This piece was originally published on the travel website Shut Up and Go on August 7, And while that piece was adequate in portraying my story, it was in actuality an edited version of the piece I had in my mind.
While writing for the site I wanted to create work that I felt fit the audience, and I often avoided making pieces too long, too deep, or occasionally, too raw. This is the raw version of this piece, and I hope you enjoy. This article contains sexually explicit content: reader discretion is advised.
It had been a few weeks of living in Marseille in the south of France. I was working as an au pair, and on my days off not dedicated to scolding children in my imperfect French, I spent my time exploring the city, both by myself and in the company of young men from dating apps. What better way to see a city than with an attractive local as a guide, right? He was very cute read: hot as fuck , but as we messaged I sensed a possible toxic masculine energy, which I generally try to be wary of, not to mention he lived on the other side of the city than me.
But his English was exceptional and he was so good looking, so after some talking, he convinced me to meet him that afternoon, and I agreed, because hot men are my weakness. After an hour of commuting by bus and tram, I found his apartment building and he buzzed me in. The inside of his building was modern and stark, giving off a cold feeling, but I pushed through my doubts and went up to his floor. Opening the door for me, Oman greeted me with a beaming smile. He led me inside to his living space, the floor sprouting with the flowers of a traditional Persian rug, the walls lined with antique North African lounging couches dotted with velvet pillows.
Sheer curtains swayed in the afternoon breeze, and the atmosphere was comfortable and inviting. When we were both finished with our respective jobs, he assembled it and put it in the oven.
