Read Young and Revolting: The Continental Journals of Nick Twisp for Free Online

stuffiest of all,” she said, pouring the wine but giving My Love only a symbolic splash. “They resolutely despise anyone new. You have to prove that you’re worthy of their company.”
    Alphonse declined to disagree with that statement. Instead he launched into a breezy philosophical disquisition that lasted all the way through the next course (braised lamb, cheesy potatoes, and asparagus). Apparently, French guys like to monopolize the conversation. If the food hadn’t been so good, I’m sure I would have been mildly annoyed. Somebody should write a computer program that provides instant dinner-table subtitles. I could have brought my laptop and been clued into the conversation. Only I ate the stalks of my asparagus—a blunder I suspect was regarded as yet another American gaucherie.
    Next course was green salad. Since the French have a morbid fear of cutting lettuce, you have to fold the whopping big leaves onto your fork and shove them into your mouth before your garden origami comes undone. Nevertheless, François would willingly bed our hostess for the recipe for her boyfriend’s savory vinaigrette.
    For the cheese course we adjourned to their spacious living room, where everyone paired off by preferred language. I chewed a creamy wedge that smelled like Dwayne Crampton’s sock drawer and asked Babette if she minded the attentions her boyfriend was lavishing on my wife.
    “ It’s just the way French men are, Rick. They’re programmed to flirt. No one takes it seriously. A bit obnoxious at times, but I regard it as part of the French zest for life. Of course, if the girl is presentable and doesn’t offer much resistance, they’re more than willing to seduce her. One must make allowances for these small transgressions.”
    “ I wouldn’t.”
    “ No, you Americans would reach for your pistols.”
    I couldn’t help but blush. It was true I had shot someone just recently.
    “ Which is not to say,” she continued, “that Americans never flirt.”
    Oops. Had François been glancing too frequently at her wellfilled- out LSU sweater?
    “ Do you have some interest in Louisiana?” he inquired, changing the subject.
    “ I love it, Rick. Alphonse took me to New Orleans this year for Mardi Gras.”
    A week of drunken revels in a wild party town with sweet Babette. That could relieve any guy’s post-exams tension. Sudden outburst of laughter from our companions. Glancing over, I noticed our host had placed a well-manicured hand on my wife’s bare knee.
    “ Alphonse,” called Babette, “shall we serve the coffee?”
    That got his mind back on business. We had tiny cups of strong espresso. No decaf in France? I may be wired for days. Oh well, it gives François more time to contemplate violently disagreeable ends for you know who.
     
    SATURDAY, May 22 — My second week as a married stiff. We celebrated with some light pre-breakfast intercourse. I have contrived an elevated posture that applies more friction to Sheeni’s vital button. She seems very appreciative. Most delightful to dispense with sensation-deadening condoms, though it is all I can do to delay my explosive climax until all parties are satisfied. I try not to think about where exactly I’m sliding my throbbing T.E. Or what my fingertips are caressing. Or what my lips are nibbling. Seems rather ironic that men have to suppress every sensory input while women are struggling to gather sufficient stimulation to make the whole business worthwhile. Bad engineering, I’d say.
    Sheeni remarked that she read a magazine article that claimed women enjoy a richer sex life with uncircumcised partners. I scoffed and said I didn’t see how the absence of a foreskin could make a whit of difference. Still, it gives me something new to feel insecure about—especially in a city crawling with three million intact Frogs. And why wasn’t I consulted before undergoing such infantile mutilations? I’m surprised some sharp lawyer hasn’t filed a class-action