In which I tell you the embarrassing story of Gomez, the Moroccan millionaire, Part 2

I left you with my stupid, low self-esteem decision to see Gomez again, despite his attempt to manhandle me. Norah thought I was nuts, but Norah was already married to a wonderful man and had a cute little baby. Gomez was all, "Oh you are soooo wonderful and sexy and you would be the perfect wife" and he was saying it in French and I?

Was an idiot. I mean, what kind of man talks about marriage on the first date?

A man who is trying to get laid.

But he was trying to get laid in French. It sounded great.

So I agreed to see him again. We would meet at his hotel,* where we planned to eat in the hotel restaurant.

Henry laughed. "The guy owns the place! Like he's going to care that his employees are around? If he tries anything funny, they'll just avert their eyes."

Well, probably, but at least I would have an easier escape, as the hotel was only three blocks from Henry and Norah's apartment.

We sat in his restaurant. I ate. He didn't. He smoked. Don't they all? We spoke French. Why French, the language of the Colonial Oppressors of Morocco? Because that's what most educated Moroccans speak (in addition to Arabic and maybe Berber). Gomez also spoke English. Of course. But his French was flawless, as befits a man who got his PhD in economics in Paris.

He behaved. I knew he could. When he was behaving, he was super charming. Rich, (reasonably) good looking,** PhD.

He asked if he could take me to the airport the next day. Asked me in French.

"I'll have to check with Norah," I told him. "She's already planned to take me."

Norah was thrilled at the idea. "I have a meeting," she said. "I'd rather not miss it."

Again, I met Gomez at the hotel. Yes. I was a fool. A man who will not bother to pick you up? Wait. Maybe he did pick me up. I had luggage. Whatever.

Anyhow, we ended up back at the hotel for something. He told me he wanted to show me the roof view. What he really wanted to do was neck. I was OK with that because there was something so recklessly glamorous about the whole thing: handsome foreigner throwing himself at me.

Or, you could look at it this way: Foreigner thinking, "American women. All alike. Easy."

Then he wanted to "show me one of the rooms." Where I had to fight him off again.

I know. I know.

But it was somehow very exciting.

He waited with me at the airport, bought me a coke. He said he would call me and I thought, yeah, yeah, yeah. Whatever.

I flew home to Springfield and couldn't sleep from all the drama, so I went to Walgreen's in the middle of the night, bought some Natural Instincts Cinaberry and dyed my hair red.





* You are asking, "How does one own a hotel that apparently makes no money?" Well, one is born the child of wealthy, third-world parents in a country where those parents have strong connections to the royal family. Gomez' father died before he was born, so Gomez inherited that money, which consisted of factories. And stuff. Then his mother, who was wealthy in her own right, remarried and I think gave Gomez money as well.

** Not as handsome as Primo, for sure.