I do not give a rat's ass in hell that I am eight years older than Jerome Robart. There is some intangible quality about French seduction and French fucking and with one little turn of the key, with a trophy love like this, I would have been a satisfied and happy woman, in love with life. Please, please, help me kneel like the actress who plays Sabine (or Satin), in one last false bloom, my spastic grip on his ass riding the rocking horse, I once had a reputation for dedicated oral sex and I would bury my face in his testes and gladly suffocate; no wonder poor Maupassant went insane with syphilis. What the fuck is it about European men? And you do not tell me about Nicolas Le Floch? Wicked viewers.
When I stop fervently straining to harvest the last of my nectar for the heaven of such a seduction, by the mother of Christ, Robart's subtly might inspire some rosette synapses to brilliance. Don't grow old bereft for such unions of masculine definition, if you heed nothing else from me, feel your passion and live it fiercely. Go after it, if I only had.
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There is a trollop at play, and an undercurrent of truth to the fact that Robart's role in a Enlightenment era procedural ignites frustration. My ex fiance tried, early on in our failed liaison, to ignite the same sparks one can find in a Paris boudoir, but I did not love the man, and he could not persuade me with such attributes as he had that others assumed made Frank and I a couple who were suited for each other: Everyone around the neighborhood called him my husband, when I could still get him out of his bed, and this says something about outward appearances over interior dissatisfaction, Jerome may not be picture perfect, which is a deterrent in George Clooney, but what he does with the bemused wrinkle of those almond eyes, Robart.
Fuck. I must go to Europe to die. It is imperative, even if difficulties are paramount.
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