french women: les belles femmes

Are they sexy? Chic? Slim? Exotic? Erotic?

Are they haughty bitches who think they’re god’s gift to mankind?

Yes. And no. But mostly yes. They are all this, and then some. They are a force to be reckoned with. They bully their men.

As a casual (oh, all right, highly engaged) observer of all women, I can only offer a superficial and generalised opinion of French women.

Everything is relative: what yardstick should apply? To compare French girls with the heifers lolling about in Bendigo’s Hargreaves Street mall is a disservice to everyone concerned.

I have not been to Italy, Japan, Sweden or anywhere else. Should this stop me offering my superficial, generalised, subjective take on French women? Don’t be silly.

I observe the other half of my species with unceasing rapture wherever she is on Earth. The belles of north Queensland, for example, despite the heat and humidity, are far less liklely to display any décolletage than women south of the thirtieth meridian.

Are French women sexy? Probably no more nor less than any women anywhere. It’s the language—la langue—the tongue. And the moment a Frenchwoman opens her mouth those silky phrases like the warm, moist velvet of a wet cunt make you want to do exactly what you’d expect.

The disembodied female voice of a train guide over the loudspeaker pronouncing town names like Chapeauroux, Alleyras and Monistrol, leaves me tumescent for hours after disembarkation. (She could be 70 with a goitre.)

Are they chic? You betcha. It’s not that a Frenchwoman dresses differently, although she does; it’s that she carries herself with a certain elegance. It’s not about fashion, but savoir-faire—a knowingness of the impression she is making.

Is she slim? I don’t know. French women, like Western women, come in all shapes and sizes. There is a type, though. She is slender rather than slim, an impression created by her lack of breasts, a grand irony given that breasts so often attract men’s attention first.

My theory here goes back to French farmers. French women have natural breasts not artificially pumped up by the growth hormones fed to farm animals in Australia and America where bosoms of increasingly pneumatic dimensions flourish.

Are French women exotic—unusual, strange, mysterious, exceptional, out of the ordinary? Not as a rule, not the white Gallic Frenchwoman anyway. But France is populated more and more by women from France’s former northern and central African colonies. Dusky mulatto Afro-French women drive me to distraction. I can neither look nor look away.  A quiver bolts through my being.

I step into the corridor of the train from Clermont to Langeac to check on my bicycle. And there she is, leaning on the window frame peering into the passing countryside. Her luscious bum points upwards, the black sheath of dress clings all over her like I want to. Her breasts are everywhere; her legs are polished teak and extend all the way from her high heels to her glorious arse and beyond.  Come-fuck-me oozes from every pore.

Nowhere but France have I seen this woman, and I have seen her several times. She is exotic, chic and sexy. More than that: she is high-voltage eroticism, her sex worn with savoir-faire, not hidden within.

God’s gift to mankind, to man, to this man? Mais, oui!