Tuesday, June 9, 2009

Trouble in Paradise

As our loyal readers by now will know, the life of the rake is largely spent courting or attempting to court as many women as possible. The benefits of this lifestyle are obvious, yet the disadvantages of living so promiscuously are not always apparent to those who are unused to such behaviour. A few personal anecdotes should go a long way in helping you avoid any romantic imbrogli of your own.

Towards the end of Spring, a glut of affairs with the fairer sex sapped yours truly of his amorous energies...that trip to Eastern Europe really took a toll on my body. ( A side note: If one is planning on an extended stay in Riga, prepare accordingly by supplementing your regime with an abundance of proteins, but always remember to stick to a proper diet.) I decided that I should perhaps reduce the strain upon my libido by curtailing my exploits. Calm down ladies, Gaspard is still on the market; I am not well nigh to tying the proverbial knot. I merely thought I should limit myself to three, maybe four women. At 22, I'm not the young pup I once was and I can not just disport myself around town bestowing my favors upon every woman who asks for them -- I'm not running a damned charity for God's sake! So, I narrowed down the field a bit and although there are always girls on the periphery, I have been focusing my
romanticismes on a lovely young peach for quite some time now. Although such an arrangement is not quite what I am used to, things are going swimmingly; that is, they were going swimmingly until last Wednesday night. After some serious carousing with Alisdair, I repaired to the apartment of my darling in the early morning hours, as she had been beckoning me to join her all night, not to mention Alisdair needed my bed. (He had been ejected from his hotel the night before for delinquency in his payment and some trouble stemming from an overindulgence in the mini-bar.) At any rate, I flopped into bed beside her and began to doze when she cooed into my ear "Gaspard...hold me closer, I've missed you tonight." I grabbed her and pulled her tight to me, whispering, "Viens ici, ma chere Anastasie..." She turned around and said, "What did you say?" I repeated what I had said in English to avoid confusion, "Come here my dear Anastasia," and pulling her close to me again, kissed her cheek. She immediately flew into a rage, kicked me out of bed, whipped my recently-shed clothes at me and told me in no uncertain terms to get the hell out! I timidly let myself out and slinked downstairs to sleep in my motorcar, as I was in no condition to drive home.

Dear readers, I know you must be asking yourselves, "What could old Gaspard have done to sweet Anastasia to deserve such cruel treatment?" I had actually done nothing to dear, beautiful Anastasia; but therein lies the problem. For you see, I had done nothing to Anastasia because she was sleeping peacefully throughout this whole sequence of events a mere 15 blocks away. I, unfortunately, was
chez Isabelle!!
I cannot express the the shame, I, a seasoned cad, felt after committing this amateur error. It was not so much that I had offended Isabelle's sensibilities, for women are mercurial creatures and are prone to emotional explosion at the slightest provocation. I was unnerved because I should know better than to drop the old name switcheroo on a relatively recent conquest. Fortunately for me, I am not only easy on the eyes, but quite persuasive as well. The next morning I called upon Isabelle and poured upon her such honeyed words that even a Lotophagian would have been satisfied. Thank God for the dupability of womenfolk.

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