A narrow alley in the shadow of Milan’s Duomo. A gloomy, drizzly day: the sky is gray and uncertain, much like my mood. I’m parking my three-wheeled scooter when I see her right in front of me: Piccolina. My heart jumps as I recognize her. An innocent baby face; the usual sexy eyeliner winging out her eyes, just so she doesn’t look underage (she’s 21, but looks younger)...
I come home after three weeks in the US. The house is cold and empty. I go upstairs to bed. And I see the stuffed animal and the eternal rose I had given to Piccolina. She brought them back to me at the end of our story. I see them on the nightstand she had chosen to better furnish my house, all covered in LEDs. Next to the mirrors she had found on SHEIN. Piccolina wasn’t good at showing...
It’s now a cinematic trope: the classic Christmas movie, with the inevitable Christian De Sica who has to juggle between wife and mistress. I have neither a wife nor a mistress, but this is the time when I had to leave one girl at my house to run to the other. But let’s go in order. For a few months now, I’ve been seeing both Ninfetta and Piccolina. Ninfetta is abroad, but I...
There she is, appearing during my usual five minutes of daily Tinder swiping. Little One, 21 years old, but looks much younger (17 at most). Very young, fair skin, delicate features with a Central European touch. A childlike face frames a sexy gaze, creating an ontologically impossible contrast that comes to life in her with extraordinary grace. She’s a little minx: the world doesn’t know...
