Venezuelan Chica just got into the taxi heading to her home. She’s 18, with a voluptuous body seemingly designed for pleasure, a tender face, and the sweet gaze of a sincere soul. Full breasts, wide hips, a bit different from the hyper-fit girls I’ve been seeing lately.
She doesn’t have the constructed, rarefied, and unavailable sensuality of the French Goddess, where every detail—from the slender cigarettes to the eyelashes—is crafted to please, with the same attention to packaging as Apple marketing.
Nor does she have the simple, innocent, unassuming look, with no desire to provoke, of the Little American, the woman with the freest sexuality and the most captive heart I’ve ever known.
She doesn’t even express the exuberant Brazilian-ness of Panterina: a goddess-like body, akin to a Belén, a big heart but totally confused ideas.
Chica appears to be a simple girl, showing what she is, offering what she has, without hiding or emphasizing. And she delivers the service she promises.
In fact, Venezuelan Chica is a sugar baby. The first and—so far—the only girl with whom I’ve concluded an “arrangement,” meaning a financial benefit as explained well here [link].
Reflections
My house is empty again, I sit on the couch with a glass of red in hand, darkness envelops me, interrupted here and there only by the fluorescent glows of Andy’s paintings.
I think back to her.
Venezuelan Chica left 2 days early: we spent a weekend together, but I kindly sent her home early, despite the experience being very positive.
She left with a smile, kissing me with the same sensuality she kissed me with upon arrival. Looking at me with the same gratitude as the first glance. Touching me with the same desire as the first moment.
She didn’t ask why I was sending her home early.
This is a bit sad, as if she knew her role is to be an ephemeral parenthesis, a comma that allows the actor to catch his breath while performing someone else’s words.
The blinding display of the iPhone breaks the darkness: it’s been only a few hours, but Chica has already texted me. She sends me the review that, jokingly, I had recommended she leave me.
Clearly, given the nature of the relationship, I have no expectation of truthfulness… still, she was sweet.
Why Pay?
After all, I don’t lack sex. I have my circles. And even if I lost them, I would know how to recreate them in no time. And anyway, life is so full of interesting things to do that you can survive well even going a few weeks without screwing.
So, why?
Simple: to try. To go beyond the mirror of common choices and look at my life from a different perspective.
For me, it’s a new world, so I approached my first pay experience with these questions:
- will it be very different from other experiences?
- Will it seem sleazy, fake, or liberating?
- Will the sex have a different flavor?
- What remains of the experience with a woman if we eliminate the pleasure of conquest? Will it be less fun?
- Freed from the need to please, will I be more authentic and more myself? Eliminating the Magnificent, what remains of the man wearing that mask?
The last points are the most important.
Beyond the Hunt — Conquest as Validation
Two years ago, just out of a 20-year monogamous relationship, the pleasure of conquest had the scent of wet grass to run on freely. It retained the rejuvenating chill of a cascade of new experiences pouring over you, from above, pricking you with a thousand drops.
Back then, conquering was the most important and fun thing. Sex was just a medal.
Conquering increasingly beautiful, interesting, special girls was a way to:
- prove I was capable of doing it;
- test myself and become a better person;
- experience emotions;
- authentically express myself and my way of understanding relationships;
- obtain validation.
This last point is the most critical and important. I’ve proven my worth in many areas of my life (professional first and foremost), but with women, I had never measured myself, being married. Frankly, I felt inadequate. I was fortunate to immediately meet the woman with whom I spent my adult life, so I had very few experiences.
At the time, I believed that you could measure the quality and value of a person by the quality and value of the women present in his life. After all, women look at you inside and out, so they represent the measure (“a KPI,” in modern Milanese) of your success. That’s what I told myself.
Now, I’m finally understanding that this reasoning is dangerous and easily leads you towards the trophy woman. Obtaining validation from something external to your life is a position of deep imbalance. It’s better to feel fulfilled and fully satisfied by the life you lead, not by the people around you.
What matters is having a (or more) partner in crime, life companions with whom to share experiences. And, in the end, the only victory is enriching your life with emotions, ideas, moments. Those are the real trophies.
Today, obtaining validation has become less and less important. The aspect of conquest is secondary.
Yet, human beings have inertia. My behaviors, my way of presenting myself, still derive from that “trophy hunter” mindset.
Hence the brilliant idea: pay to… remove conquest and validation from the equation.
Sex as Conversation
I pick her up at the station. We enter the house. We kiss. Interesting: no embarrassment, no uncertainty. It was natural, like breathing.
I turn on the coffee machine. It’s not yet at temperature, and we’re already rolling on the couch. Everything is very fluid.
We’ve been taught that a kiss is proof of a connection, that sex is the culmination of a journey of acquaintance.
But what if they were simply a way of getting to know each other, a means of relating to the other, like talking, laughing, or eating together?
Perhaps we give too much importance to these things, making them something precious, to be savored, rather than an ordinary means of communication. And, in doing so, we empty them of their potential for knowledge.
I’m convinced:
God gave us sex to know each other, love each other, and make us one.
Satan made it taboo to keep us divided, alone, and full of fears.
Milan is gray with rain, the nightlife is banned, so—between one sex session and another—there’s nothing left but to warm up naked by the light of the virtual fireplace of the Apple TV.
We have sex five or six times on the first day. The details here aren’t necessary. They’re just the words of a conversation, like a thousand others.
We talk, we talk a lot. With no desire to appear, with the freedom of those who know they might never see each other again.
She tells me why she is a sugar baby, about the 7 men she has met this way, her initial fears, her final conviction, what her grandmother would think if she found out, and how, in reality, this type of life is natural and pleasant for her.
I tell her how I’m still in love with a girl for whom I was just a temporary distraction, about my previous experiences on seeking.com, and how she is the first to be paid. We laugh a lot when I tell her how the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met begged me to… take her to bed, for free of course (and how I’m still amazed that something like that could happen to me).
I discover that Chica is a tattoo artist. She shows me her mentors. I get passionate amidst a whirlwind of drawings, colors, styles. And, between one tattoo and another, we keep having sex.
How Was it Different?
Incredible: almost in nothing.
I had a terrible aversion to paying, I feared it would make me a loser, I was afraid of ending up trapped in a fake relationship or mechanical sex.
And yet the experience was not dissimilar to other “traditional” encounters. Yes, okay, we ended up in bed practically immediately, without the usual drink/dinner phase, but there was a connection right from the start.
As I said, it wasn’t just sex. We talked a lot, I discovered interesting things about her life, I shared interesting things about mine and—mind you—not to please/conquer/take to bed… the result was already achieved.
Lots of cuddling, as always happens with me.
This omnipresent cuddliness is because that’s how I am, I’ve always been, and I guess I always will be. So the type of experience doesn’t change your nature.
One thing I’ve noticed is that they all say they don’t want love and feelings, but then none can resist well-done cuddling. They reciprocate with joy.
Paradoxically, the only thing different was the sex.
I didn’t feel like pushing, neither in language nor in ways. I didn’t feel like calling her a slut, this girl. Maybe for fear she would misunderstand a compliment, considering it a lack of respect. And I really wanted to respect her, this girl.
During sex, I didn’t talk at all. Usually, I try to guide the experience, which is a way to feel in control (I still have a lot to work on this). Sometimes I overdo it: “You talk too much,” Contessa always told me.
This time, I just enjoyed the sex, without “having to do anything special,” without wanting to be special and unique. It was like eating a great swordfish Messina-style in Cantore square, rather than the usual perfect dinner at the stove: good, easy, but without glory.
I didn’t even ask to take the usual anonymous photos, to share—with the explicit permission of the interested party—with the girls I hang out with.
Technically, the sex was better, but less deep.
Better in terms of my satisfaction, tranquility, pleasure. We had a lot of good sex, a masterful erection.
One might think I found the situation particularly exciting, but actually, no.
I was simply very calm, I didn’t care about having to please, and I started with the idea of only worrying about my satisfaction. Then, because it’s my nature, I couldn’t help but take care of hers too. But it wasn’t an “Oh God, I have to make her feel good” but a “Well, I feel like doing it” 😉
What Did I get out of it?
Intellectually, I got a lot: everything explained above.
Emotionally, I enjoyed cuddling and being cuddled.
Energetically, I feel a bit drained.
I finally understand what Filippo means when he says sex is an energy drain and that it makes sense to do it only when it’s worth it.
In my experience, after sex, I’ve always felt more charged, happier, more serene, more energetic. Like after a workout.
Not to mention the incredible energy levels I had returning from a week of sex and vacation with the Little American! A level beyond my neuronal capacity to endure: I couldn’t sit still, my movements were disjointed, electric, jerky; words flowed at twice the speed, thoughts at quadruple, and I felt like a metal drummer with Parkinson’s after a line of cocaine.
This time I’m serene, satisfied, but a bit drained.
The reason is that I didn’t have a great emotional connection.
I realized that what recharges me is not the sex, but the relationship.
I don’t screw for the sake of it, I have sex only with those I enjoy integrating into my life: generally not exclusively, but I do it with girls I want to take care of.
I had the same intention with Chica. But, after the Little American, the level of connection I seek has risen quite a bit and has made me emotionally unavailable to girls I would have been fine with before.
Having clarified within myself that I wouldn’t see her again, the energy drain occurred.
So great sex, great responses, but no future.
Will You Contact Her Again?
I had a good time with Chica. But she didn’t touch me deeply, and I didn’t feel a strong mental connection.
All the young girls I’ve dated had a strong preference for older men and chose me because they liked me and found me interesting.
Clearly, Venezuelan Chica also chose me: she has hundreds of requests, some much more lucrative (I saw it from her phone screen), and yet she chose me.
But the selection criterion is different: it’s a “this will do,” not a “damn, I really want this one.” The primary motivation remains the transaction, albeit with someone she finds pleasant.
I think life is too short to be with someone who hasn’t chosen you entirely. I’m sorry, but I’ll be yet another man who won’t call her back.
** The opening image is copyright of Luis Quiles
