There she appears during the usual 5 minutes of daily Tinder swiping. PiccoLina, 21 years old, but she looks much younger (17 at most). Very young, fair skin, delicate features with middle-European traits. A childlike face frames a sexy gaze, creating an ontologically impossible contrast, but in her, it comes to life with extraordinary grace. She’s a little minx: the world doesn’t know it, I do, she’ll discover it with me.
She’s tiny, but has a strong stage presence: I imagine her slim and graceful figure entering a room and leaving the crowd breathless. Getting to know her, I’ll understand that PiccoLina is a bundle of energy, like enriched plutonium, whose equally lethal radiation is pure love.
Her photos are quite unique: in one she’s a top model, in another the teenage girl next door, in another she’s a fully decorated Indian dancer. And indeed, in her description, she professes love for Bollywood dancing.
What the hell are Bollywood dances?, I think. Never mind, now that I’ve learned of their existence, I must try them! You know me: I’m a dancer turned businessman, a delicate dancer trapped in a docker’s body, masculine but massive. Actually, Bollywood movie heroes are so improbable that I might finally be believable, maybe with a nice mustache like my father’s. Give me some mascara, a mesh shirt to show off my hairy chest, some flowing loose pants and… Move over Roberto Bolle! The Magnificent One is coming in Indian version.
“I want to do Bollywood dances too,” I write impulsively. An intense and brilliant conversation begins where she tells me about her dreams. She lives in Americanina’s city but will soon move to Milan to study fashion design. She dreams of becoming a creative director, having her own brand. She says something very me-like:
“I want people to wear my dreams and feel like they’re in a dream themselves.”
This tiny thing with the golden gaze exudes ambition and greatness just like Solomon, my Jack Russell who thought he was a lion.
She’s hyper-ambitious, convinced of her future success. Later, when we’re dating, she’ll tell me ” I’ll make much more money than you. And I’ll hire you in my corporation “.
Me: “Ah, thanks. And to do what, general manager? ”
Her: “No, to bring me coffee, give me little kisses and head massages”.
Ah, poor Magnificent One, Sic transit Gloria Mundi!
And then the plot twist: she’s looking for a serious relationship. At 21, without having really lived. And she asks me: “You’re not one of those guys looking for weird relationships, like, I don’t know, open ones?”
Well, the chat moves to Instagram. Sparkling, we dance together on emotions, weaving laughter in a continuous reverberation of harmony and mutual teasing
We chat for a few days, then decide to meet. She’ll come specially to Milan for me, taking a two-hour train ride. I decide to reward her effort by taking her to the thermal baths.
I pick her up at the station and it’s love at first sight. So sweet, smiling, a bit embarrassed. She’s wearing one of her little dresses, quite short. In the car, she holds my hand, between her thighs, near her groin, but at a safe distance. I wonder if it’s to keep me away from her sacred place or to draw me closer.
We arrive at the spa.
I confess I’m a bit embarrassed to be with a 21-year-old who looks like a 17-year-old girl to everyone.
Four months have passed since then. As I write, PiccoLina is lying naked on my couch, with a bunny tail anal plug, recovering from an intense sex session. On the floor lies her schoolgirl dress. My memories of then are tender, happy and confused.
Inside, I’m both happy and sad: happy for these 4 intense months of relationship, sad for the awareness that we’ve come to the end. Soon she’ll be out of my life, causing me that Frontal Crash described in a remarkable post on a seduction forum. Ironically, I have a library of over 1,000 books and the highest insights I’ve found… in the most vulgar forum in Caracas. I’m a bit sad for this love, suffocated by her inability to accept an open relationship. (ndFilippo: Correct to “suffocated by my inability to love”)
But back to us. This is her first time at the spa, but, after all, the beauty of being 21 is that everything is a first time. She explores the pools, the jets, the bubbles. My hands explore her hips, her butt, her inner thighs.
We kiss, under the indignant gaze of the ladies convinced I’m taking advantage of a minor. I look at them with a mischievous smile, hoping my sly look draws them into memories of a distant past, when they were cheerfully promiscuous.
The conversation continues tender and sweet, between hugs and gentle scratches.
She talks and talks.
My hands slip under the edges of her swimsuit.
She talks and talks.
My hands caress her in her most sacred spot.
She keeps talking, pretending nothing’s happening, but spreads her legs, arches her back and smiles with 152 teeth: sexual excitement crashes inside her tiny body like a wave against rocks.
She’s soaking wet, the naughty girl.
We stay a bit longer, then I take her home.
I feed her.
We lie down on the inevitable couch, promiscuous witness to a thousand embraces.
I reflect on what she told me earlier. She has very little sexual experience. She’s never climaxed. She says she feels pain during penetration. She was deflowered by a 50-year-old jerk who didn’t stop at her “you’re hurting me!” but instead started slapping her saying “there, now you don’t feel pain down there“.
No, my priority today is her pleasure.
I won’t penetrate her. Today I’ll just caress her, cuddle her, lick her.
She comes.
For the first time in her life, with a man.
I try to show her that sex is pleasure, not pain (except in a minimal part). That it’s respect and altruism, not filling holes to unload.
It’s a game of understanding, not violence.
I cuddle her some more and take her back to the station.
I go home with a hard-on, but happy.
So begins this relationship, which was more than just a fling: one of the two open relationships (MLTR, as the Milanese say), a woman I loved.
