Something strange happened to me tonight.
I met a girl… and I was tense.
While I was talking to her, I was tense.
While we were having sex, I was tense (well, in this case… better!) :).
And it’s strange, it’s been ages since I felt tense on a date.
They all tell me: “You’re so calm, confident, self-assured.” All of them.
And this time, instead… I was tense, I told you!
Why?
She’s beautiful, but not the most beautiful I’ve ever been with.
She’s sweet, but not the sweetest.
She’s strong, but — needless to say — not the strongest.
I even cooked for an hour before meeting her. Which is ironic, because she… is a girl from Seeking. A sugar baby. I’m the one who needs convincing, I’m the buyer, right?
A friend of mine says it’s like washing your hair before going to the hairdresser, to make a good impression… it doesn’t make sense. What do you think? Write it in the comments, enlighten me!
From Hunter to… Prey
This girl bewitched me from the very first messages.
Confidently, I start with my remarkable divining powers:
The first skill of a sugar baby is to be fluid, taking the shape of the container in front of her. She must know how to read people, extract all possible information from the profile and the few inputs available. She responds with the perfect phrase to pique my interest:
I clarify what I’m looking for:
She’s smart and knows how to lay it down:
Undoubtedly she’s got brains: she knows how to get by in the world. She’s absolutely the smartest I’ve ever met. I like her.
Sugar Therapy
I decide to continue my experimentation on seeking.com.
The French Goddess taught me that even the hottest sugar babies are just girls like any other, though hidden behind a more dazzling mask. Thanks to Chica Venezolana, I discovered that paying is no big deal: the devil doesn’t appear, you don’t smell sulfur… but I also realized that I’m not interested in one-night stands, especially if they’re paid (in modern Milanese slang: PPM ONS, Pay Per Meet One Night Stand).
Now I want to see if I can handle a continuous relationship, despite the economic component.
You know, I’ve always been afraid of being used for my money. The remedy to eliminate money from the equation is a relationship with a transactional component. A homeopathic cure, I’d say: if I can handle this borderline situation, I’ll also be able to approach a traditional scenario in the most balanced way possible.
So let’s apply this scientific method!
Let’s experiment.
Let’s take this beautiful 20-year-old Brazilian, with a perfect butt, and let’s generously sacrifice ourselves for Science!
Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you…
THE AMAZONIAN HUNTRESS
179 cm tall, further elongated by the inevitable heel, The Amazonian Huntress gracefully slips off her shoes as she enters my home.
She unbuttons a coat and jacket two sizes too big (“Since I was little, I’ve preferred oversized clothes, they make me feel protected”), revealing a model-like physique: slim, slender, extremely elegant.
It’s interesting how tastes evolve based on the people you hang out with. Some things remain unchanged, others change completely. I’ve always worshipped the female butt: that has never changed, not even now. As for breasts, however, I had a total change of heart after meeting the Little American. I went from curvy girls to women with no breasts at all, very “girlish” style, preferably muscular and flexible.
And indeed, the Huntress left her breasts at home: this — strangely — I liked. The absence of curves gives her a hieratic, transcendent air, which is immediately swept away by the tender and enchanting smile of a child-woman.
I put the heavy clothes in the guest closet and peek at her as she sinuously explores my loft, shaking her mountain of Brazilian curls left and right to better admire the surroundings.
“Very elegant painting,” she says, trying to sound sophisticated.
“It’s in fluorescent paint, you should see it under black light,” I reply.
And for a moment I think that the expression “black light” is like her, an oxymoron: child and woman, sophisticated and simple, exotic and familiar. Maybe that’s what struck me. Besides her wonderful butt, which I don’t think I’ve talked about enough yet.
I’m a bit embarrassed, but I don’t hide it, in fact: I emphasize it with a sincere look. With one hand I stir the sauté, with the other I uncork the wine, trying not to let the cork fall into the pan. I wear my most classic motherfucker smile and study her face.
“You have a very unique eye shape, do you have oriental origins?”
“No, I descend from the Incas,” she replies, lighting up… as much as lunar skin can brighten further.
I move closer to mentally record the color of her eyes and study her features well.
“My grandmother was Indios, I grew up in the Amazon.”
And while she happily chirps about how much she loved hunting in the forest as a child, I reflect on how extraordinary our times are: two people born at opposite ends of the globe, with totally different pasts, meet over a glass of wine. Actually, over a pan of sauté, since I was preparing pumpkin for the risotto. Ah, the sauté!
And while I admire her sweet eyes, I kiss her lips… they’re bitter. The queen of contrasts elegantly unfolds her charm.
The Universal Language of Antonino
We dine, talk, laugh.
I ask her what arrangement she desired. She ignores the question.
We laugh, talk, dine.
I reiterate that it would be right to address the “money” issue.
“We’ll discuss it later. I read the blog… I know it’s hard for you.”
We talk, laugh and… no more dining, the risotto is finished.
“I’m cold, let’s warm up by the fireplace,” I tell her, pointing to the fake Fire on the Apple TV.
“You’re full of it!” she replies laughing, as I let her fall onto my couch, with her curls dancing and alive.
And she repeats it to me several times, while we have sex, laugh and get to know each other; not necessarily in that order.
Two things I love about her: when she smiles, she lights up.
When she enjoys herself, her Inca eyes half-close, in the sexiest expression I’ve ever seen.
“You have honey eyes,” she says to me.
But it’s her eyes reflecting in mine, making them so sweet.
She moves well.
Many women go on autopilot, repeating more or less the same gestures. The actor changes, but the script is the same.
Others let the man be the director.
She, on the other hand, knows when to lead and when to be led.
She even slapped me twice, to which I responded Cannavacciolmente (Dollroxy, this one’s for you! Scoundrel, I know you’re reading me!).
She suggests a threesome with her girlfriend.
“But she only likes women: you can touch her, but not have sex with her.” Which seems like a big limitation to fantasy, so I thank her and decline.
She tells me how at 20 she’s already divorced, how she left Brazil for love, how love collapsed due to her partner’s personal issues. “She grew up fast,” I think.
We’re at the edge of the curfew. She has to go. The evening flew by.
I caress her face and say “So?”
She smiles at me and says:
“You Made Me Feel Courted.
I Don’t Want Anything.”
And she leaves, with her clothes two sizes too big and her exotic air.
I kiss her, trying to protect the sweet and wild taste she had previously left in my mouth from bitterness.
