HoneyEyes has an irresistible face. Pronounced cheekbones, big luscious lips, jet-black lashes that make her bright eyes stand out. Their shade changes with her mood: honey-colored when she’s calm, but when she opens up for a moment of connection, her iris ignites with a thousand sparks, like a bonfire on the night of San Lorenzo. She’s damn beautiful, damn expressive. She works as a manager in a chain of stores, but I’ve tried to convince her to leave it all and pursue acting. She’s the only woman whose butt or boobs I don’t check out, because — as impressive as they are — they don’t compare to her face.
When she smiles, it’s incredibly hard to stop looking at her: she radiates sweetness, emotion, and kindness with full force. And it’s interesting because she… is a real bitch.
Or at least, she plays the bitch. Just like I did until a few months ago.
Same attitudes, same quirks. To the point that on our first date, it felt like I was going on a date with… myself!
But let’s start from the beginning.
Two years ago, I saw her while scrolling through profiles on Tinder. She caught my eye immediately, with her sweet face and that very, very revealing top. I liked her so much that I saved the photo on my phone. I forgot about it until I saw her again on a dating site this August. We chatted for a bit, never finding the opportunity or desire to meet. In chat, there was little chemistry. Honestly, I would have let it go if it weren’t for the coincidence mentioned above.
Finally, we decide to meet in the last days of December. Lately, I invite girls directly to my place, because it helps filter out a certain type of people I like less.
She arrives at my place at 10:00 PM for a glass of wine. She takes off her long, wide camel-colored coat (apparently very fashionable this year, as it’s identical to the ones worn by the last 4 girls) and reveals a cute, very short dress that highlights extremely sexy legs.
She spends the first good 10 minutes playing with the dog, ignoring me. They chase each other around the house, with Solomon tearing her stockings and her throwing every possible toy at him. I watch her puzzled until I say:
“Uh, it wouldn’t hurt if you considered the owner too.”
She sits on the couch next to me.
She starts talking about herself. She’s sharp, capable, intelligent. She plays a bit of a character: on one hand, she wants to show all her worth, on the other, she tends to destroy every moment of real connection with cynicism and jokes.
First, she compliments me, then she “negs” me (translation from modern Milanese: a neg is a sort of backhanded compliment used “to put someone in their place”… like “Nice boobs! Are they fake?”).
I know this attitude very well. It’s the same one I’ve always had with women until a few months ago. After falling in love with BimboSlut, I’ve changed a lot: I suffered a lot, but I can finally access my emotions. I used to “downplay” moments of connection and intense emotions. Today, I dive into them like Scrooge into his money.
I tell her:
“Look, you seem like me.
Until a while ago, I behaved like you on dates.
And I swear, seeing myself from the outside makes me realize how obnoxious I was.
And I’m grateful to the girls I was with because I must have been really to their liking for them to put up with me.
HoneyEyes, you should trust yourself more and let go. Emotions are beautiful.”
The evening goes on. We kissed almost immediately, but otherwise, she always avoided physical contact. This naturally bothers me: I understand people through touch, I’m kinesthetic.
It’s 3 AM. We’ve been talking on the couch for 5 hours. Apart from a few kisses, every advance I’ve made has been rejected. I’m tired, I tell her:
“Listen, you don’t seem comfortable with the situation, or maybe I’m not your type.
You’re stunning and can easily find someone you like. I’m not as good-looking as you, but frankly, I’m not short on options.
There’s no point in continuing. Stay here to sleep: there’s a curfew, and I won’t let you go home in the middle of the night. But I won’t call you again in the future.”
She says it’s not true, that I’m a very handsome man, that if she stayed, it’s because she wants to be with me, but she needed to get to know me first.
“Listen, it’s 3, I’m tired, I’ll make the bed for you.”
I get up to prepare a bed just for her, but she stops me. She says there’s no need to go to all that trouble: she’ll sleep in the big bed with me because “she wants to cuddle Solomon.”
As soon as we’re under the covers, she hugs me and cuddles me for a minute. Then she starts fucking me frantically.
Two hours of sex, sprinkled with some cuddling in between.
She uses her mouth divinely, even better than BimboSlut. But then she has a way of fucking me that I really like: while moving on me, she simultaneously sucks my dick with her pussy.
I enjoy it immensely, both physically and in my soul.
She’s damn dirty and refined at the same time, a mix between the most ethereal noblewomen of the eighteenth century and a pure whore. When she says “I want your cock,” with closed vowels and an aristocratic tone, it feels like I’m fucking at the court of Versailles.
Her face, so expressive, amplifies and makes any moment of pleasure sublime.
She’s a masterpiece, I’ve never seen anything more beautiful. Her orgasms should be displayed in a museum, I even talked about it with a friend of mine who’s an art professor.
Every time I see her enjoy, I fall a little more in love. This story will end badly, I know: for a soul like mine, no drug is more addictive than beauty.
It’s 5:30, two and a half hours have passed. She fucked me so well that it erased any dissatisfaction I had with her behavior the night before.
We sleep. We wake up leisurely. She’s a different person: tender, sweet, cuddly. Still funny, but without the harshness of the night before.
She leaves.
The next day, on the 31st evening, she calls me at midnight to wish me a Happy New Year. I appreciate it a lot and imagine what life with her would be like.
But she… disappears.
A week passes, I’ve come to terms with the situation. I’ve seen other girls, published other stories on the blog.
And there she is, back again.
She comes over for dinner, again at 10:00 PM.
She’s tender, cuddly. Maybe a bit embarrassed, but she relaxes as soon as I say:
“You keep giving me mixed signals.
I see that you like me and that you’re comfortable with me, otherwise you wouldn’t be here.
But you seem a bit blocked, my impression is that there’s something about this situation you don’t like…
I want to make one thing clear: I like you, I’m open to any possibility with you. We can be friends with benefits, we can date in a relationship. I’ll tell you more, I’m even open to falling in love with you and having you as the woman of my life.
Let go and follow what you feel.”
We fuck several times and cuddle, always until the inevitable 5:30 in the morning. Last time, after the rejection, she gave it her all. This time, fewer fireworks, but still masterful. It’s always a pleasure with her.
Before going to bed, I send a message to my friends:
We sleep together until two in the afternoon.
Then we spend an hour on the couch chatting. Unfortunately, she doesn’t fuck in the morning (at least, that’s what she says). “Uh, you know, I’m not so sure you’re the woman of my life anymore,” I tell her, joking.
I keep looking at her face as she leaves.
The door closes.
“Okay, I’ve decided,” I think.
“I’ll propose we date,” I say out loud.
Solomon looks at me surprised.
What will happen?
Click HERE to read the second part of the story.
** The opening article image is copyright of failunfailunmefailun, one of my favorite artists.
