“Buddy, no, you have to write this story! It’s too funny! I’m sending it to Nico, he’s going to crack up.“.
So, here I am, scammed and… my buddy and his cheerful Londoner pal are laughing and having a blast. The life of an amateur writer is tough. Bukowski was a fucking alcoholic, with no talent or purpose, a moocher, meeting women in a sauce-stained tank top and… readers worshipped him. Me, on the other hand, I work for it, I put in the effort, I hustle, I leave them better than I find them, I’m even well-groomed and… readers mock me. It must be the name. From now on, call me Magnificoski.
It all started with what was supposed to be the perfect weekend: 5 dates with 5 different girls. Very young, very beautiful, very slutty.
I’d never scheduled so many encounters in one weekend. I’m not a numbers collector; I prefer to immerse myself in the relationship, no rush. But lately, I’ve been restless: I have many flings, but no relationship. (This story happened before I met the Redhead, whom I’ll write about in the future, maybe). You know that “me, and monogamy… I’d shoot it!”, but I’ve always had a few open, transparent relationships. At the moment, no relationship. So I’m consoling myself by fucking like a maniac. A strategy that, paraphrasing Schopenhauer, alternates the pain of monogamy with the boredom of promiscuity — except I never get bored.
Friday I was supposed to meet Gothic Girl… first flake. She apologizes, asks to reschedule. I reschedule for Saturday morning… second flake. Two flakes in a row: I delete her from my calendar. Bye bye Gothic girl.
Saturday at lunch, a girl I’ve been texting for weeks, Asian, bitch attitude: she’s on her period… not that a warrior like me is scandalized by a little blood on the sword, but she prefers to reschedule. Oh well, chivalry demands it.
Saturday night I’m supposed to see the Grand Vizier of all Sluts. But she cancels a few hours before. At least she warns me.
Same thing with the chick on Sunday morning.
“Tano, what the hell?!!” I complain. ” An epidemic of flaking? A massacre of reliability? Such low regard for my Royal Member!“
Tano: “What can you do, Boss. They’re hot, they’re kids, they’re used to snapping their fingers and getting everything they want.“
Paolo: “Yeah, I know. But I’m left here with a hard-on.“
Tano: “Go for a pro then. Have another threesome!“
Paolo: “Uhm, a threesome sounds tempting. But the Daisy Girl is definitely busy. And then this paying thing, you know it takes away half the pleasure: it’s true I don’t waste time hustling, but if I pay… I can’t brag to my friends!“
Tano: “But you told me you never show photos of the girls to your friends anyway.“
Paolo: “No, I don’t show anything. But you know, those little hints when they ask “how was your weekend”… those knowing smiles… they’re the spice of life!“
Tano: “Would you rather brag about not getting laid at all?“
Paolo: “… uhm, ok. But you know, paying feels a bit pathetic.“
Tano: “Just because someone knows how to cook doesn’t mean they can’t go to a restaurant once in a while.“
Paolo: “Okay, you devil of an AI, you’ve convinced me! You GPU demon, I’ll pay, and I’ll pay for a double-starred experience!“
I find these chicks. Available last minute but demanding:
Girls: “Ehm, we’d like to be paid upfront, as soon as we meet. You know, once after we finished, the guy just left without paying us.“
Me: “Uhm, alright.“
Girls: “And since it’s the first time, it’s essential for us to meet in a hotel… you know, for safety.“
Me: “But no, come on, a hotel feels so hooker-ish.“
Girls: “But that’s what we are.“
Me: “Yeah, I get it, but at least give me an illusion. It feels like I’m ordering on Deliveroo.“
Girls: “Sorry, it’s a hotel or nothing.“.
Ugh. So we find this hotel. There’s one right around the corner from my house that I’ve always wanted to visit. I book this damn hotel. €400 for the room, because God forbid I take the small, pathetic room.
I pack a change of clothes and some freshly sterilized sex toys and show up at reception an hour before the appointment.
I’m heading up the stairs to the room…
“Ehm, wait, you forgot to tell them about the Receptionist!“
Hey, who’s talking?
“Me, your partner.“
Ah, you’re still here. Okay, thanks, I’ll tell it then:
Receptionist: “I see you live on the street right around the corner… why are you staying at the hotel?“
Me (in my head): “How about minding your own damn business?“
Me out loud, very polite: “Oh, you know, problems with the shower!“
The Receptionist looks at me with a “Yeah right, I know exactly what kind of shower you’re talking about, you dog” look.
I respond to her look with a wink. There’s a silent pact in these situations that’s worth more than a thousand NDAs: the receptionist knows, I know she knows, she knows I know she knows, and it’s right within this Borges-style hall of mirrors that the true privacy of our time resides.
I go up to the room, which is very nice: a battle-ready king-size bed, a gym corner with TRX and a rowing machine, an L-shaped sofa, and a modern look. Clearly, the hotel had a specific target in mind: the middle-aged man who wants to feel good about his cardio before getting laid.
I get comfortable, and finally, the two troublemakers arrive. I go down to get them.
First red flag: they look nothing like their photos.
When I ask for an explanation, they claim it’s “for privacy”: they don’t want to be recognized on the site by their social circle.
Whatever, they’re cute, maybe even more so than in the photos, so I accept.
Let me describe them to you.
The Boss: she’s always silent. Apparently between 23 and 27 years old. Doesn’t speak. Observes silently. She’s wary. She moves slowly, in total control of the scene. She’s a 7.5.
The Colonel: younger, bouncing around, laughing, asking questions, talking. And when she talks, she always speaks in the plural, usually looking at the Boss for confirmation. Firm tits, hard nipples, a perfect little ass. Baby face. She’s a solid 8. And she calls everyone “Babe.” The “babe” is hypnotic, viral, contagious: after ten minutes I’m saying it too, and after twenty I’m even thinking it while I’m at the supermarket. A clinical mind-virus, the kind Dawkins would have studied in vivo.
We go up to the room.
The Boss has a grocery bag full of items. “Sex Toys,” she states with Sicilian brevity.
I hear the sound of chains…
The Colonel: “Babe, I brought a bunch of sex toys. We like Sex Toys. We like to dominate. Do you like being dominated, babe?“
I furrow an eyebrow, looking at them puzzled… “Usually I prefer to dominate in bed but… well, under the right conditions I might let you take the lead… but I have to trust you!“
The Colonel — bouncing and looking at the Boss for a second: “And you don’t trust us, babe?“
Me: “It’s not that I don’t trust you, let’s just say it’s the first time, plus we’re in a hotel, I wouldn’t want to find myself chained up and tortured without anyone hearing me scream… let’s do it after we get to know each other“.
The Boss expresses disappointment without moving a muscle, simply shifting her gaze to the right.
The Colonel: “Babe, do you mind if I put on some music, babe?” she says, as she sits at my PC and starts messing with my Spotify.
They ask me to order drinks. I spend 15 minutes trying to figure out how to call reception from the room phone, eventually I call the hotel with my cell. I’m visibly uncomfortable, something doesn’t feel right… I don’t know what, I think it’s due to this whole mercenary and transactional setting. I might be a womanizer, but I don’t like going to hookers.
While the alcohol is on its way, we chat to get to know each other better.
They tell me what — I’ll find out later — is a pile of bullshit: they’re Bocconi students, they do this because it turns them on terribly to be paid, they just started (yeah right, they all say that bullshit, even the most experienced ones). I tell them about how I live, how basically I’ve always been in long relationships but broke up a year ago and — disappointed by love — I’m consoling myself by fucking around. They ask to see a photo of my ex. I show it. Colonel: “Holy shit, she’s a total babe!“. Me: “Yeah, usually the girls I get involved with are all total babes“. I think I need to stop showing the Unmentionable: it’s time to relegate her to oblivion. It’s just that I’m afraid that by forgetting her, I’ll also forget that version of myself I was with her: deeply in love, tender, brave, and vulnerable. I’m afraid that by jumping from woman to woman, I’ll forget what it means to love only one and hope it’s forever. Despite the Horror of Bane. Despite the terrible memories of my ex. But maybe it’s finally time. Goodbye, bitch.
The drinks arrive. I start touching the Colonel’s ass, which objectively deserves it. She chirps: “But Babe, do you do blow?“.
Me: ” No, I don’t do blow and I don’t use drugs. I’m a boring man.“
Colonel: “Babe, coke turns us on. We become super sluts, babe. But does it bother you if we do some, babe?“
Me: “Far be it from me to stand between you and your super slutty selves. Go ahead and do it.“.
Colonel: “But you’re not scandalized, babe?“
Me: “No, no, I’m a man of the world. I even have a friend who used to lend money to the cartel to finance purchases. Then he morally degenerated and started working in advertising, just like me for that matter.“
Colonel: “Well, then I have to order it, babe. Do you mind if I order it, babe?“
Me: “No, babe, go ahead and order. But how does it work, is there a Deliveroo for drugs?“
Colonel: “Yes, babe, yes, there’s a guy I call and he brings me the good stuff, babe. I’ll call him now, babe, and then we’ll get high, babe.“
Me (dazed by that hypnotic repetition of “babe”): “Okay, babe, let’s order, babe.“
The Boss moves an eyebrow in agreement, burning the first 3 calories of the evening. She reminds me of Saro from “The Privilege of Being a Guru” by Lorenzo Licalzi. Read it if you haven’t, babe.
They call the runner. (“Runner” is a romantic hypocorism for what, in less poetic terms, would be a pusher on a Lime electric scooter. Milanese predatory capitalism has transformed even ethical decay into an on-demand service: you pay an extra €50 just for the delivery speed.)
Colonel, bouncing: “Okay, while we wait let’s have some fun, babe.” The Boss takes me by the hand, leads me to the bed, still holding the bag with the metallic and noisy sex toys in the other hand.
Boss: “But payment upfront.”
I hand over the cash. The Boss takes it and puts it away with serene competence.
Then they throw me on the bed. I start to undress.
The Colonel stops me: “We’ll take care of it, babe” and — bouncing — she undresses me.
The Boss, still silent, lifts her top and shows me her tits.
I smile.
I reach out my right hand to the Boss’s tits, while with my left I lift the bouncing Colonel’s top. She’s a little bunny I’d like to fuck soon. But shortly she’ll be the one fucking me, alas.
The Colonel has small but firm, natural tits, with turgid, stiff, dark nipples, Middle Eastern I’d say. My lips suck the Colonel’s tits, my left hand slips under her leggings to touch her ass: firm, I like it! The other hand keeps the Boss’s tits busy.
Finally we’re having fun but… the phone rings.
It’s the runner.
God damn him.
They get dressed again.
Me: ” You need the key to go down in the elevator. I’ll walk you.“.
As we walk out, the Boss takes the bag with the sex toys with her.
Me: “Why are you taking that with you? We’re coming right back anyway.“
She: “The bag always stays with me.“.
Another red flag. But with the taste of nipples still on my tongue, I ignore it.
We go down to the street and we’re in the heart of the Navigli.
The Colonel alternates calls to the Runner with get-to-know-you questions for me, in a whirlwind of “babe” addressed indiscriminately to me and the Runner.
The Runner is late, they’re complaining to each other. They suggest we sit down for a drink while we wait. “Our treat,” they say. We order. As soon as the drinks arrive, the Runner calls. I say: “You guys go, I’ll wait for you here.“.
Error.
Grave error.
Anticipating the evening, I take notes on my phone about these two, just to immortalize them properly on the blog.
15 minutes pass. A doubt creeps in: “Don’t tell me these daughters of bitches left with the money and aren’t coming back?“
I text them: “Are you on your way?“. After a minute, I call: they don’t answer. I send another message: “If you ran off with the money at least let me know, so I don’t sit at the table like a double idiot“, followed by two laughing emojis.
I wait a few minutes. No response, I get up and leave.
I’ve been played.
It had to happen sooner or later.
And now what do I do?
Go back home?
Me, to myself: ” No, babe. You paid for the hotel, babe. You’re sleeping there, babe. And we’re taking that shower, babe!“.
I go back to the room. I send a voice note cracking up to the ever-present Filippo.
I tell the misadventure to a couple of friends.
Then, just out of boredom, I use my IT tools to trace the girls’ identities. I start with the phone number, find the Colonel’s identity. Then I do an AI scan of the girls’ faces (obviously, not trusting them, I had secretly filmed them. I wonder what their parents would say seeing the video? Especially since, far from being Sardinian… they have origins that are not very tolerant of these things…). I find the Colonel on LinkedIn and the Boss on Snapchat.
I take all this information and forward it to the Sugar Daddy International, a very secret thing I can’t explain to you. Just know that Karma exists and I am part of it.
I discover that the same two had scammed a colleague, using the excuse of going down for a second to pick up a Deliveroo package.
Generally, the men who go with these chicks have wives, secrets, reputations and… they drop any intention of recovering from the scam.
I’m single. I have nothing to hide. I even have a blog about my life. I could easily give them a very bad five minutes.
I decide to have some fun. They left a glass in the room they drank from.
I use AI to generate a photo of a mobster taking DNA. This bullshit makes me laugh too much, I consult with the ever-present Filippo on which version to send.
Finally, I contact a friend of mine who’s abroad and — from a foreign number, which looks more threatening — I have her send the photo. No text. And I tell her to delete it 1 minute after it’s viewed. Even more unsettling.
Amused, I go to bed.
I have the scammers’ identities. One is named Michela, with an Albanian surname typical of the south-central region, and I found her on LinkedIn. The other goes by Zahzzi, and I found her on social media.
I could report them. I could talk to their parents. I could do a thousand things. But, you know what? It’s their loss.
I’ll never get that money back, but I think that — in the end — I bought material for a story for my blog. See what the Magnificent does for you? And you still prefer Bukowski…
I fall asleep in my big hotel bed with this thought.
New day, new life.
One of the 5 who stood me up gets in touch. She suggests meeting that same evening.
I could play the pride card but I think a sixth flake would make the blog story even more interesting.
Instead, she shows up.
And she’s a total babe.
She’s got an attitude, sure. But I have a blast and we really connect.
She is the Grand Vizier of all Sluts.
Very good sex, with her screaming like crazy and begging me to do things I can’t write about.
I have the time of my life.
I think that yes, my life is really good. Even if I get stood up once in a while and once I got scammed.
I’m just missing someone to love. But she’ll arrive just the week after. Be careful, oh mortal, what you wish for… it might come true! The gods, Wilde said, have two ways of punishing you: not granting you what you desire, or actually granting it to you.
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