At 7 a.m., Monsieur Moreau was hungry. Not for breakfast. Not coffee and brioche. He was hungry for that girl he had spotted at Madame Dubois’ soirée the night before. In the peach silk dress.
Loved the story but there is not a man on the planet that determines a woman's haircut as more smart than sexy. Not one that kisses pussy anyway. Great work.
Reading your story stirred up a little of my own past ... back when I was shy as Moreau, even though my friends swore otherwise. I’d tell them I’d spoken to a woman and they’d laugh, knowing those old fire‑engine‑red Panhead days when I rode with long blond hair and more confidence than sense. I was young, fit, and full of that wild weekend bravado men grow out of eventually. Funny how a man can be bold on the road and still tongue‑tied in front of a woman he actually admires.
Your piece brought that back ... the quiet ache, the imagined tenderness, the way longing can feel bigger than the man carrying it. Salt‑air melancholy, dust on the argyles, and a heart remembering itself.
Loved the story but there is not a man on the planet that determines a woman's haircut as more smart than sexy. Not one that kisses pussy anyway. Great work.
Well, he’s certainty not like other men 🤓 💋
LOVE reading you! Absolute banger x
That makes me sooo happy! 😊💜
This was a wonderful little story. It captured longing and logic in equal measure. Love, Virg
Thank you Virg!! 💋 💋
✍️” Because there was always a moment where the story became indecent.” - so good, the heart of this text
Thank you for reading and saying that. The story could easily have actually turned indecent. But he held back, the little Monsieur ❤️🤓
Dear Sylvie,
Reading your story stirred up a little of my own past ... back when I was shy as Moreau, even though my friends swore otherwise. I’d tell them I’d spoken to a woman and they’d laugh, knowing those old fire‑engine‑red Panhead days when I rode with long blond hair and more confidence than sense. I was young, fit, and full of that wild weekend bravado men grow out of eventually. Funny how a man can be bold on the road and still tongue‑tied in front of a woman he actually admires.
Your piece brought that back ... the quiet ache, the imagined tenderness, the way longing can feel bigger than the man carrying it. Salt‑air melancholy, dust on the argyles, and a heart remembering itself.
Steven
kudos for including the argyle socks!
Haha they are the best
Im wearing one flamingo sock.
one Christmas tree.
but the socks. it always ends with the socks
(although the cat daydream was kinda awesome).
He’s a sock hoarder. He’s lonely. I figure I’ll write something nice for him soon. xx, Sylvie
These details pulled me in, Serge, Satie, the Cognac - I think I may have lived this imaginary life
I can see that!
Yvette would take offence if you called her Yvonne
For sure!