French men tell us what they want — so why can’t their American counterparts do the same?

I have to confess that of all the men I’ve met around the world, Americans annoy me the most. They play games, they don’t know what they want, they attempt to sleep with you and walk away without giving even half a shit. I have spent most of my adult life seeking a Brit, or an Aussie or a Kiwi. I like honesty and straightforwardness and simplicity (though not of the mind, mind). Yes, I’m generalizing, and yes, I have found exceptions, but as a rule, I prefer foreigners. Angry Single Blogger Amanda Chatel, who has been living in Paris, very eloquently sums up the problem with American men — and reveals what they can learn from their French brethren.

French Vs. American Men

Ah! Here I am in Paris, my loves! I thought for the sake of my heart and sanity, I’d do an apartment swap with a woman here for a month and let the healing from my recent breakup begin. And it has begun… I think.

This is not the first time I have been to Paris. I came here two years ago under similar circumstances thanks to the same person, and found that (although I have always allowed him back in my life like the idiot that I am) spending time away in a foreign city alone was the best thing I could possibly do.

As a born and raised American, I’m cursed with a slew of American hang-ups. But as someone who has dated/bedded mostly Europeans since I moved to New York City, I’m fortunate enough to have been unraveled from my sheltered, Catholic upbringing and been given a spank — both literally and metamorphically. What can I say? I’m not into guys who like sports and wear white socks (ie. 90% of Americans outside of New York City yes, go ahead and bash me, plebes, for having standards.)

One of the best parts about being in France is the way men approach me. First of all, because I’m traveling alone and have, what I imagine, quite an obvious American accent, men do not hesitate to engage me in conversation. Also my accent makes for a great conversation starter. Secondly, the New York City factor always does very well. When I’m asked “what part of America?” I get to say New York City; whereas people in Ohio do not have that luxury. Everyone knows New York City — everyone.

So when those two things are established, I sometimes get propositioned for sex. Not in a way that would be equated to me being a prostitute or anything, but in the way that there are no games. The last time I was here an older man suggested we go someplace to “make love until we cry.” I thanked him and said no. The second time I briefly bonded with a Frenchman over NYC and after a mere 30 minutes into our conversation, he asked if I wanted to go some place to “f**k.” My answer, in that case, was obvious. I mean, he was gorgeous.

If American men could take a lesson (or two or five) from French men, and quit beating around the bush, they’d be better off. In other words, lay all your cards on the table, gentlemen. Granted you won’t be lucky every time, but every once and awhile someone will surprise you with their answer. It’s all about taking the risk to get to that desired answer. The potential for a slap in the face just adds to the excitement.