louis and I often sat together with other parents in the park while the children played.
We talked about the benefits of stoicism, as well as the usual parent-baby talk. I was impressed by his vocabulary, especially considering that he was French and, unlike me, had managed to have a “good” divorce.
However, there hadn’t been any atmosphere there until I ran into Louis at a local bar a week later.
I was with my friends when I saw him downstairs on the dance floor. He looked out of place in his smart jacket and chinos. I was glad to see him. He had already had a few drinks; the music was too loud for philosophical discussions.
“I didn’t know you were coming here!” I shouted. He shrugged. It was the first French gesture I’d seen him make. “Me too,” he said. Meeting in a seedy bar changed everything. It was like we were both playing the same joke, and we spent the night hanging around together, his arm around my shoulders.
We drank a lot and didn’t talk about our kids. It wasn’t more than an hour before we were kissing, pressed against the wall. When the bar closed, it was obvious he was going back to his bar. I was still a little dizzy when Louis threw his kids’ toys and clothes off the bed to make room for me.
It was surprisingly messy and his two rented rooms were a little dingy, but who was I to judge?
Only with the financial help of my mother was I able to keep my house.
We lay down together on the bed and he lay on top of me and kissed me. His hands ran down my shirt and squeezed my breasts.
The hilarity I had felt at the bar was fading now that things were getting serious. But Louis’ hands on my nipples felt good and I could feel how turned on he was as he gyrated his hips.
I didn’t find him as nice to kiss as Eliot (I don’t like facial hair) and his biceps were definitely not as big.
But there were other things missing… I had to stop comparing! Now I was there and Eliot wasn’t. Louis was charming, kind and eager to get started, so I let him take off my tights and unzip my skirt.
We quickly got to the main act; I was in no condition to swing from the chandeliers, even if there had been any. Louis was considerate and gentle, waiting for me to orgasm before finishing.
It should have been perfect for me, but now, standing at the school gate, three months later, I was falling in love with Eliot.
Was Louis a good boyfriend? Probably, but not for me right now. I’d have to walk the dog alone.
Annabel Bond is a pseudonym. Names have been changed.
(tags to translate)dailymail
