I could get the press pass for a Formula 1 to take place in Bandol, France. I could stay with Michelle and her family home in Bouc-Bel-Air. Such a funny name - on a previous visit I'd asked her Dad what it meant and he replied, succinctly, "Goat's prick" and then insisted on drawing me a little goat to show me exactly.
In addition to food and shelter, they also provided me with a chauffeur who was trying to get into Formula 4. He happily drove me to and from. On his motorcycle. what else? First photog - motorcycles and now this one.
We found each other attractive and fell into profound lust. At the end of the day, at the house, they'd hear his motorcycle coming up the long drive, then slip into idle for a bit and then continue up the drive. I would slip demurely off of the bike; he'd set the stand and join the family for dinner.
After everyone else went to bed, we'd slide onto the dining room sofa and start bangin' like a trailer park screen in a tornado. Sometime in the early hours, he'd disappear, stealthily walking his bike back down the driveway. I'd dash up to my room upstairs and muss the sheets as if I'd spent the night there.
About Day 3 of this charade, Michelle's Mom said to me as we stood in the open doorway to my room "Ah, Nainna - c'est ne pas necessaire ces (gesturing at the bed) nous sommes francaise et et nous savons a que vous; ve fait!" (Ah Nina, this isn't necessary - we're French and we know what you've been doing!")
I must have turned most of the colors of a Mexican sunset before I saw the humor and the two of us had a good laugh, standing in the hall, pointing at the bed ad elbowing each other and then laughing even harder. We were killing ourselves.
Who knows what old Giles would have thought or said, but had he been there I know my Dad and all of my cousins would have laughed like hell, too.
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