After dinner, he offered to show me around his native 5th Arrondissement, completely unfamiliar territory for me.
I had never had a man pull on my hair on a first date and wasn’t sure how to respond.
I didn’t really get a chance to deliberate as he suddenly gave it a nice strong yank and began passionately kissing me in a manner normally reserved for latin telenovelas.
Granted, this naive generalization is exactly what got me into the predicament that we will hereby refer to as the story of Doctor Douchebag.
I met Doctor Douchebag on one fine October night in Paris.
Mortified, I asked him how often this technique worked.
By the look on his face, I could tell that it had been known to happen.
“I do not know, these things do not interest me.” I briefly wondered if having a roof over his head interested him, when he explained that his parents has bought him his apartment and he could afford anything else he wanted on his salary of 5K a month.
I don’t know whether to be weirded out by him telling me this, or appalled by how little surgeons earn in France.
I went to sleep, feeling all light and fluffy, googling him for good measure to ensure sweet dreams.