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.
The four-legged rival
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.
PelleDiLuna enters the scene
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, full, soft lips. I would have kissed her immediately, but I managed to hold back for a good… 4 minutes.
She has a tiny waist and a flat stomach with the faint memory of a rejected piercing (“It was tacky, I didn’t like it”).
As a matter of good manners, she slips off her shoes as soon as she enters my loft. She’s a tall drink of water: 1.80 m without heels. I’m very biased against tall girls; for years I’ve preached that it’s impossible to have a perfect ass over 5’5″. And yet, hers is fabulous: sitting atop two incredibly long legs, it’s wide, curvy, and well-behaved.
I’m momentarily taken aback—could my theories be wrong? Is it soft and sagging? No, as I’ll find out 3 minutes later (the kiss was just a cover to feel her up). Her ass has the same consistency as dreams, only 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 said will stay between us, but I like the girl.
Armstrong plays in the background.
We eat dinner.
We laugh.
The 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 for the man of your life; it’s the way to the heart. My knowledge of anatomy is rudimentary, but… I’m not convinced of the biological basis for that.
“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, PelleDiLuna, I have no regrets in life. I’ve lived well. But at night, when I close my eyes, I see the special women I wanted and never had passing before me. I look at them one by one, I hear them calling me, and I imagine the life I could have spent with them—the one I never lived.”
Look, I’m sure that when I die, Saint Peter will scold me by listing all the beautiful things I failed to seize. And your ass will definitely be at the top of that list.”
“Are you telling me Saint Peter is going to talk to you about my butt?”
“I’m sure of it!”
“And what will he say to me?”
“You won’t meet Saint Peter. Redhead that you are, you’re the devil. A sweet devil to be loved, but one who surely reigns in the heart of hell. Just look at how I’m burning :)”
Anyway, the wine is good and the girl sparks an old enthusiasm in me.
And while we blur our positions within this eschatological diatribe, Salomone gives us a dirty look.
Armstrong, wine and conversation
He’s very unhappy. I’ve kept him at quite a distance and, since we didn’t really seal the deal, he couldn’t try his usual canine approaches.
I’m actually very happy; I’ve had some nice moments of connection and could appreciate my playmate’s skills. But the dog is more basic, as we know. He doesn’t do subtle; he wants action, the real deal. He wants the sausage (hopefully only metaphorically!).
I see him wandering around the house with a conspiratorial air until he disappears.
PelleDiLuna lists a series of lucky traits that half my female friends would kill for.
“I’ve never been to the gym; my ass 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 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 indoors (and not from the sky)
“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.
This post is also available in:
Italiano 
Русский 
Español 
Português
