The Girl in the Window

It all started with yet another piece of advice from Filippo: “why don’t you meet slightly older girls?”

Me: what do you mean? 28-year-olds?

Fil: no, older!

Me: 28 and a half?

Fil: like, 35 years old.

me: are you crazy?! I can’t date someone with dentures! And maybe take her to the pension office! What do you take me for, a gerontophile?

Fil: but you know, blowjobs without dentures!

Okay, I know I’m exaggerating. And I know this story will alienate all my readers over 30. But still, one must stay true to their principles. There’s a reason my age filter on Tinder is under 30. My theory is well-known and studied in major universities:

Women at 20 are pure, full of joy, and ready to experience any emotion, experience, conversation, and sexual practice. They fully trust you, dancing gently with you and exploring the endless possibilities of existence. They bring joy and lightness to everything, filling the fleeting nature of human existence with color and music. Even if just for a brief moment, they give you the illusion of being the antidote to death.
Unfortunately, they also trust their peers (or not-so-ethical old men who just want to use them badly). And guys at 20 are all idiots: they hurt them, treat them poorly, destroy their imagination and ability to trust.
So women reach the threshold of 30 full of traumas, disappointments, and with a really low opinion of men.
And they start acting like jerks or writing strange rules – which they consider absolute – on how to behave, such as: “no sex before the third date,” “if he wants a serious relationship, he must court me and give me flowers,” “no blowjobs before official engagement” or – my favorite, the one from the UkrainianSpyPromptlyDitched™, “it’s too soon for me to come to your place (I don’t do these things!) but I’d gladly come to Sardinia on your boat as your guest, all expenses paid!“

That said, I decide to venture beyond the usual age limits and set the filter to… 32 years.

And immediately there she is, the Girl in the Window (it will become clear later why I called her that).

She’s super smart: speaks five languages, holds a high position in a major pharmaceutical company, is determined, badass, and makes everyone run like clockwork.

But she’s also very feminine: in her features, manners, and gaze.

But most importantly, she knows what she wants and how to get it. In fact, on Tinder, she opens with:

Notice the style? The attitude?

Not just some girl who can’t string two words together. Here we have a seduction master, an intuitive woman, capable of understanding who she’s dealing with and adapting the game.

She immediately understood that I have a latent need for approval and seduced me with witty banter, flattering me.

Constantly trying to plant in my subconscious that she’s the perfect woman for me. For example, one morning I wake up to find this message:

Spectacular. I try to defend myself with allusions that are promptly revealed.

And she continues:

and insists on this story that she’s the perfect woman for me, that I should give her the engagement ring.

Now it’s clear: this time, I’m the prey.

Date set for the first free evening, two days later. I book a restaurant across from my house (zero effort hehe).

She arrives right on time, actually early. She sees me, comes over, and starts talking.
I stop her.
Without saying anything, I pull out a little box.
I take out a ring with a sparkler (€56 from Pandora).
I slip it on her ring finger, looking at her intensely.
I pull her close.
I kiss her.
I say: now you can talk.

She bursts out laughing, she’s thrilled, appreciates the irony and the reference to her constant jokes.

We sit at the restaurant, facing each other. I notice the amused looks of the waiters: just in the last week, they’ve seen me with three different girls.

She’s very beautiful, with bright red hair (which she darkens to avoid too much attention), with elegant features. And she looks just like Julia Roberts: wide mouth (with lips pleasant to kiss), joyful and highly expressive gaze, complete with a sparkle. Her physique is slender but well-toned, I mentally reserve the option to check the firmness of her butt.

We flirt but also connect deeply. We share stories about our lives. She explains that she recently suffered a significant loss, that she broke up in November after three years because he “didn’t want to build” and “didn’t want to get a mortgage together.” Hmm, it’s clear she wants to build, but I notice a certain impatience. Deciding to delve deeper, I ask her about her previous relationships.

It’s often the case that you watch a TV series and find some characters exaggerated and unbelievable. Only to later meet people in the real world with far worse traits. This happened with the Old Lady, aka the Girl in the Window.

In the tenth episode of the fifth season of my favorite series, How I Met Your Mother, the character Maggie is introduced.

Maggie Wilks is the quintessential “girl next door”: an old college acquaintance of Ted’s, whom he has always considered the perfect woman. The problem? Maggie is almost always in a long-term relationship; the rare moments when she’s single – the famous “window” – last very briefly: hours, if not minutes. Ted bribes Maggie’s neighbor to be notified as soon as she breaks up. One day the call comes, and Ted rushes to Maggie before the window closes, trying to isolate her from any other man.

Absurd character, right?

Well, I met her in real life.

Her: “you know, you remember HIMYM? I’m like the girl in the window: I’m never single for more than a few days” .

Me: but wait, you told me so much about how selective you are, how do you find the right man if you take the first one that comes along?

Her: “but I don’t take the first one that comes along. I always choose men of great value. For example, I’m here with you. Can you say you’re just anyone?”

Smart, clever, and sly. I like her, but this is a red flag for me. And I even gave her the ring.

The evening flows pleasantly. We talk, talk, order after an hour, with yet another waiter passing by to ask what we want.

After a while, I get up and sit next to her. I caress her legs. While she comments on her workouts, I look her straight in the eyes and slide my hand under her dress, feeling her butt and commenting on it. She looks at me excited and amazed by my audacity.
We keep talking, my hands return to her legs, gently moving up, then down, and she’s increasingly captivated. Finally, I reach her inner thigh, caress her panties with the back of my index finger.
Me: “you’re so wet. You’re really excited “

She’s captivated, finally silent.
I move her panties with my middle finger, caress her clitoris, feel her open up and moan.

Me: “uhm, you’re such a wet little slut“.

She whispers: “it’s been 11 months since I last did it“. In the final part of her relationship, it had become a sexless engagement.

me: “let’s be clear. In life, you can be super hot, super dominant, hold your own against me, even boss me around if you want. But when I touch you, you’re mine.”

Her gaze opens up, the emotion is at its peak, every fiber of her being desires to be penetrated by me. The tiger has become a kitten.

The food has just arrived. we haven’t touched anything. I call the waiter and ask him to put everything in a box. he looks at me puzzled, it’s the second time this week. By now, he must think I pay them just to occupy the table.

I tell her: “let’s go have a drink, I know a special place”.

We cross the street, I reach my door, enter the code, and go in. She asks surprised “do you live here?!”. I smile with a predatory look like Filippo when I tell him I want to do things my way and not follow his advice.

We enter the house. I ask if she wants something to drink. She doesn’t want anything. She asks to take a tour of the house…

Now excuse me, Andrea did it too. I don’t understand why these women always want to tour the house. Maybe they expect me to screw them on the bed. But the bed has too comfortable a topper, it’s bad for screwing. I prefer the couch. But they don’t know that.

I quickly show her my loft, take her upstairs, throw her on the bed. She thinks “finally!”. But I pick her up, make her stand, and take her downstairs.
Disappointed look.
I invite her to sit on the couch.
I touch her, we screw, the rest is history. The dick is happy and firm, she’s into it. No need for too many details.

She comes, I don’t.
And here I open a parenthesis.
Maybe I’m used to Honey Eyes, but the general level is quite low. Not so much for technical reasons: sex is a meeting between two people, not a performance.
But for generosity. All these women I’m meeting, they only think about themselves. Maybe the only exception is Andrea, who cares about me and is a golden girl (I should actually date her). Oh, and the Countess, she really put in the effort!
The others don’t give blowjobs unless asked, don’t touch much. They just sit there enjoying it, but they seem like a bunch of little queens. Oh well.
We talk a bit more, then she insists on going home to her dog.
Once home, she writes to me

By the way, I don’t understand why she sends me a picture of the pill, since I didn’t come.
The next day she sends me screenshots of guys from Tinder writing to her, saying “do you want to reply?”

There it is, the red flag.
I find out the whole company knows about us. That her boss called her from America to ask about this new boyfriend.
We talk about this and that, she asks for details about some psychotherapy techniques I mentioned on the date. Finally, I take the opportunity to point this out to her:

The next day I’m in Parma, with my LittleOne. She’s a bit colder, but we text each other.

Finally, Sunday arrives, the day we decided to meet again.
I’ve just met the Little American, I’m still full of emotions and I’m heading back to Milan. I send her a voice message asking what she wants me to prepare for dinner. She replies like this:

hehe, I told her I wanted time to get to know her before getting into a relationship, I left her alone for a day and the window closed.

Better this way, I realized right away she wasn’t for me.