The Reluctant Daddy

(Continued from CHAMPAGNE DREAMS)

My eight-year-old Ethan needed new cleats, and I wanted to get fucked up in a picturesque Parisian cafe – What to do?

While smashing around the french countryside this past summer, I had the fortune to visit the holiest of francophile shrines.  If in your naivete you’re thinking the Eiffel Tower, the Louvre, or Notre Dame you’re way the fuck off.  No my dears, I refer of course to Les Caves de Veuve Clicuot Ponsardin, makers of the best champagne on Earth – Veuve Cliquot.  In the annals of this blog, I’ve often extolled the virtues of this magical elixir and it’s fanciful, yet frightening effects upon yours truly.  Others (those less informed than myself) have stubbornly tried to steer me towards Dom Perignon or Crystal (Ugh) but I’ve remained faithful to my true love – Vivie.  You may think that it odd that I’ve chosen to give an inatimate object a nickname, but that in itself should give you some idea as to the esteem by which I hold my true love.

Going to Les Cave de Cliquot was like visiting the White House .  The place reeked of history, solemnity, and unrelenting arrogance.  Despite spending ungodly sums of money on their wines stateside, les staff de Veuve Clicquot viewed me as a typical American tourist and when not outright insulting me, treated me with calculated indifference.  I found myself nearly begging the perfectly coiffed, silk scarf and pearl-wearing clerk to PLEASE, PLEASE take my money.  When that little bitch finally consented to run my card, she did so with such contempt, that you would have thought I tried to blow a booger on her.

‘Merci’ she sneered, as she tossed the wines into a carrie-all.

In hindsight, her magnificently choreographed hostility gave me insight as to why straight men like to visit Dominatrixes. The pleasure one gets from ‘Vivie’ after enduring such Chanel-scented abuse, almost gave me a boner.  Thank you, ma’am!  May I have another?

Why couldn’t my son Ethan be like that  gorgeous bottle of ‘Vivie’ that sweated sweetly before me in that darling little french cafe? My bottle of ‘Vivie’ never whined, was never over-tired  and sure-as-shit never called me ‘fat ass.’   Not only that, ‘Vivie’ didn’t need cleats for some dogshit baseball game, or was it soccer? Goddamn it, why did I have to be so gay and know absolutely NOTHING about sports?  I was on the verge of a full-on. glitter-infused bitch fit when Pierre, the swarthily handsome waiter whom I’d been lusting after, warily approached my table.

“Pardon, Monsieur – is there anything I can do for you?”

“Oui, Pierre, there is ABSOLUTELY something you can do for me,” I answered lecherously, “something most important and most personal.”

(To be continued)