Many years ago, right out of college, I was a bit of a femme fatale. I didn't think of myself as one, but I seemed to go through men just because I could. I had a "flavor of the week" because, well, my first relationship lasted five years, and, in retrospect, it seemed like I was trying to make up for all the flavors I'd "missed out on" in high school and most of college. This flavor of the week attitude could get me in pretty hairy situations. Well, not "hairy," although I didn't shave my legs (nor did I wear make up or do my hair at that time, so I'm not sure how I attracted them if you go by what the media projects as sexy), yet I still attracted men if not in droves at least enough to keep me in a new man a week if I wanted. (g) And I kind of wanted, you know. So many flavors after all. (g) I didn't sleep with all of them. Many of them didn't make it past the first or second date, but I digress.
I'm long past those days--left them behind by the age of 23--but I can still look back at that time and laugh at some of those situations. One in particular was, um, shall we say interesting. Something you'd expect to see in a movie or sitcom, but never in real life. (g)
You see, right after college, I really didn't know what I wanted to do. Yeah, I wanted to be a famous actress/singer, but I wasn't quite ready to start that path, so I took my backpack and my meager savings ($3000) and went to Europe for five and a half months. (This is when it was still safe for a young woman to travel alone through Europe.)
I stayed in youth hostels, with friends of friends of the family, exes of friends of the family, and so on. It was fun.
Because I went alone, I met some pretty interesting people. I got hit on...a lot, not all of them welcome either. There was this one creepy dude in the Zurich train station who tried to convince me that the European way of saying goodbye to perfect strangers was to kiss them on both cheeks. Well, I didn't care. He was a creepy dude, and I wasn't allowing any creepy dude to get that close to me. I managed to ditch him quick.
Believe it or not, most of the people I met were nice and harmless. I did some stupid shit while there, too, like hitchhiking and hiking alone in remote places, so my guardian angel was working overtime. (g) However, if that little voice told me to do something, I always did it. Always. Thank you, little voice. (g)
While over there, I met a few different men, two of which are the subject of this particular tale. Marc was a sweet young man from the French part of Switzerland, and Peter was a French Canadian visiting France. I met them a month or so apart. Both were sweet, and both liked me. They liked me a lot. More than a lot, I later found out. I liked them a lot, too. One could even say I loved them... in a fashion.
I was young. And I wasn't really ready for the permanent kind of love. Heck, I'd only been out of a long-term relationship for less than a year. They were an interesting flavor to explore, although I didn't at that point. (Perhaps that's why they were all hot and heavy to see me again. LOL) Upon parting with both of them, I, being the friendly and open kind of gal that I am, invited them to come visit...any time.
Yeah, uh, just a word of advice, don't do that. Or, at least, be specific about when they can come to visit. If you don't, don't say I didn't warn you.
So, several months after I've returned to the States and I'm settled in Los Angeles, Peter, the French Canadian, and I have been chatting a lot via the phone, and he's coming out to visit me for a week. I'm excited. By this time, I'm in love...
Until I get a letter from Marc. Marc, who only speaks French, is coming to visit a few days before Peter's visit ends. My plan was to drop Peter off at the airport and have a friend keep Marc occupied for a few days with neither being the wiser. (g) As she spoke French, it wasn't a problem.
Well, that was the plan, except--of course, there was an except--Peter and I were driving down from San Francisco, and we missed his plane and he couldn't get another flight out for a couple of days. He didn't really want to go back right then anyway, but me? Me, I was thinking, "Shit! Shit! Shit! Shit!"
And while they were from two different countries, both spoke French.
I didn't really have any options. I had to take Peter back with me to my place. My tiny, little guesthouse where Marc waited for me...us.
That guesthouse consisted of a room (just large enough for a queen-size bed, an armoire, and a chair), a small kitchenette (half fridge, a hot plate, a toaster oven, and cupboards), and a three-quarter bath. There was enough room in the main room for someone to sleep on the floor. So, who do you think will sleep there?
That's right. The three of us slept in that bed (with me in the middle) for the next two nights. Nothing happened. It didn't occur to me to do anything. And, honestly, I don't think either of them would have wanted that. (g)
It was awkward, to say the least.
And because I didn't want to leave the two of them alone any longer than I had to, I even took them with me to my acting class one day.
My acting teacher and classmates never viewed me the same way again.
I'm sorry. It still makes me laugh.
So, um, do you have any youthful indiscretions that make you laugh?