Privacy is never given, it is only taken.

I’m currently taking refuge in the carriage house of a six acre estate in the Plaza neighborhood of Charlotte. The property is on the National Historic Registry. The main house is delightfully appointed with Victorian antiques. The carriage house has modern touches which is a pleasant juxtaposition to the main house.

This estate exudes privacy: if you weren’t aware of the driveway entrance, you’d surely miss it; the main house stands guard like a giant; the carriage house is tucked safely away in his back pocket.

I’m the only guest. Which is the main reason I have Ahmed (my driver). Late last evening while he and I sat on the veranda smoking, we heard a symphony of crickets led by a hooting owl soloist.

Tonight after my dinner with David, I’ve excused Ahmed with a filet mignon to share with his beautiful wife. I’m sitting, alone, except for the company of my cigar. Ahmed made me promise to text him when I’m nestled into the carriage house. I am, he reminded me as we shook hands tonight, the only person on 6 acres.

Blessed be me.

Never assume when it comes to affairs of the heart.

I’m writing this post at 3 a.m. It’s not my habit to write at this hour, but when you have a lover in Paris, you tend to keep bizarre hours. Especially when you quarrel.

I’m tired of hanging my laundry out to dry on my blog; I’m tired of hurting Jean-Baptiste when he reads my posts about new boyfriends; I’m tired of having other’s read my blog then text David and misquote me; and, I’m so, so tired of men Googling me, then read my blog and assume they know me.

Argh.

Steve Martin once said in an interview (and I paraphrase): I can never complain about my life because anyone would trade places with me in a second.

Argh.

If I can’t be honest in my writing, it’s impossible for me to write. If I can’t write, I shut as quickly as a tripped bear trap. It’s impossible for me to ignore my heart when I write. Make no mistake, I’m not writing fiction, I’m writing prose.

But will someone tell me how I’m supposed to tell the truth when I’m so tired of the world making assumptions about my bedroom?

I’ve always said that fame is assigned. I always thought I wanted fame. But Charlotte is a tiny place ripe with assumers and gossip mongers. People here have painted a false image of me. And the only way for me to assume anonymity is to flee quietly.

Argh.

I have a driver now. He comes with the estate I’m staying at in The Plaza neighborhood of Charlotte. I’m the only guest so I have the pleasure of his company.

Every morning he arrives at the estate promptly at 11:30 am while I’m just finishing my morning cigar, espresso, and writing. The driver is a polished, understated 39 year old gentleman that drives an elegantly wowless Suburban. It’s not emblazoned with car-for-hire decals.

He enters the estate at street level, his car’s heavy tires kicking up the loose pebbles of the drive. From my chair in front of the carriage house I can hear the subtle cracking and pounding of stones. Through the towering trees and amidst the thickets standing guard, I can see his headlights; he drives past the front door, deftly navigates the portico, and pulls the Suburban up to the house.

“Ahmed,” I say happily.

“Good morning, Mr. Harlan,” Ahmed replies.

“Join me?” I ask while enjoying my cigar.

“You’ll be late for lunch,” he cautions.

I simply shrug.

“Why not,” he adds and takes his place beside me.

I pull his favorite cigar from my pocket, hand him the cutter and matches.

“Mr. Harlan, this is a fantastic smoke.”

“It is, Ahmed. But it’s better when you share it with a friend,” I added.

“Thank you, sir,” he nodded while puffing out plumes of gray smoke and smiling.

In life, people treat you like shit no matter how much money you have.

While I’ve been in Charlotte I’ve been dumped, stood up, and thrown out of two hotels.

Yesterday, I was thrown out of the Ivey’s Hotel here in Charlotte. Not for debauchery (which would’ve made great fodder for a post) but because they’d sold my room from under me.

And they call themselves a five star property! Don’t they understand that they’re in the hospitality industry? Or, how about accommodations?

I was forced to abandon my room, allow housekeepers to pack my bags (which they forgot to include two boxes of rare cigars), while I sat in the rain and waited. I demanded that they find me a private, luxury property in Charlotte, and hire a car to take me there.

I was incensed that it ruined my dinner with David.

I learned a very valuable lesson about life: we’re all guilty of mistreating others, not because of how much or how little money they have.

But because we can.

Everything you put in your mouth is taboo.

I love four things: men, food, drink, and cigars. And the men in my life love the same. I’ve discovered very recently that loving, eating, drinking, and smoking are extremely sensual.

Everything I put in my mouth are synonymous with all the others. Food and drink and cigars and men are not naturally found in my mouth. Obviously, right? But we forget how sensitive our pallet is: it knows lust, it knows crunch, and it knows smooth.

I have a standing table reservation at one of THE best restaurants in Charlotte. 5 Church is located at the corner of 5th Street and Church Street in Uptown, an intimate neighborhood smack dab at the center of Charlotte. There’s a real pulse there; a lot of eye candy; handsome men and elegant women stroll the sidewalks at all hours. It reminds me of Paris.

Last night David arranged a tasting menu for me. He’s a fantastic server. He’s already memorized my wants: a Riesling to start paired with a San Pelligrino straight, with no fruit that I use to cleanse my pallet. From there, however, I’m in his hands. And that’s the nature of our relationship. I give him the keys. He seduces me with the first course, teases me with second, takes me with the entree, and whispers to me after with a scotch.

Last night however, I was awe-struck. My first course were crab cakes with remoulade: tobasco, fluid gel, and marinated tomatoes, and deftly paired with a sweet Riesling. My second course were perfectly prepared sea scallops: apple root purée, walnut spaetzle, compressed apples, and sage gastrica. He kept the Riesling. So I began to think I’d be enjoying a seafood meal. Ah, but no. David sent out a throaty Malbec to pair with a pan roasted Deckle steak which was balanced atop smoked Yukon purée, carmelized brussel sprouts and mushrooms, and a curry bernaise.

Dining with someone is always a pleasure, but dining alone is an expression. I approach my meal like I do a lover. I study each course slowly, taking the time to strategize my attack, then take up my tools and dive in.

When I dine with David it’s as though we are picnicking in bed. He loves watching me eat, and I love feasting on him. Even across the table.