40 Frenchie Flirty Stories: 40 Frenchie Series

By Paris Connolly

For lovers of Romance, French daily life, and French men!

My Frenchie Diary. Short stories about flirting in France.

We know when a guy is trying to impress us. We feel it.

And, if we're in a different country?
Same. Body language is body language, right? But, what about the flirting. Is it any different?

Yes. Sort of. Perhaps.

Australian author Paris Connolly has been living in France for over 7 years. In her experience, men take a lot more chances on the street in France. And, they are comfortable using flowery language. Just the other day, as she was strolling along the esplanade, a guy in his thirties cycled by and slowed down. She thought he was going to ask for directions, but he said with a smile, 'Excuse me, I'm looking for a beautiful woman wearing a white top. Would you happen to have seen her?' This wasn't some loser or creep. This was a normal, nice-looking, sporty, happy, kept-his-distance guy. Using this sweetie-cutie language!

Here we have 40 short stories of one woman's daily French life involving different flirty approaches. Funny Frenchie diary entries, if you will. Told from 40-year-old (ish) eyes. It's Travel Memoir meets Comedy, meets Clean Romance.

Note: No kissing, no sex. Just lots of flirty, feelgood moments with guys of all ages, single and married (c'est la vie!), in different cities, and during the author's different jobs, like ski school receptionist, language teacher, and comedian.

Note 2: This book uses British spelling.

Note 3: No married men were harmed in the writing of this memoir.

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Question for the author:
Which is my favourite Frenchie flirt? Very hard to choose. I shall say The Overachiever. I reserve the right to change my mind at any time, of course, but just thinking about that man makes me smile. And you? A favourite?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Paris Connolly
• Release date: Apr 18, 2023
• ISBN: 9782492620485

Paris Connolly

Paris Connolly is a lover of the Mediterranean sea, good food (seafood, olives, ice-cream), and good friends.  'I have a wish to one day own a Vespa scooter and beep-beep my around the hills behind Nice and St Tropez. Wearing a funky helmet. Being very careful and slow.'

Book preview

1.  Monsieur Pomme

I'm in my forties. Paris, 19th arrondissement, France. I am a Teenager Transporter.

'Come on guys, move forward please.' I direct French teenagers, who are busy kissing and playing with each other's hair, onto the Eurostar. We are in London Kings Cross station and my job is to make sure these kids get safely across the channel, back into the loving arms of their parents. They stumble into the train, holding on to each other in a line, like elephants linking trunks and tails. They move forward and take their seats. They immediately drape arms and legs over each other, cause you know, they have just spent the last week together, learning English, eating square white bread sandwiches, and now they love each other, and realise that in three hours they will be separated forever and ever. I take my seat too.

Two and half hours later, the voice comes through the train speaker, 'Mesdames, Messieurs, bienvenue à Paris Gare Du Nord.'

Teenagers shove left and right, getting their luggage, anxious to get off the train and back to their normal food. I let them go, go go! On the platform, I watch them saunter into the arms of their happy mamans and papas. I'm very happy too. We are back in Paris! In fact, I'm only here for one night. Tomorrow I will be taking a new group of French teenagers over to the UK, to begin their week of English fish 'n chip summer fun experience.

With my overnight bag slung over my shoulder, I head for the metro. I'm staying at my usual hotel in the nineteenth arrondissement. There is a couscous restaurant opposite the hotel. I haven't tried it yet. Maybe tonight, if I don't get sidetracked by the cheap Chinese place or the Kebab shop.

Sitting in the half-empty carriage of the metro, I look up at the station names on the sign, and as we pull into each station, I mispronounce the names of each, in my head. Finally, the voice through the speaker says, 'Corentin Cariou. Corentin Cariou.' I got it wrong. In my head, I had said, Kor en tin, which is logical, but the voice had said, Kor an tan. Don't get me started on Cariou. I pick up my bag, straighten my jeans, smooth down my work polo shirt, push the button and step out. I walk along the platform and past the ugly orange plastic seats. I continue along, passing the vending machines which I have never seen anyone buying from. As I get to the exit stairs, there is an older man, standing to the side, holding out his cap for coins. He is dressed in slacks and a dress shirt. He must be about 70.

'Bonjour, Monsieur.' I give him my very best smile.

His eyes light up. 'Bonjour, Madame.'

I continue and keep walking up the metro stairs, happy that I've worn my comfortable trainers. Looking upwards, I see daylight peeking from the top of the metro staircase. Not long now I till check in, and check out the couscous. Or maybe Chinese. Or kebab.

A male voice behind me says, 'Excuse me?'

I turn around, mid-flight of stairs.

An older black guy, about mid-fifties (but the sparkle in his eye belongs very much to the mid-thirties version of him) says, 'May I give you a compliment?'

I look at this smiling man. He has mischief written all over him. Intrigued, I nod.

'Your bottom. It's perfect. Just like an apple.'

An apple?! Wow! I'd never heard that before. Wonder which type? Surely not a Granny Smith? I must be more of a Royal Gala.

The man stands, smiling at me. My face is frozen cause I'm in you've-caught-me-off-guard mode, and all I can see are different types of apples; the green ones (not my favourite), the yellow-green ones (even less my favourite), the shiny red ones (I like them, but how do they get so shiny? Got to be some artificial stuff going on there), the half red half yellow ones (I like these. These are my people.)

The man stands, one step below me, waiting for my response to his impromptu compliment. His eyes have the twinkle twinkle in them.

I can't help but laugh. 'Thank you!' I give him my second-best smile. Already given away the best, earlier.

Satisfied that I have accepted his compliment, he smiles even more broadly, nods and waves as he overtakes me on the steps. Now, it's my turn to look at his bottom. There he goes, dressed in grey slacks. Which fruit is his bottom? Nothing comes to mind. I can't, no, I can't... I shake my head and abandon the game.

'Bienvenue à Paris, Madame,' the smartly dressed hotel receptionist greets me as I walk in with my overnight bag.

I smile to myself. She doesn't need to remind me I am in Paris. I've been here for under one hour and have already gotten my first compliment on the street. I know, I am definitely in Paris!

2.  Coconut Flan

I'm in my forties. Paris, 9th arrondissement, France. I'm a Hotel Receptionist.

I'm sitting in reception, fascinated with the people walking in and out of the laundromat across the road. It's like Grand Central Station over there. The phone rings. 'Hotel Regina, good morning. Marie speaking.'

'Hello, it's David from Hotel Cinema. Just to say, be careful, the pickpockets are out in full force today. We've had two guests have their bags stolen from the reception area this morning.'

'Ah, okay David, thanks very much. Are you telling all the others?'

'Yes, I'm making quick calls.'

'Okay, thanks again.'

'Bye. Have a good day.'

'You too.'

Hotel Cinema is two doors down from my hotel. For such a small street, there are quite a lot of hotels in it. We have a good relationship with each other, helping out with warnings, like David has just done. The thieves watch us constantly. They know when we are busy with groups of clients checking out at the same time. They know our hotel guests bring their luggage to reception. They watch and wait till our guests are busy checking out. Then, they step in, acting like a client in our crowded reception area, take a suitcase and walk out. Sometimes, they come in at breakfast time, pretending to be a client and pickpocket people while they're having coffee! Anyway, all the hotels in my street make a good team. We try to protect and help each other as much as possible. Paris is a big city, but our little street has a small town mentality.

The receptionist at Hotel Rose, right next door, is Akeem. He's in his forties. He's short, stocky, and has grey army-style hair. The first time I met him was when he'd marched into my reception area like he was a General Sergeant of the military. He'd pushed through all the guests who were checking in, till he'd reached my reception bench. He'd stretched out his hand, and said, 'Hello, I'm Akeem.'

I shook his hand, and he'd walked out. It was only later that I learnt from Diego, that he is the receptionist for the hotel next door.

I realised quickly that Akeem comes in regularly, to quickly say hello to Diego, or me, always with the hand stretched out for the handshake.

Not long after I started working at the hotel, Akeem started walking in with gifts. He started leaving a plate, covered with a white paper serviette, on my desk. Often, I would be in the breakfast room, getting a spoon for a client, and when I arrived back at my reception desk, I would see the serviette. Underneath would be a piece of chocolate cake or apricot slice. One day, it was savoury. It was fish with rice.

'Where does this food come from?' I ask Akeem as he steps in with my favourite cake, coconut flan.

'I have a second job working for Air France.' He stands tall, pride oozing out of him.

I open my top drawer. I've started keeping a fork there. 'Air France?'

'Yes.' He doesn't smile. He simply tilts his head, standing tall, looking like he is posing for a very important photo.

'Oh, wow!' I say, with the enthusiasm it deserves. 'Well, thank you, Air France!' I lift a piece of second-hand coconut flan into my mouth.

Akeem looks very pleased with himself. He gives me a nod, clicks his heels together, twirls around, and walks out of our sliding doors, back to his hotel. Akeem never stays long. It's strictly hello, drop off, and leave.

Today is Saturday morning, and my reception area is full of guests. 'Madame, I will be with you in a minute,' I promise the Ukrainian guest waiting to check in. She leans over my reception bench, trying to push in. My hand goes up, signalling for her to wait. 'I will just check this gentleman in, first.'

'Can we leave our luggage and come back?' a Spanish voice calls to me from the middle of the crowd.

'Don't leave your luggage!' I shout. 'Wait just a few minutes and we'll put it in the baggage room.' I smile at the Vietnamese businessman, who is waiting patiently in front of me.

'Thank you! Bye!' Room number 12, a regular, pushes his way through the crowd and places his key on my reception desk.

'Thank you, Monsieur Borlet!' I call back, before looking at the Vietnamese businessman standing in front of me. 'Right, let's get you checked in.'

'Excuse me! Excuse me!' I hear Akeem's voice. I look up to see him pushing his way through all my impatient guests. 'Excuse me! Make Way! Excuse me!'

Akeem pushes my Vietnamese businessman aside, leans over my reception bench, and places the coconut flan down with such importance, as if he's laying the jewels to the kingdom before me. He also places an expresso black coffee in a little paper cup, next to it. Without a word, and with his military-style head held high, he spins on his heels and starts pushing his way back out, through the crowd. 'Excuse me! Excuse me!'

My Vietnamese businessman looks to the serviette-covered flan on my desk, and then to my Expresso coffee.

'That will be 160 euros, please.' I reach up for the businessman's card.

The man passes me his credit card, but his eyes are still drawn to the flan.

I open my top drawer and place the flan down, next to the fork. I take my guest's payment, my expression deadpan. Internally I am smiling however, tickled by the cultural situation this man finds himself in. What type of hotel receptionist has coconut flan and coffee delivered to her during her work shift?!

Thank you, Air France! I ain't too proud.

3.  Da

I'm in my forties. Paris, 9th arrondissement, France. I'm a Hotel Receptionist.

Oh, they're so loud, I think to myself. We have a group of Russian businessmen, who checked in the other day, and since then, they have totally and utterly monopolised my reception area. We have a business meeting room downstairs, and a bar at the back of the hotel, but for some reason, the Russians have taken to having all their meetings in my front reception area. Lots of big burly men with loud voices, shouting over each other. Oh! My internal voice berates them. Please! Lower your voices. Bloody cultural differences!

I notice there is one man in the group, in his thirties, who isn't big or fat like the others, and who speaks in a normal voice. I notice him because he smiles at me, a lot. He doesn't know how to speak French or English, so I take it he is smiling to over-compensate the lack of verbal communication. I smile back at him. It's hard not to. He really is properly smiling at me. All his teeth are showing and his eyes are glowing. My mind goes to the stereotype, How many Russians do you know that smile so readily? Not many. Do you actually know any Russians? No. Well then, you don't know much then.

'Poshli!'

'Da. Poshli!'

The big, fat Russian men stand to leave, and the smiley one comes over to me. As he does, I think, Jesus, how am I going to help him? He doesn't know how to ask. I'll try my best.

'Oui?' I say, with a bright smile.

Smiler stands in his business suit, hands clasped together, and slowly says in his best English, 'You is very nice-looking.'

My eyebrows shoot up. Well, well, well. Who said he can't communicate? Straight to the point. I guess he has to be.

I nod my head. 'Thank you,' I