An American in Grenoble
One great thing about being a university student in your own hometown is that you get to live at your folks’ comfy family home, getting proper meals, and hot, American exchange students from Texas living with you.
Dawn was the kind of girl you could literally picture lassoing mustangs and doing all sorts of Marlboro stuff. She was of a fairly solid build, with amazing curves and thick, strong, red hair, bright blue eyes, and freckles like you’d never find on anyone in Europe, except maybe in an especially rugged part of Ireland. My parents figured I needed someone to help me improve my English, but when she appeared on the doorstep one day, talking was not exactly something I felt up to. I was a nerd, a quiet guy who took his paleontology seriously; not much of a charmer. And this girl was simply a bit more than I could handle, with her bubbly nature and easy, American smiles.
Still, I did my best to be a polite host.
She had been with us for two months when we found ourselves watching TV on my parents’ big, cream coloured livingroom sofa one average Thursday evening. My parents were off watching some theatre thingy in Switzerland, and wouldn’t be back until Sunday evening, leaving us to fend for ourselves, whatever that meant. Considering my mum’s lavishly equipped kitchen and larder, we probably weren’t going to starve, and I was a rather good cook, if I say so myself.
Since my anglophile father approved of us partaking in his stash of connoisseur spirits and drinks, I had decided to pour us a generous helping of dry sherry as we watched a late night broadcast of Wild Orchid.
Dawn was sitting next to me, sipping her sherry. She was wearing a short denim dress and white blouse, with her fiery red hair in a ponytail held by a black velvet ribbon. Her bare feet were resting on the coffee table, next to the remote controls. She also wore a black velvet choker, perfectly synchronized with the ribbon, it seemed.
“Whatever happened to the proverbially romantic French,” she said, more to her sherry than to me; “you know, I chose France for my year abroad because I figured there was a guarantee for getting laid properly on a regular basis; instead, what I am getting is bespectacled, Peugeot-driving young gents in light blue polo shirts worrying about lactose intolerance and talking about sustainability and vegetarianism all the time. Isn’t anyone around here in the market for a good, honest fuck, for heaven’s sake?”
I was almost too shocked to breathe.
“Look at you,” she said with a bright smile and put her sherry on the table, “that got your attention at last, didn’t it? What I really want to do now is get into those silly designer chinos of yours and subject what I find there to some analysis. Don’t you go telling me that you haven’t been wondering what might be packaged in here, have you?” She demonstratively wiggled her breasts, which clearly were something on the higher end of the scale. “Look at the way you’re looking at them,” she exclaimed gleefully, “have I ever got you!” And she decided to sit on my lap, her denim dress riding up far enough to reveal some white panties with a blue dot pattern, matching the shade of blue of her denim dress. Darn, you can tell I’m French by making such observations, can’t you.
Anyway, before I knew what was happening, she was beginning to open my belt buckle.
“Um, I really can’t do this, you know,” I said, beyond flustered with the way things were going. That was when she planted an amazing, big, soft kiss directly on my mouth. All of a sudden, she was simply the most beautiful girl in the world to me.
“Why not?” she said simply.
“I was circumcised,” I said, and couldn’t believe I had actually admitted it.
Dawn looked at me expectantly. “And…?” she said.
“And nothing. That’s it.”
“Well,” she said, “isn’t every guy? Heck, if you weren’t, I can tell you this wouldn’t go anywhere now, for sure. But now I’m curious. Let’s see how they circumcise in the land of the Eiffel Tower.” And without further ado, she skilfully pulled out my penis. She had clearly done this before, I realized this now. She even knew to shield the glans with her hand while pulling it out to avoid contact with clothing. She was good.
“Look at the elegant, European member,” she marveled, “this is very distinctive.” She ran her index finger along the coronal ridge, as if to check for dust. “Precisely cut,” she said, “like haute couture. And directly behind the glans, too. No two-tone look here, ladies of Galveston… this is tailor made, isn’t it. Drum tight, yet not even a quarter inch of pink showing behind the head. And it continues to be that snug even on the underside,” she concluded after turning it sideways for inspection. “Usually, I tend to begin playtime by stroking the flipped-back lining a little, but since they’ve clipped yours so short, we’ll have to go for the full lip job.” With that, she carefully encased my glans with her lips. I almost panicked. Nobody had ever done this.
“I can see that you like this,” she said with a diabolical grin, “but now I want you to put your hands right here.” She placed my hands on her breasts; her nipples were erect under her white blouse, and she made me massage them. Her breath became faster. “Faster, you Chopin-listening sophisticate!” she exclaimed, grinding her blue-dotted panties against my erection. Then she pulled the skimpy fabric aside and took my penis all the way into her vagina, moving every bit like a proper cowgirl, now with her big breasts out and her hair becoming undone. She had hooked her right index finger into her choker and twisted it, apparently gently strangling herself. Her eyes were closed halfway and I could only see the white, as they were rolled up so far back. Then she came with a violent shudder, and I had to hold her to keep her from collapsing to the floor.
It was the beginning of an amazing weekend, and I learnt a lot of English.