nikkor
07-09-2006, 04:16 PM
We met on Tuesday. The America club had organized a low-rent Independence Day event in a park near the river. With kebabs and Chinese as the main food choices, it didn't feel very American except for the fireworks. I saw mostly families there. Not my target demographic.
Feeling more belligerent than patriotic, I told a few random people that I was declaring my independence from the USA. It was charged opener for the world capital of diplomacy. I've been living abroad for a little more than a year.
Although I arrived with friends from around Europe, it was ironic that my best conversation of the evening would be with an American girl sitting on the grass near my buddies.
By coincidence, we had both recently lived in Washington, DC. We had a lot of common ground, including the Dupont Circle Krispy Kreme. (I was forced to walk past it every time I had to make an ATM withdrawal.)
Sans mobile, she gave me her gmail addy. 48 hours later I wrote and invited her to a Friday night house party. I was curious whether she'd write back.
She lives in Nyon, a tiny lake town adjacent to Geneva. Both her work and her social life there were underwhelming. She has three weeks left in her internship before she returns to her East Coast Ivy League law school and her circle of friends.
Was she going to filibuster or explode?
The party stoked her interest. We met at the train station and walked from there. We made a slight detour so I could show her a marvel of Swiss engineering: a parking garage dug underneath Lake Geneva. (I'm an unashamed nerd for architecture. I get excited about train stations designed by Santiago Calatrava.)
At the party, she spent most of the night talking to me. She suggests that my life seems more exciting than hers. After I finish a few stories where she can't compete, she answers with, "I've got nothing."
She also spoke with a few of the Ivy League grad students in attendance. We had Harvard, Columbia, Georgetown and others in the room. While I personally wasn't impressed, my state school **diploma** locked itself in the bathroom and started crying.
After the party started to wind down, I invited her back to my place to see some travel photos. On the street, I offered her my hand. She squeezed hard and didn't release until we were at my apartment.
I remembered a box of old travel photos stashed in my nightstand. I invited her into the bedroom and had her sit next to me. I pulled out a random bunch of 4x6's.
This is Nice... This is Milan... This is Paris... While she flipped through the pictures, I started working her breasts. Eventually, word reached her brain and she pulled me in for a deep kiss. I pushed her back on the bed and my travel photos scattered on the mattress and floor.
As we locked lips, my hands went south to her pants. First the top button. Then the fly. Soon they were on the floor. Then mine.
I had more difficulty removing her last minute resistance. She complained she hadn't even known me for a week. She kept repeating that she didn't know me.
I pulled away from her. I picked up the book on my nightstand and started reading. Ironically, it was "Plaidoyer pour le bonheur." (It's written by a French philosopher who argues that happiness isn't something you can sleep or buy your way to. Instead, it comes through your personal frame.)
She told me I was "playing hard to get" and then pulled me back to suck my face. She let me have free reign with her chest, but the gray Victoria Secret panties wouldn't budge.
It didn't stop her from getting on top and moaning while she grinded against me. After a couple cycles of making out, grinding and spooning, she was finally ready for more.
"I want you. Go down on me." I went snorkeling through her old growth forest, but couldn't open the region to oil exploration. It also hurt when she squeezed her legs against my head.
When I was done, we went back to spooning for a while. I started on the breasts and could feel her body twitch. She turns her head to kiss. We roll over and she's now on top. Finally! I'm in. "We shouldn't be doing this," she says while she rocks her hips.
She compliments me on lasting so long and asks when I'm ready to finish so we can orgasm at the same time.
In the morning, which is actually the afternoon, we share a shower and take turns lathering each other under the shower head.
I get dressed and run around the corner for breakfast materials. I come back with a baguette, milk and my favorite Swiss muesli which has hazelnuts and raisins.
After a leisurely meal, I walk her to the train station, so she can make an appearance with her host family and show that she hasn't disappeared. It didn't help that she doesn't carry their phone number with her.
I wait with her until the train arrives. We embrace on the platform and she climbs aboard.
After a nap in my flat, I ride my bike to catch the end of a friend's BBQ. An Anglo-Korean girl gives me her number without much effort. Among other things, she asks whether I live alone.
The girl from the BBQ texts me on Sunday and comes over to watch the World Cup. We sit on my living room floor and root for France. France misses a goal in the shootout. I do too.
Score for the weekend: 1-1.
Writing from Geneva, Switzerland
nikkor@laposte.net
P.S. American girl and I have plans to spend next weekend in Lucerne. Among other things, the city hosts a train station designed by my favorite Spanish architect.
Feeling more belligerent than patriotic, I told a few random people that I was declaring my independence from the USA. It was charged opener for the world capital of diplomacy. I've been living abroad for a little more than a year.
Although I arrived with friends from around Europe, it was ironic that my best conversation of the evening would be with an American girl sitting on the grass near my buddies.
By coincidence, we had both recently lived in Washington, DC. We had a lot of common ground, including the Dupont Circle Krispy Kreme. (I was forced to walk past it every time I had to make an ATM withdrawal.)
Sans mobile, she gave me her gmail addy. 48 hours later I wrote and invited her to a Friday night house party. I was curious whether she'd write back.
She lives in Nyon, a tiny lake town adjacent to Geneva. Both her work and her social life there were underwhelming. She has three weeks left in her internship before she returns to her East Coast Ivy League law school and her circle of friends.
Was she going to filibuster or explode?
The party stoked her interest. We met at the train station and walked from there. We made a slight detour so I could show her a marvel of Swiss engineering: a parking garage dug underneath Lake Geneva. (I'm an unashamed nerd for architecture. I get excited about train stations designed by Santiago Calatrava.)
At the party, she spent most of the night talking to me. She suggests that my life seems more exciting than hers. After I finish a few stories where she can't compete, she answers with, "I've got nothing."
She also spoke with a few of the Ivy League grad students in attendance. We had Harvard, Columbia, Georgetown and others in the room. While I personally wasn't impressed, my state school **diploma** locked itself in the bathroom and started crying.
After the party started to wind down, I invited her back to my place to see some travel photos. On the street, I offered her my hand. She squeezed hard and didn't release until we were at my apartment.
I remembered a box of old travel photos stashed in my nightstand. I invited her into the bedroom and had her sit next to me. I pulled out a random bunch of 4x6's.
This is Nice... This is Milan... This is Paris... While she flipped through the pictures, I started working her breasts. Eventually, word reached her brain and she pulled me in for a deep kiss. I pushed her back on the bed and my travel photos scattered on the mattress and floor.
As we locked lips, my hands went south to her pants. First the top button. Then the fly. Soon they were on the floor. Then mine.
I had more difficulty removing her last minute resistance. She complained she hadn't even known me for a week. She kept repeating that she didn't know me.
I pulled away from her. I picked up the book on my nightstand and started reading. Ironically, it was "Plaidoyer pour le bonheur." (It's written by a French philosopher who argues that happiness isn't something you can sleep or buy your way to. Instead, it comes through your personal frame.)
She told me I was "playing hard to get" and then pulled me back to suck my face. She let me have free reign with her chest, but the gray Victoria Secret panties wouldn't budge.
It didn't stop her from getting on top and moaning while she grinded against me. After a couple cycles of making out, grinding and spooning, she was finally ready for more.
"I want you. Go down on me." I went snorkeling through her old growth forest, but couldn't open the region to oil exploration. It also hurt when she squeezed her legs against my head.
When I was done, we went back to spooning for a while. I started on the breasts and could feel her body twitch. She turns her head to kiss. We roll over and she's now on top. Finally! I'm in. "We shouldn't be doing this," she says while she rocks her hips.
She compliments me on lasting so long and asks when I'm ready to finish so we can orgasm at the same time.
In the morning, which is actually the afternoon, we share a shower and take turns lathering each other under the shower head.
I get dressed and run around the corner for breakfast materials. I come back with a baguette, milk and my favorite Swiss muesli which has hazelnuts and raisins.
After a leisurely meal, I walk her to the train station, so she can make an appearance with her host family and show that she hasn't disappeared. It didn't help that she doesn't carry their phone number with her.
I wait with her until the train arrives. We embrace on the platform and she climbs aboard.
After a nap in my flat, I ride my bike to catch the end of a friend's BBQ. An Anglo-Korean girl gives me her number without much effort. Among other things, she asks whether I live alone.
The girl from the BBQ texts me on Sunday and comes over to watch the World Cup. We sit on my living room floor and root for France. France misses a goal in the shootout. I do too.
Score for the weekend: 1-1.
Writing from Geneva, Switzerland
nikkor@laposte.net
P.S. American girl and I have plans to spend next weekend in Lucerne. Among other things, the city hosts a train station designed by my favorite Spanish architect.