Male Escort Melbourne – 26 October, 2021
“Faire du cinq à sept,” – To do 5 to 7
“Un cinq à sept” is the French translation for ‘5 to 7pm’ – refers to what could be considered a very French version of Happy Hour: the two-hour period after work, from 5 to 7pm, when (some) people meet up with their lovers before going home to their spouses.
It is essentially the time for a relationship outside of one’s marriage, where the man or woman has a lover… but for sex only… They aren’t allowed to message outside of this time, except to organise their next times together…
This is quite culturally appropriate in France, and considered a normal thing to do.
And maybe it’s a good thing?
I have some clients who are in an open relationship – or they may not even call it an open relationship (after all, a rose by any other name would smell as sweet)..
Their husband knows they see me, because it is what they need to keep both happy, and their marriage strong.
Sometimes two people love each other, and are completely happy in their lives together, but are just missing the sex that they used to have. And that’s where “Un cinq à sept” can just make everything perfect!
Here’s a little story I wrote….
It is a warm, balmy morning here in Nancy, such a relief after months and months of bone-chilling winter and snow. I plan to make the most of it this weekend, soaking up the beautiful sun as much as possible. Better to do it soon before the winds become cold again!
“Esme! Your coffee is ready,” calls out my husband of 18 long years, Julien. I put up a practiced, though sincere smile, turning towards him, as he begins skimming through the newspaper, something he has never missed doing even for a day in this decade and 8 more we’ve spent together.
Our names couldn’t have been more ironical than they are right now. Esme, meaning beloved, and Julien, a name that no one can hate in all of France, a child born of love. Why is it ironic, then? When we met, with him being a respected employee at the Government, and I, just graduating from college in Marseille, everything felt novel, alluring! We were few of the ‘lucky’ ones they said, the only couple who ‘survived’ the whimsical ‘college romance’.
I don’t deny it, at all. It was true indeed. When he saved penny upon penny for our escapade to Paris, and when we finally got to see the Eiffel Tower, we ‘immortalised’ our love, and our love felt ‘real’ for the first time. It sounds cliché, something you read in French novellas and watch in French movies, but only those who experience it can attest to it.
The memories of that one day escapade were cathartic enough to last a couple years,.and what felt like romance, changed into love A year later we were married and I could finally call my lover, husband. This word had such a nice ring to it at that time. Soon after I got a job as a company secretary. Things were almost the same until a few years down the line, our beautiful son, Jacques was born.
Though we both loved our son, more than anything else in this world, somewhere we included each other in that ‘anything else’ too. With the joys of being new parents, we faced the struggles of parenthood too. I could feel myself sliding into some corner of my own world, tending and caring for our newborn, most of the time not even caring for my own well-being.
When Julien used to return home from work, he played with our baby for one hour – no less, no more, sometimes bathing him in between while I made dinner. I quit my job to dedicate all my time to our son. Of course we could hire a nanny to look after him while we were away, though I didn’t feel it was quite right to do that when he was still so little. Jacques, another name quite ironic in our little family: ‘a person who replaces’.
Before long I realised, our son did somewhat ‘replace’ my husband, or should I say I replaced Julien with my son. I committed my love, care, everything to my doe-eyed baby. I tried to make up for it at night, trying to get close to Julien when our baby was finally asleep. Somehow I wanted to convey everything that words couldn’t, with my touch, my caress. It did work sometimes in the beginning, but I don’t know what really happened, somehow I could feel his disinterest coursing through his veins and then creeping into mine. Even his routine of tending to our baby was lost somewhere in time, with him coming in late hours after work.
Next, we both did what we could do best: make the most of our situation by nurturing our child the best we could. I knew he loved me, he knew I loved him, but amongst all this life happened, and the memories at the Eiffel collected layers and layers of dust as years passed. With our son now in high school, it’s been 6 years since I’ve joined the celebrated workforce again!
If you ask me, my work is a welcome distraction from things – my house, the bygone exhausting days, and embarrassingly enough, my husband and son. You could judge me for this, but the truth is, it doesn’t bother me anymore. I don’t have the time to care what someone thinks of me when I can feel slowly time and age creeping up on me already: with the graceful forties about to knock on my door.
Don’t get me wrong, if I had been given the choice of doing it all over again, I would do it without a second thought if that meant having Jacques in my life. Of course, I would try to do it a little better than I did the previous time. His broad smile and curly wisps of hair are enough to make it all feel worthwhile – well, almost.
Even work feels less than ideal sometimes. When you’re the manager at a reputable law firm, of course it’s not all roses and sunshine. You’ve the added responsibilities of people dependent on you for crucial decisions.
With all these years passed, it feels as if I didn’t enjoy my youth to the fullest. Was it an early marriage? Was it birthing a child and everything that followed? I can’t really say. I just know one thing for sure: I’m not getting any younger and it’s not wrong wanting to feel youthful all over again, even if it’s for a little while.
I still remember that fateful night. I was returning from a work trip when I received a message: cinq à sept, 5 to 7. Tu es spécial, it said, you’re special. It is a concept known all over France. It’s the time between 5 PM to 7 PM when you visit a lover or a mistress after work hours and before dinner.
To be honest, I used to frown upon this in my early days. I really couldn’t fathom seeking love outside one’s marriage or partnership. How could something like this be acceptable? But at the point where I was in my marriage, I finally understood that you have to take unconventional or counterintuitive paths to keep your married life healthy, and alive.
I somehow led myself to the address mentioned in the message, where I met Aimé, lover. This was 4 years ago. We still meet regularly de cinq à sept, from 5 to 7, not before, not after. I don’t know if it’s his real name, but I couldn’t help but laugh at the tricks life played with me when it came to the names of the men in my life. It’s quite amusing, really.
It’s those hours in the evening where I really feel loved and cherished, as if I’m a young dame all over again. Some days that’s the only thing I wait for and look up to, when everything else feels haywire in life. It feels like my own private bubble away from the whims of the real world, an ecstasy that no one can take away from me, not even Aimé himself!
It’s the way he looks at me, caresses me, and makes me feel whole again that keeps me going in life. I get reminded that I’m not just a responsible manager, a dutiful wife, and a supporting mother, but I’m also a person worthy of receiving affection, love, and passion.
Suddenly I’m brought back to reality by Julien’s voice as I sip my now-cold coffee. He is dressing up to head to work for the day as he nonchalantly asks: “I’ll return a little late tonight from work, when will you?”
I replied, “Around eight o’ clock”. He responds with a brief, knowing smile. I can see in his eyes that he understands something unsaid, how crucial this arrangement was in saving our marriage, in saving us.
In helping me to feel whole, complete, fulfilled, and happy.