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 import her to home soil for a few weeks each month. Piccolina is in my city, and we see each other often. Except when the other one is at my place, obviously.
They both know I see other people; they both always find some clothing or object of the other in the Women’s Drawer (where I put the objects that “inexplicably“, every single time, the girl of the moment forgets).
Ninfetta’s Week
This is Ninfetta’s week. I let Piccolina know I won’t be around this week. She tries to figure out if I’m spending it with her arch-rival (whom she doesn’t hesitate to call a “slut,” an “escort,” a “fish with inflatable boats for lips,” etc.) or with others. I was very clear: it’s none of her business who I’m with; it’s my choice. So, I’m not disclosing anything. I tell her I have to leave and go out of Milan, when instead I’ll be spending the whole time at home having sex with Ninfetta. But she’s not stupid.
For both of them, when they’re at my place, it’s as if we’re living together. Piccolina orders furniture for me and decorates the house to leave her touch and show the other one a feminine presence.
Ninfetta, on the other hand, acts (or pretends to be) the caring girlfriend: she dyes my beard, gives massages, and tons of great sex.
This time Ninfetta is a bit different. She seems less into it. She was supposed to come a week ago but “inexplicably” missed the train (actually, there is an explanation but I’ll discover it – alas – only many months later). And, moreover, she’s on her period.
A warrior like me isn’t scared by a little blood on his sword. But she doesn’t want to hear about it, she says to wait a few days for it to end before having sex… And she’s always fiddling with that phone, a bit less present than usual. I’m quite annoyed by this; something doesn’t add up. And this feeling will make possible what I’m about to tell.
Piccolina’s sausage and the decree
Piccolina writes to me:
SCROLL RIGHT TO READ IN ENGLISH – Scroll right to read in Russian
The tone of the chat, paraphrased:
Her: “I want you. Now. I can’t stand being without you.”
Him: “Babe, I’m not there, I can’t just materialize.”
Her: “So I’ll take care of it myself?”
Him: “Use your fingers, right?”
Her: “Fingers aren’t enough! I want the sausage, not the side dish!”
Him: “I really can’t right now.”
Her: “Then let’s video call. At least I can see you.”
Him: “Maybe tomorrow I can carve out some time. Promise.”
Her: (sticker of a kitten with big eyes)
Him: “Don’t give me that look…”
Okay, this is Piccolina’s way of talking, her essential glossary: by “sausage” or “little sausage” she means the penis; by “Zozza/Zozzo” she means the person you’re fucking; by “little games” she means sex toys.
The tone of the chat, paraphrased:
She describes herself with epithets that would horrify a nun—”your little slut,” “your little piggy”—with that mix of self-irony and provocation that was her trademark.
Him: “You’re terrible. You know I can’t resist you when you do that.”
Her: “I need to be with you. I’ll find a way, you’ll see.”
Him: “Like how?”
Her: “Like I’ll stop by for an hour. Just one hour, I swear.”
Him: (eloquent silence that counts as a yes)
Moreover, despite being a pipsqueak, she has the same authority as Napoleon. She doesn’t ask: she commands. She doesn’t say “please”; she demands. Especially when… “she’s throbbing”!
The tone of the chat, paraphrased:
Her: “Let’s fuck. Now. Right now. Not tomorrow, not in an hour. NOW.”
Him: “Okay, I’ll book a hotel. You bring ID.”
Her: “I’ll bring the toys too.”
Him: “Get ready, I’ll pick you up.”
Her: “I’m already getting ready. You wash the sausage in the meantime, okay!”
Him: “…”
Her: “And get the toys from the drawer.”
A conversation that sounded like a special forces pre-operation briefing, except the target was a hotel room and the equipment was very different from NATO’s.
I’m very hesitant. I strongly believe in respect and transparency: leaving one girl at home to fuck another isn’t aligned with my values.
It’s also true that Ninfetta is behaving badly: she “missed” her flight, delaying her arrival by a week (and making me waste a lot of money on tickets), she’s barely connected, and sexually unavailable. Fine, she’s on her period, but she won’t hear of having anal sex, and even the blowjobs—her pride and excellence—are done with less spontaneity. And I care about blowjobs, you know that!
Anyway, Ninfetta is neglecting my sausage, I’m neglecting her, and I decide to let myself be tempted by Piccolina’s brutal advances.
In another conversation, the tone got even more explicit. She was complaining about her current physical limitations and suggesting alternatives that would have required a change of plans — literally, from upstairs to the couch. I tried to be the voice of reason; she cut me off with disarming logic: if we aren’t doing what we’re supposed to be doing, what’s the point of being together? Then, with sudden tenderness, she confessed that the best part was having someone who responded to her needs right when she felt them.
Well… she’s naughty! What can you do?
Another night, the game got even bolder. She was teasing me, I was resisting (badly), and she kept pushing. We talked about jealousy — hers, mine, the hypothetical jealousy of others — with the same casualness you’d use to discuss the weather. Moments of raw desire alternated with jokes that would have made even a priest laugh. When I asked her if she really wanted what she was describing, she replied that desire doesn’t need confirmation — it needs action.
We’ve reached threats! Now we’re fighting! I can only capitulate…
The tone of the chat, paraphrased:
The same urgency as before, but this time with threats. Desire had become an ultimatum: “Either you come now, or I don’t know what I’ll do.” When I pointed out I had commitments, she’d reply that desire doesn’t need confirmation—it needs action. The tone was that of someone organizing a bank heist, not a romantic date: schedules, logistics, sequence of operations. And the sausage always at the center of the strategic plan.
And let’s wash the sausage, then!
The De Sica Escape: From One to Another
I tell Ninfetta that a friend of mine broke up with his girlfriend and I have to go console him. She doesn’t object to anything, I think she’s even happy… Something’s not right, I feel her distant.
I pick Piccolina up from her student residence and we head to the nearest hotel. “What time will you be leaving the room?” they ask me. Lina looks like a 14-year-old; I’m embarrassed to let them know I’m there to fuck her and be taken for a pedophile… I imply that we are father and daughter on a trip and that we just need to rest for a couple of hours during the journey.
Piccolina is incredibly horny. Rabbit tail anal plug, nipple stimulator used on the clitoris, various lubricants. We spend two excellent hours having sex, which I think can be counted among the best times we’ve fucked. I take Piccolina home. She is super affectionate:
The tone of the chat, paraphrased:
Her: “Thank you. You made me feel amazing.”
Him: (complains about the situation with Ninfetta/Alexandra)
Her: “I still want you. Always.”
Her: (sticker of a sleeping baby)
Her: “Good night. I want to fall asleep hugging your butt.”
Her: “Night, daddy.”
The contrast was surreal: from the erotic ferocity of two hours earlier to the tone of a little girl saying goodnight to daddy. As if someone had changed the channel from pay-per-view to a bedtime cartoon.
And she’ll be even more so in the following days.
Our chats back then were a minefield of desire and impatience. She’d write things that would make a sailor on leave blush: she wanted to see me, she wanted to be with me, and she said it with a bluntness that left zero room for interpretation. She’d complain that her period was getting in the way of what she wanted to do with me, and immediately suggest creative solutions involving sofas and the upper floors of the house.
The tone swung between the pornographic and the domestic: one moment she was talking about desires that would require a legal disclaimer, the next she was discussing jealousy with disarming naturalness. She admitted to being incredibly jealous—first denying it, then confirming it in the same breath, with that emotional consistency typical of someone in their twenties whose heart is racing faster than their brain.
She called me a nickname I can’t repeat here without risking a lawsuit, told me she thought about me in ways that would melt the polar ice caps, and then—with the same casualness—suggested we have a kid together, only to immediately withdraw the offer on the grounds that they’d end up being too touchy.
In chat, Piccolina was everything she struggled to show in person: direct, hungry, unfiltered. A girl who would write “I want to be with you so much” and then complain that you weren’t available that week, as if your calendar should revolve around her desires. Which, come to think of it, was exactly what was happening.
The tone of the chat, paraphrased:
Her: “Today I feel particularly sweet. I want to kiss you everywhere. Lick your cheeks. And then…”
(followed by a sequence of desires that would make a sailor on shore leave blush, details that decency requires omitting)
Her: “Oh, by the way—I tidied the whole house and I’m waiting for the courier for deliveries.”
The shift from the erotic register to the domestic one happened without any transition. One message talked about acts that violated at least three articles of the penal code, the next was a shopping list.
I return home, Ninfetta is busy with her things, she doesn’t suspect anything. The next morning, she finds me at the Mac.
Her: “What are you doing?”,
Me: “Buying some tickets”
Her: “for whom?”
Me: “For you. I’m sending you home early. You leave this afternoon”
Her: “but why!?”
Me: “Ninfetta, you’re not present, you don’t fuck me, you’re not affectionate, you’re elsewhere in your mind… there’s no point in dedicating time to you”
She starts jumping around all worried and is finally affectionate. The bitch.
A week of great sex begins, provocative photos. We have anal sex, and as the French Goddess teaches, the ass is the way to the heart.
She’s finally caring and proactive. She even sends me some discreet nudes while I’m at work.
Judgment Day
Once the week is over, I drop her off at the airport.
I’m in a bit of a rush because—in true De Sica fashion—I’ve organized a date for that very evening with Teppistella: another girl, super young, a social justice warrior who’d been asking to see me for a while.
Teppistella finishes her pro-Palestine protest and comes over to my place in full protest camo, complete with a 2-meter-high peace flag. She’s covered in bruises from being clubbed by the police, exhausted and looking totally disheveled. I decide to cheer her up by taking her to a high-end sushi spot, an experience she’s never had before.
She showers and changes at my place. She puts on an evening dress. She’s gorgeous, shining like the moon in the desert.
We arrive at the restaurant. Ninfetta starts texting. She missed her train; she needs help finding another one. She’s in some godforsaken place in Germany, surrounded by sketchy people, at a station forgotten by God. She can’t solve anything on her own, so I’m forced to help her, with Teppistella next to me pretending to understand. I – increasingly like De Sica – find myself managing both situations.
Finally we get home. Finally, Teppistella and I allow ourselves a moment of passion. We start undressing. We admire each other, touch, lick. We caress, cuddle, stroke. She’s young, so I go slow. But right at the best part… the phone rings! Ninfetta is still in trouble. Teppistella smiles nervously, saying “I’m tired from the demonstration, I want to go home.”
She’s right, it was supposed to be her night. But how can I leave Ninfetta alone?
The next morning Piccolina comes over. “Not bad!”—I think—”three girls in 12 hours!”.
She runs toward me, jumps into my arms. Then she pulls away, turns me around, looks at me and says: “Hey, what’s that giant hickey on your neck?!”
So that’s what that pain in my neck with Ninfetta was. The bitch wanted to mark her territory. This hadn’t happened to me since I was 15.
Piccolina doesn’t take it very well
The tone of the chat, paraphrased:
He sends photos of the hickey.
Her: “Tell her she’s gross. What tiny hickeys. Next time I’ll do it, and you’ll see the difference. I’m a tiger, she’s a mangy kitten.”
Him: “What do I tell her?”
Her: “Tell her there won’t be a next time. Ignore her. Period.”
Piccolina’s jealousy was surgical: she didn’t just get jealous, she analyzed her rival’s work and criticized it professionally. Like an art critic in front of a failed painting.
Piccolina extorts the identity of the girl I hosted for a week from me. The drama begins:
Evidence of the crime: photos of the hickey from various angles, like a forensic report. Piccolina examines them with the gaze of a prosecutor.
The tone of the chat, paraphrased:
Her: “She was in your bed? CHANGE THE SHEETS. No wait: change the mattress. Actually: disinfect everything.”
Him: “Want me to use holy water too?”
Her: “YES. And call a priest for an exorcism. That woman contaminated everything.”
Him: “Should I get the Vatican directly?”
Her: “It’s not funny. When is the cleaning lady coming?”
Him: “Wednesday.”
Her: “I’m not going in that shower until it’s been sterilized. That dirty woman used YOUR bathroom.”
The level of purification required had gone from detergent to holy water, from holy water to exorcism, from exorcism to total demolition of the apartment. Only napalm was missing.
The tone of the chat, paraphrased:
She sends a photo of an inflatable sex doll from a sex shop.
Her: “Here’s your birthday present!”
Him: “Behave yourself.”
Her: “But I’m behaving perfectly! It’s a thoughtful gift, right?”
Him: “…”
Her: (angelic face emoji)
Her humor was a weapon of mass destruction: she’d send you an inflatable doll with the same ease another woman would send you a bouquet of flowers.
Anyway, the challenge between the two is very tough… I’d let you judge for yourselves, but Piccolina hasn’t authorized me to post her photos—even anonymized. I’ll just leave you with Ninfetta’s ass.
On the other hand, Piccolina and I look beautiful together!
And finally this is me (still De Sica) talking to my worried father friends (Boldi):
This post is also available in:
Italiano 
Русский 
Español 
Português
