|You can almost smell the steak and fries...|
...and you can see that Clare, Deano, Sarah and Phil aren't having a great time in Normandy. So who can blame Clare for not regretting a night of passion with a hot-blooded male of the French variety?
"I’m not a slut!" Clare said loudly, as she walked along the beach, back towards the village. She had just spent one of the most enjoyable hours of her life, during which time she had experienced two orgasms, and had come to realise that Deano was a hopeless lover.
"He’ll have to go!" she cried out loud, laughing to herself when an old man walking his dog gave her a strange look.
"You’ll have to bloody go, Deano," she chuckled to herself, as she finally arrived in the village, and found herself at the bar where the previous evening she had dined on a terrible steak and soggy fries. Jerome had made love to her in a way which she thought wasn’t possible, and so she thought that from that moment on, she would never have sex ever again, so as not to ruin the memory. Deano was a bloody lousy lover – in and out before you could blink an eye, but Jerome…
"Hey! Baby, over here!" came the voice from the far table. She looked up and saw three familiar faces. It was Deano, Phil and Sarah, all stuffing their faces with croissants. Her heart dropped as far as it could go, without shattering into a thousand pieces. The great sex she had just had with Jerome now seemed like a very distant memory. Reluctantly, and after forcing a smile, she joined the others.
Extract taken from "But Bloody France!" A short story by Luke Ryman, out now on Kindle.