How the French finally lost their sex drive
Many’s the time I’ve stared wistfully into the distance and uttered the words: “God, I wish I was French.”
I blame film and TV. They’ve brainwashed me into thinking I would be totally different if I’d simply been born on the other side of the Channel: an , draped in black and dripping with aloof allure, Gauloise dangling insouciantly from two long, elegant fingers. (I in my life but I would be courting lung cancer were my name Hélène Café.) Underneath this exterior of bored, beautiful sophistication would simmer a powerful sensuality suggesting that, if I hadn’t just had , I was.
