I wait for her standing in front of the restaurant, a high-end Japanese place specializing in meat dishes. Here comes the taxi. Through the windows, I catch a glimpse of her silhouette. She adjusts herself with the confidence of a diva about to take the stage at La Scala.
Meanwhile, the taxi driver leans forward.
He looks for my gaze.
His face is flushed, eyes bulging.
He gives me a dazed smile.
And — with a gesture as theatrical as it is vulgar — he traces the curves of a female figure in the air, as if to say:
“What-a-stunning-piece-of-ass-you’re-a-son-of-a-bitch-I-wish-I-were-you-have-fun-buddy“.
“Male solidarity.”
ˆThe words are only in his head, but I’m sure he formulated them like that, without any pause: he’s clearly holding his breath. She is literally breathtaking.
The nineteen-year-old has just opened the car door and is walking towards me, not smiling. She looks at me, waiting to see the expression… that expression that — inevitably — appears on the face of every man who sees her.
They say beauty is intangible.
Bullshit!
Her beauty hits like an explosion. I feel a pressure on my chest, I struggle to breathe too. I’ve never seen a girl so beautiful. Not even on magazine covers.
Her hair is bright red, a vibrant shade tending towards fire. Two icy, piercing, feline eyes. Delicate lips. Fair and radiant skin. Model-like physique.
I recall what I’ve learned in 10 years of improvisational theater, activate the “mental anchors” installed in countless relaxation and meditation sessions, and smile seemingly calm.
Or at least I think so. Maybe I have the same dumb face as everyone else. And that’s fine, after all:
“Amùri, biddizzi e dinari ‘un si ponnu ammucciàri.”
“Love, beauty, and riches cannot be hidden,” ancient Sicilian proverb.
I guide her inside the place. I notice the effect she has on waiters and patrons. The maître d’ escorts us to the table. The best one, of course: not that I asked for it, but everyone offers the best when pierced by the distracted gaze of the Goddess.
I smile at her.
How I Met the French Goddess
I’ve been curious about sugar dating for a while (if you don’t know what it is, I talk about it HERE [insert link]). I think it’s a great shock therapy to overcome the fear of being used. In my previous relationships, I constantly feared that I was liked only for my money. I never had reasons to believe it, on the contrary: I was always accompanied by disinterested people. Yet, in a corner of my mind, the thought still lingered.
For three months, I’ve been registered on seeking.com, the go-to site for sugar daddies. But I haven’t met anyone yet, held back by this primal fear. Freeing oneself from one’s fears is the most heroic thing a man can do. And it’s tough, generally.
Then I spot her profile and look at her photos. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a more beautiful woman. The Goddess exerts her power, I can’t not meet her.
I have a thing for redheads. I can’t resist. There’s always room in my heart for a redhead. Especially when the redhead is like this.
I invite her to dinner. She accepts.
Sweet Sugar Life?
I honestly tell her that I’m new to this world, that I don’t know if it’s for me, that I’m interested in knowing her and her experience.
I’m not one for preambles, so I get straight to the point:
“Tell me what life is like as a sugar baby.”
She looks around. We speak in English, but the tables are close enough. She smiles and responds with nonchalance:
“I just got back from Saint-Tropez. I have a house in Paris and shuttle between there and Milan.
I’m often traveling around the world: last month I was in Dubai, tomorrow night I’m leaving again. Unless you want me to stay…”.
Pause.
“Just ask me.
And I’ll stay.”
Pause.
I smile with my eyes. I part my lips and… invite her to continue the conversation.
Meanwhile, the menus arrive. None of the dishes on the menu convince her. Or rather, the truth is she doesn’t know them.
It’s a Michelin-starred Japanese place, not pretentious, but unique. I discovered it thanks to Martina, an international chef, ambitious and rising, whom I met on Tinder (but with her “there was no spark”).
I inquire about what she usually eats and ask the chef to kindly make me a custom dish, using a recipe from a few weeks ago.
She starts listing her experiences, as if she were presenting her resume, cloaking herself in the prestige of her associations:
“I was with the producer of The Matrix for a few months.
I dated one of the producers of Titanic.
I hang out with the “X” family (CENSORED: it’s one of the wealthiest Italian families).”
She tries to impress me, to make me feel small.
Outwardly, I remain impassive, unperturbed. Inside, I laugh. I laugh heartily.
The conversation flows smoothly, interrupted only by frequent cigarette breaks outside the venue. She smokes ultra-thin cigarettes, half of which is the filter. A regular cigarette equals at least four of hers. They’re incredibly sexy. She has a way of smoking that could awaken the instincts of a Zen monk: she shows her wrist, as if inviting you to savor her scent; tilts her chin to the side, as if to display a neck begging for kisses; she looks at you sideways, with an expression seemingly innocent and unperturbed. She mixes signals of availability and unavailability, as if to emphasize that she is far above you but, magnanimously, can be yours: just reach out (and your wallet).
The thing that struck me most about the French Goddess is that every single detail of hers is designed to please, with the same attention Apple gives to its product packaging. Clearly, the result is very constructed, she almost seems like a doll.
This detail gives me mixed feelings: on one hand, I appreciate her intelligence in presenting herself, her cunning, the quality and care of her presentation, her ambition. On the other hand, I wonder who is hiding under that mask and — above all — if anyone has ever been interested in finding out.
Is she a ruthless manipulator or a girl to care for?
My thoughts are interrupted by a joke:
“How much did you eat during quarantine?!” she says, touching my belly.
She’s trying to create distance and put herself on a pedestal.
I smile, surprised and amused.
Everything inside me is calm.
“Okay, she’s a tender girl who doesn’t know how to handle the world,” I think.
I look at her as if she just dropped her lollipop and is complaining about the bad ants eating it.
And this silent response brings her back down, among us mere mortals.
We go back inside.
At the table, the waiter pours us yet another sake to taste. He stumbles, embarrassed by her. I reassure him with a joke, chat a bit with him, ignoring the Goddess.
As soon as he leaves, I ask the girl if she sees multiple people at the same time.
She responds, almost scandalized:
“Who do you take me for? I’m a sugar baby, not a prostitute.
I belong to one man at a time.
Unless my man wants to share me. Last week, two guys came from the French Riviera to screw me.”
She’s pleased. I like her, the girl.
“But how does it work with the allowance?”
“Ah, I usually ask for 6,000 euros a month. Except for one, the first, to whom I only asked for 5,000. Occasionally, when I’m without a daddy, I go on vacation with someone. The last one, for a week, left me about the same amount.”
I think she exaggerated, that these figures are inflated. I had done my research, the average arrangement is 1-2k a month, or 250 € per single meeting. But she is undoubtedly the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met, I believe she can get much more. Maybe it’s not entirely far-fetched.
I sense something. I glimpse a Black Swan.
The Black Swan
Chris Voss is a former FBI hostage negotiator. Someone who had to learn the art of negotiating in situations where, if you make a mistake, people die.
Today he teaches his techniques, claiming they are applicable even to less critical situations, to everyday life. I’ve studied some of his work, through my mentors, and sometimes I can recognize a Black Swan when I see one.
The Black Swan is a hidden piece of information, a perspective never considered, an element hidden behind others in plain sight… capable of completely overturning the negotiation table, putting you in a position to reach an agreement with the other person.
I look at her.
I smile.
I say to her:
“You know, you think beauty is a great fortune for you.
And indeed it allows you to live a life that 99% of girls can only dream of.
It allows you to have objects, experiences, services that 95% of ordinary people never get, and that the remaining 5% manage to achieve after years and years of work.
I think the opposite.
I believe that being so incredibly beautiful is a great MISFORTUNE for you.”
She looks at me surprised and amused.
I continue:
“No man can resist you. No man knows how to say no to you. This means you don’t know deprivation, the thrill of conquest.
It means you don’t lose your head for anyone.
That you’ve never been hurt by rejection.
In a word, it means you don’t know what love is.
Isn’t it all so… boring for you?“
She stares at me.
Silence.
For the first time, behind the colored lenses, her true gaze is visible. We remain silent for a minute, looking at each other.
Her pupils dilate.
She bursts out:
“It’s true.
They have money, they do and undo, they succeed, but… with me, they all become losers.
The last guy I met… you won’t believe it: the second time he saw me, SECOND, he showed up with my name tattooed on his skin. They lose their minds immediately.”
The Goddess, finally human, is a torrent of complaints, dissatisfaction, sarcasm.
She finally opens up and tells me about herself.
She says she discovered sex late, at 17, during a relationship with an older man, which lasted a year. She was in love. After that, she started being a sugar baby.
She tells me she’s never been in love.
That she can’t do anal sex. Because for her, anal sex is an important thing, it’s the way to her… heart.
(I swear!).
She tells me a thousand other things.
I like her. Now, I like her.
She already had my respect. Now she has my affection.
She’s an intelligent girl.
And there’s something that connects us. At that moment, I didn’t know what, but now that I’m writing these lines, it’s clear to me: we were both characters.
The Novelty
I’m having fun. We’ve connected. We laugh and joke. I listen with great interest as she talks about her life. I admire her, I think she’s a very intelligent girl.
Time flies. It’s time to decide what to do in the second part of the evening. I tell her:
“I’ve had a great time with you. I find you an interesting person. Thank you, you’ve shown me a world. But I think this world isn’t for me. I’m not ready to mix money and pleasure.”
The atmosphere freezes.
She stiffens, straightens her back, raises her chin, her gaze becomes a slit. Her lips tighten, as if to keep the words from escaping.
She gives me a disdainful look.
Dryly, she hisses this sentence:
“Then the evening is over. We have nothing more to say to each other.”
I look at the special dish I had prepared for her: she’s barely picked at it.
“Aren’t you finishing your dish?”
“No.
I’m full.
Call me a taxi.”
I smile, pay. Taxi arriving in 5 minutes. We go out.
Ritual cigarette.
She expected me to try to dissuade her.
Maybe she expected that, having paid for dinner, I’d at least try to kiss her or make other loser moves.
Instead, I talk about this and that, genuinely satisfied with the evening.
And here something totally unexpected happens.
Plot Twist: when Reality Surpasses the Best Screenplay
The taxi arrives.
I open the door for her.
She doesn’t get in.
She holds my hand.
She looks at me.
And tenderly says:
“Come on, come with me to the hotel.”
“Thanks, but it’s not for me.”
“No, come on, come with me to the hotel.”
“But I told you it’s not for me…”
“Free! I don’t want anything!”
“But what’s the point?!”
“Pretend you met me on Tinder.”
“But it doesn’t seem right, that’s not why we went out.”
The taxi driver looks at me incredulously.
A super hot girl begging a regular guy to sleep with her.
And the guy turns her down.
“Come on, come!”
“Thank you, you’re very sweet, but it doesn’t seem appropriate.”
“Come on, please.”
The street is narrow, only one car can pass at a time.
A line has formed behind the taxi.
Someone starts honking.
I look at the taxi driver, increasingly incredulous.
I look at the cars behind honking.
I look at the stunning girl begging me.
I laugh, incredulous myself at the situation, and say to her: “Okay, but let’s go to my place.”
Traffic is saved, and my ego strikes noon like the statues of Dina and Clarenza in the Cathedral of Messina.
At Home, Together
As soon as we enter, we both do what comes most naturally.
She lights yet another cigarette.
I lift her up and lay her on my kitchen.
She smokes sexily and jokes.
I caress her everywhere, undress her, grab the marker.
Ritual photo for my women, dressed only in her €15,000 Rolex, my name written on her mons pubis and the cigarette in hand.
I cuddle her.
We talk.
She introduces me to Le plus beau du quartier, a French song by Carla Bruni. She feels it talks about her, the most beautiful in the neighborhood. It doesn’t speak of inner characteristics, temperament, or talent. Just about being beautiful. Because that’s how she sees herself: simply beautiful, provocative, and irresistible.
Even today, it’s in my playlist: when I hear it, I think of her.
She’s tender, my Goddess. She’s sincere, my Goddess. She’s sweet, my Goddess. .
Plays with the dog.
Plays with me.
We dance.
The connection is strong. The intimacy is great. We’re both naked, laughing and devouring each other with our eyes.
Her excitement is through the roof: I tease her and then reject her, telling her she should go home, that I’m very satisfied with the evening. Everything seems perfect. I’m very calm, relaxed.
Too much so.
Down there, where the sun doesn’t shine, nothing is moving.
Being begged by a Goddess is a privilege that rarely goes unpunished.
In front of me is my ideal woman: redhead, half my age, making unconventional life choices, tender and a slut at the same time.
And she’s begging me to fuck her.
For free.
I don’t understand.
I really envy my friend from StorieDelCazzo.com: he talks to his dick and… it even responds. I, on the other hand, get no response.
Not only that. The blog narrates the adventures of ProprietarioDiVictor – a sensitive, deep, and romantic man – and Victor, his materialistic and monolithic dick in its desire to copulate at every opportunity.
Here the situation is the opposite: I want to fuck, and instead, the one being sensitive, deep, and romantic is…
Yogi Tsuru, the Guru Dick
Yes, that’s what I call it. Because its will is inscrutable, its responses absent and… those few times it manifests, it does so with obscure insights like:
When the common man understands, he becomes wise; when the wise man understands, he becomes a common man.
It takes a lifetime to realize that understanding everything is not necessary.
Woman in heels is looking for a package.
It insists on deciding for me who is suitable and who is not, while I’m in the bedroom. Going on strike with beautiful women I’ve painstakingly won over, or giving me record experiences with people who have nothing in common with me.
The Goddess drags me to the couch to unleash her power.
Yogi is absorbed in distant meditation.
The Goddess gets fired up, uses mouth, hands, breasts, anything.
Nothing rises here.
I feel like the designated victim of a B-movie horror: I know I’ll be killed but I can’t do anything to stop it.
The girl looks at me bewildered and shocked, expressing words unknown to her
<<So you really don’t like me?!?>>
<<I don’t know what’s happening. Maybe it’s better if you go home. >>
<<You can’t send me home like this! I’m excited! Fuck me, even a quickie… but please, fuck me! >>.
And she says it almost stomping her feet, like a child.
<< I’ll call you a taxi.>>
She reluctantly gets dressed.
With a body pulsing, yearning for the denied pleasure.
She caresses me.
She kisses me.
She leaves.
And now what do I do?
<<If you can’t do anything, what can you do?>>
Screw you, Yogi, I don’t need your damn maxims… I need your vigor!
How Was that Possible?
Evening over. She’s gone. I’m left puzzled by the strange date.
I first touched the sky and then was thrown into the abyss.
I reflect.
What won her over was my rejection.
This girl has never received a “no” in her life.
She’s never had to chase anyone.
No one has ever resisted her.
I didn’t do it as a technique. Women can smell lies: no man can deceive them (unless they want to be deceived).
I didn’t do it to get her into bed.
I’m honest, I’m not ready for an arrangement yet.
My behavior is consistent, transparent. That’s why she wanted to be with me, for free.
I get a message. It’s her. Sending me a memory photo I took of her while she was naked on my kitchen.
It’s a shame it went the way it did.
I still don’t understand why.
Maybe I was afraid of getting in too deep, of falling in love with a sugar baby, losing my mind and ending up like those middle-aged men who squander fortunes to buy the love of a twenty-year-old. But she didn’t want anything.
Or maybe I felt like I was doing something wrong: we met for an arrangement, consuming without paying might seem like stealing.
But she was okay with it.
What do you think? Write it in the comments.
SIX Months Later
What I’ve recounted happened six months ago. A lot of water has passed under the bridges. Today I have one more awareness. I know something I didn’t know then.
The Goddess and I connected because we had one thing in common: we were both characters.
She with her irresistible sugar baby mask.
Me with my Magnificent mask.
You can see it from the story: hyper-confident, always aiming to be different from others, to do something different from what the partner has experienced. No room to show vulnerability, humanity. My need to be unique, special… Magnificent.
In the end, she dropped the mask with me.
I didn’t.
Because I didn’t know I had a mask, I was convinced I was the mask.
It would be nice to meet her again today and show her the face under the mask.
But she’s back in character. Maybe, if I had been able to show myself then…
** Opening image taken here – ochichan. It’s not the French Goddess, of course.
Five Years Later
Every now and then she comes to mind. I feel a strong affection for this girl. I feel like hugging her, cuddling her, having a laugh with her and badmouthing men. I’ve started writing to her again, occasionally. I’d like to be her friend. I hope one day she falls in love with a good person, is happy and invites me to the wedding.
