I have a sweet little dog, a Jack Russell with heart-shaped eyes and the ability to make anyone fall in love with just a glance. He’s 10 cm and a banana tall, but he thinks he’s a lion: he looks down on any other dog, even if it’s a Doberman, a Great Dane, or a Saint Bernard. He’s the boss of the neighborhood: strutting around on those muscular yet thin legs like breadsticks, putting old ladies, Amazon couriers, and Deliveroo guys in their place. He always gets up to something… but it’s impossible to get mad when Salomone gives you those heart-shaped eyes.
Yes, I named him Salomone because I found the contrast between the grandeur of the name and his extra-small size amusing. The problem is that he seems to have internalized the status of his illustrious namesake… and does everything to royally hook up with my women.
I go through the effort of finding them, seducing them, cooking for them and… he swoops in, flashes his sweetest look, and brings his ball to play with them. In the end, they inevitably fall for him:
“You wouldn’t tie him up, would you?! He’s so cuuuute… let’s keep him here, next to us.”
And the bastard comes to collect when we’re getting it on: he licks their feet, expertly dodges my kicks as I try to shoo him away, and uses the distraction to climb onto the pillows. Until he wedges himself between us, and finally, the girl lets me tie him to the foot of the bed. Oh, how he complains. And how he complains! He sounds like Mussolini on talk shows. But here, the stage is mine, and he’s relegated to the background.
Unfortunately, though, it’s a temporary victory: once it’s all over, they go back to him. Inevitably.
I’m searching for love and end up relegated to the role of a man-object, a means to get to my dog.
Some have even gotten ahead:
Let’s just say I’ve gotten used to it, and there’s an armed peace between me and Salomone. Yesterday, though, he crossed the line. We’ve reached the point of retaliation.
Brief flashback.
I spot MoonSkin on a dating site: a very fair complexion, contrasting with a carmine red mane… and you know how much I like redheads. Her eyes are like alpine lakes, that typical color the water takes on in the morning, before the sun is high, when silence reigns supreme. The cerulean iris encloses a pitch-black pupil, a black hole that seems to violently suck you into its timeless peace.
I like her.
I write to her and invite her over.
“It’s crazy, but I’m in,” she replies, accepting the invitation.
And a few hours later, she’s at my place.
She takes off this extra-large fur coat she’s wearing, and I realize… she’s gorgeous. Much more than in the photos (which is really rare).
Voluptuous, pronounced, soft lips. I would have kissed her right away, but I manage to hold back for a whole… 4 minutes.
She has a very narrow waist, a flat navel with a memory of a rejected piercing (“It was vulgar, I didn’t like it”).
As is good manners, she slips off her shoes as soon as she enters my loft. She’s a tall one: 1.80 m without heels. I’ve been very prejudiced against tall girls for years, preaching that it’s impossible to have a perfect butt above 1.66 meters. Yet she has a fabulous butt: it towers over two long legs, it’s wide, hilly, and well-behaved.
I’m a bit taken aback, could my theories be wrong? Could it be flabby and sagging? No, as I learn 3 minutes later (the kiss was just a cover to feel her butt). Her butt has the same consistency as dreams, but firmer.
2021 has just arrived, and a new task makes its way among the New Year’s resolutions, alongside “start a career as a business angel” and “found a startup.” And it’s “I want that butt.”
As she enters the house, Salomone remains regally sprawled on the bed in the loft. Before showing himself, he greets her with his powerful roar. Finally, he does her the courtesy of coming down the stairs and jumping on her, wagging his tail and barking at the same time (I think he read the push & pull technique on some dog seduction blog).
“Oh, how cuuuuute! I loooove him.”
Sgrunt, Salomone. I do deadlifts until three in the morning to please my women, and all you have to do is wag your tail.
We chat while I cook. What we talked about will remain between us, but I like the girl.
Armstrong plays in the background.
We have dinner.
We laugh.
Couch.
Salomone goes on the attack, but I manage to keep him at bay.
We’re together, within the limits of what’s possible: she’s on her period… and unfortunately, she shares the French Goddess school of thought: anal sex is to be given to the man of your life, it’s the way to the heart. My anatomy knowledge is rudimentary, but… I’m not convinced of the biological basis of this.
“Well, then let yourself go and fall in love with me. I’m already starting to fall in love.”
“All this for my butt?”
“You know, MoonSkin, I have no regrets in life. I’ve lived well. But at night, when I close my eyes, I see the special women I desired and didn’t have pass before me. I look at them one by one, I hear them call me, I imagine the life I could have spent with them and didn’t live.
Well, I’m sure that when I die, Saint Peter will scold me by listing the beautiful things I didn’t seize. And at the top will surely be your butt.”
“Are you telling me that Saint Peter will talk to you about my butt?”
“I’m sure of it!”
“And what will he say to me?”
“You won’t meet Saint Peter. As red as you are, you’re the devil. A tender and lovable devil, but one that surely reigns in the heart of hell. Look how I’m already burning :)”
Well, the wine is good, and the girl ignites an ancient enthusiasm in me.
And while we confuse our positions within this eschatological debate, Salomone gives us a dirty look.
He’s very unhappy. I’ve kept him quite at a distance, and not having gotten much action, he hasn’t been able to attempt his usual canine approaches.
I’m actually very happy, I’ve had some great moments of connection and have been able to appreciate my playmate’s skills. But the dog is more basic, you know. He doesn’t beat around the bush, he wants action, the real deal. He wants the sausage (I hope only metaphorically!).
I see him wandering around the house with a conspiratorial air until he disappears.
MoonSkin lists a series of fortunes for which half of my friends would kill.
“I’ve never worked out, my butt is naturally firm. Zero maintenance.”
“When I started taking the pill, I lost weight. I lost 8 kilos.”
And another one so incredible that I can’t reveal it to the readers of this blog… I don’t want to jeopardize her safety.
At one point, we were talking about how social media photos are often much cooler than people in the flesh.
“Well, you’re just like in the photos.”
“Come on, stop it, I know I look hotter in the photos.”
“No, I swear.”
“… 🙂 You have to tell my photographer: he claims my sex life is all thanks to him.”
I get up playfully to grab my phone, to have her record a voice message, when suddenly she says:
“It’s raining inside!”
“What do you mean ‘it’s raining inside’? Above you is the loft, not the open sky!”
I see droplets falling on her and the couch.
“Did a pipe burst?”
“What pipe…
GET OUT OF THERE NOW!
COME HERE!
SALOOOMOOONEEEE!!”
Earlier, I had challenged Salomone not to bother me with this girl.
And the unfortunate one replied.
Oh well.
She runs to the shower, amused, fortunately (what an extraordinary girl!).
I, on the other hand, wander around the house with the mop, far from macho. I even have to move the 40-kilo rubber tiles I’ve placed to protect the parquet of the home gym in the loft.
The unfortunate one follows me nonchalantly, innocently wondering “What’s happening?!” with the same expression as Morgan at San Remo.
“I know why you’re doing it. I know the Countess paid you to sabotage all my dates!”
She emerges from the shower:
“Who’s the Countess?”
“She’s a girl I fear wants to take me off the market, even if she denies it. Salomone is in love with her.”
“How CUTE!!”
Yes. Cute, the little pisser.
