When flirting comes back to bite you in the butt...

I'm a terrible flirt... Give me any man whose company I enjoy and I start cornering smiles, flicking hair, sid(e)-ing looks, e tutti quanti. For my defence, I am French and I won't say it is my raison d'etre, but it is definitely my way of living: I can't help it, I was born and raised in it... In Paris I flirt with the boulanger when I go and buy croissants, I flirt with the postman and the florist and the merchants on Sunday markets: it doesn't lead to anything, it is just a social pattern. There are no expectations, no promises.

The problem is in London, men seem to take things at heart: it gets blown out of proportion, and it seems it has to lead to something in the other person's mind. And yet, I don't feel like I'm doing anything bad. It's too much of a game for me. I like to think that all women should be attractive and seducing. I know it might be old-fashioned, but I don't get the whole feminist battle: I love men, I need men, I couldn't live without their attention or their recognition, and I like to play with them. Not toy with them mind you, I like a fair game, when the ball goes back and forth, and I love being the object of their attention because it can give you the illusion of having so much control over them, it's dizzying. I like to think that all women should be a little Merteuillesque: in Dangerous Liaisons, the Marquise de Merteuil was always my favourite character, so strong, so intelligent, so elegantly flirtatious, a master in sexual politics. Play with them, enthrall them, don't give your heart: as women, it is our strongest power.

Until it comes back to bite you in the butt. See, I'm not writing a Sex and the City column here, because as you will soon find out, I would be at a complete loss if I had to give relationship advice: in the past two months, I have done something that I had never done before, I have been seeing two men at the same time. Or more crossover on and offs: one was on, one was off and vice-versa... The first was Burlington man, my Valmont, exciting, ambitious, amoral -dazzling-, the second was Mr Fair, beautiful and honest in all aspects. And as much as I am enjoying the whole situation, I can't really get my heart into any of them, because my heart is actually entangled elsewhere, beyond the sea, where I lost it in the arms of Mr Olderly man, this dearest of dear fashion photographers whose eyes I desperately try to forget.

Melodrama...

There is a peril when you start flirting at a greater scale: if you don't put all your mind to it... you're screwed. So here is what happened. Burlington man on, then off, Mr Fair on, then off, Burlington man on again (although he was never really 'on') until I see him making out in the street with a girl (you would think London is so big), and things remain shady with both of them, because I don't have the courage, and frankly can't be bothered, to clarify things ... If my mind is across the ocean, it is comforting to keep playing ball here.

And here is how everything unwinds: I am having a heartfelt email conversation with Burlington man, who I happen to be working with on the promotion of a fashion party. Not that I am that hurt, but my self-esteem took a blow from seeing what he never hid... At the end of this long (long) thread, we happen to confirm the DJs for the party, and I forward them the confirmation. And here is the twist, they are not any DJs, they are friends of Mr Fair; and as you can imagine, I do not send them only the last email, no no, I forward the whole thread!...

AND... LIGHT! spot on... Buster busted.

The thing is, I am no Madame de Merteuil, and definitely not Candace Bushnell, so it feels quite nice to have had the chance to come clean and go back to fondling my American dream...

Now I'm just wondering how to slow down the flirting, because I feel like I'm often walking on a tight rope... So if you have advice on that, I'm all ears.

By Champagnista V