That Time I Invited Myself to Dinner

The Unnamed One has an irresistible face. High cheekbones, full, fleshy lips, and jet-black lashes that make her bright eyes pop. Their shade shifts with her mood: they’re honey-colored when she’s calm, but—when she opens up for a moment of connection—her irises ignite with a thousand sparks, like a bonfire on a midsummer night. She’s damn beautiful, damn expressive. She manages a retail chain, but I tried to convince her to drop everything and go into acting. She’s the only woman whose ass or tits I don’t even look at, because—as impressive as they are—they just don’t compare to her face.

When she smiles, it’s incredibly hard to stop looking at her: she radiates sweetness, emotion, and kindness with full force. And it’s interesting because she… is a real bitch.

Or at least, she pretends to be a little bitch. Just like I did until a few months ago.
Same attitudes, same quirks. To the point that, on our first date, it felt like I was dating… myself!

But let’s start from the beginning.
Two years ago, I saw her while scrolling through profiles on Tinder. She caught my eye immediately, with her sweet face and that very, very revealing top. I liked her so much that I saved the photo on my phone. I forgot about it until I saw her again on a dating site this August. We wrote to each other for a while, never finding the time or desire to meet. In chat, there was little chemistry. Honestly, I would have let it go if it weren’t for the coincidence mentioned above.

Finally, we decide to meet in the last days of December. Lately, I invite girls directly to my place because it helps filter out a certain type of people I like less.

She arrives at my place at 10:00 PM for a glass of wine. She takes off her wide, long camel-colored coat (apparently very fashionable this year, being identical to the ones worn by the last four girls) and reveals a cute, very short dress that highlights extremely sexy legs.

She spends the first good 10 minutes playing with the dog, ignoring me. They chase each other around the house, with Solomon tearing her stockings and her throwing every possible toy at him. I watch her puzzled until I say:
“Uh, it wouldn’t hurt if you considered the owner too.”
She sits on the couch next to me.

She starts opening up. She’s sharp, capable, and intelligent. She puts on a bit of an act: on one hand, she wants to show her worth; on the other, she tends to sabotage every moment of real connection with cynicism and jokes.
First, she compliments me, then she “negs” me (translation from modern Milanese: a neg is a sort of backhanded compliment used to “put someone in their place”… like “Nice boobs! Are they fake?”).
I know this attitude very well. It’s the same one I’ve always had with women until a few months ago. After falling in love with BimboSlut, I’ve changed a lot: I suffered a lot, but I can finally access my emotions. I used to “downplay” moments of connection and intense emotions. Today, I dive into them like Scrooge into his money.

I tell her:

“Look, you’re just like me.
Until a while ago, I used to act just like you on dates.
And I swear, seeing it from the outside makes me realize how obnoxious I must have been.
I’m grateful to the girls I went out with, because they must have really liked me to put up with it.
Unnamed One, you should trust yourself more and just let go. Emotions are a good thing.”

The night goes on. We kissed almost immediately, but otherwise, she’s been avoiding physical contact. This is something that naturally puts me off: I understand people through touch; I’m kinesthetic.
It’s 3 AM. We’ve been talking on the couch for 5 hours. Apart from a few kisses, every advance I’ve made has been rejected. I’m tired, I tell her:

“Listen, you don’t seem comfortable with the situation, or maybe I’m not your type.
You’re stunning and can easily find someone you like. I’m not as good-looking as you, but frankly, I’m not short on options.
There’s no point in continuing. Stay here to sleep: there’s a curfew, and I won’t let you go home in the middle of the night. But I won’t call you again in the future.”

She says it’s not true, that I’m a very handsome man, that if she stayed, it’s because she wants to be with me, but she needed to get to know me first.
“Listen, it’s 3, I’m tired, I’ll make the bed for you.”
I get up to prepare a bed just for her, but she stops me. She says there’s no need to go to all that trouble: she’ll sleep in the big bed with me because “she wants to cuddle Solomon.”

As soon as we’re under the covers, she hugs and cuddles me for a minute. Then she starts fucking me frantically.
Two hours of sex, peppered with some cuddling in between.
She uses her mouth divinely, even better than BimbaZoccola. But then she has this way of fucking me that I really like: while she moves on top of me, she sucks my dick with her pussy at the same time.

Image from the story of dinner with yourself

I enjoy it immensely, both physically and in my soul.
She’s damn dirty and refined at the same time, a mix between the most ethereal noblewomen of the eighteenth century and a pure whore. When she says “I want your cock,” with closed vowels and an aristocratic tone, it feels like I’m fucking at the court of Versailles.
Her face, so expressive, amplifies and makes any moment of pleasure sublime.
It’s a masterpiece. I’ve never seen anything more beautiful. Her orgasms should be displayed in a museum; I even talked about it with a friend of mine who is an art professor.
Every time I see her enjoy herself, I fall a little more in love. This story will end badly, I know: for a soul like mine, no drug is more addictive than beauty.

It’s 5:30 AM, two and a half hours have passed. She fucked me so well that it erased any dissatisfaction I had with her behavior the night before.
We sleep. We wake up slowly. She’s a different person: tender, sweet, cuddly. Still funny, but without the harshness of the night before.
She leaves.
The next day, on the evening of the 31st, she calls me at midnight to wish me a Happy New Year. I really appreciate it and imagine what life with her would be like.
But she… disappears.

A week passes, and I’ve come to terms with the situation. I’ve seen other girls, published other stories on the blog.
And there she is, back again.
She comes over for dinner, again at 10:00 PM.
She’s tender, cuddly. Maybe a bit embarrassed, but she relaxes as soon as I say:

“You keep giving me mixed signals.
I see that you like me and that you’re comfortable with me, otherwise you wouldn’t be here.
But you seem a bit blocked, my impression is that there’s something about this situation you don’t like…
I want to make one thing clear: I like you, I’m open to any possibility with you. We can be friends with benefits, we can date in a relationship. I’ll tell you more, I’m even open to falling in love with you and having you as the woman of my life.
Let go and follow what you feel.”

We fuck several times and cuddle, always until the inevitable 5:30 in the morning. Last time, after the rejection, she gave it her all. This time, fewer fireworks, but still masterful. It’s always a pleasure with her.

Before going to bed, I send a message to my friends:

Scene of a solitary dinner at the restaurant

We sleep together until two in the afternoon.
Then we spend an hour on the couch chatting. Unfortunately, she doesn’t fuck in the morning (at least, that’s what she says). “Uh, you know, I’m not so sure you’re the woman of my life anymore,” I tell her, joking.

I keep looking at her face as she leaves.

The door closes.

“Okay, I’ve decided,” I think.
“I propose we see each other,” I say out loud.