A black Porsche streaks at 220 km/h along the Milan-Turin highway. Other cars quickly pull over, without even waiting for a flash of the high beams. They aren’t afraid of the high-speed beast, but of its driver: a guy with a plastered-on grin, singing at the top of his lungs and dancing with the same conviction as Gigi D’Agostino behind the decks.
That guy is me. An unusual euphoria fills me, because I’m thinking about a recent message from Fil:
When you’re in a relationship, your time and energy go toward making your partner happy. You gave a lot to your long-term ex. Today you’re single; you have no one to make happy but yourself. You’re not used to it anymore, but think about it: you can do whatever you want. Does something make you happy? You can do it!
Use your time, your money… for yourself!
Along with this euphoria comes another emotion: happiness. Happy because I’m speeding towards a date, the date with the French Goddess. Do you remember her?
A memory that doesn’t fade
There are relationships that last months but whose memory evaporates like dew in the morning sun. And then there are encounters that last just a few hours but are etched in memory, marking a specific moment in your life. That’s the case with the first meeting with the French Goddess, which happened five years ago. If you haven’t read the story, stop reading and go read it immediately. If you have read it but your memories are a bit hazy, let me give you a quick recap:
- She’s in the top 1% of the most beautiful women in the world. Definitely the woman with the most beautiful face I’ve ever met (and – trust me – I swim in female beauty like Hugh Hefner among bunnies). With incredible style.
- She’s the first sugar baby I tried to go out with. I refused because I didn’t feel like having a transactional encounter. But she liked me and literally begged me to sleep with her, for free.
- It’s the biggest “sleepless night” in history: my dick didn’t cooperate, for reasons told in the story.
Arriving at the toll booth, I suddenly slow down from 220 to 50 km/h. Time slows, seems to stop, and as I pass through the gate, snapshots of moments spent with the Goddess slowly dance before my eyes. I’ve always had a genuine affection for this girl. Something different from just wanting to sleep with her or love. Clearly, this doesn’t mean I can’t feel the other two, but at the core, she’s someone I care about. I wonder what life she’s lived in these five years. Has she experienced love? Or has she accepted one of the many marriage proposals she constantly receives?
These are the same doubts I had whenever she crossed my mind over the last five years. After our first meeting, we messaged each other occasionally for a while, as friends. Then my long-term ex made a jealous scene (the first and last one), and I stopped replying to her just to keep the peace. I feel a bit guilty: I rejected her, I didn’t fuck her, and—after getting close—I just vanished. I already know that when I see her again, she’ll make me pay for it a little. It remains to be seen how much and… in what way.
I have to say, when I reached back out to her—after things ended with my long-term ex—she replied right away. I asked her where she was. She sends me a video of a regal super-villa on the lake. I tell her I owe her dinner, and we agree to meet as soon as she’s in Milan. Weeks go by, but nothing happens. She turns cold, giving me one-word answers. I misinterpret it, thinking it’s a lack of interest, so I double down and write to her:
“Hey, hi! My attempts to have a normal friendship failed. Let me know if you are open to a sugar date/relationship or if I have to stop writing you.“
It’s something I hardly do anymore. My Seeking profile has 496 unread messages and 298 unopened matches. And I had deleted many on my last login, just five days earlier.
The Goddess accepts my proposal, but despite everything, things don’t move forward. Until she tells me clearly: “Whenever I am in Milan I’m already with someone… unless you organise a couple of days with me, I doubt we will magically meet there🙈“. And she’s right. Oh well, I block out the first free weekend. I’m abroad; I fly back specifically to see her. I get up at the crack of dawn and catch the 7 AM flight to have the weekend free.
We move from Milan to her city because she has a couple of hours busy with someone else. Normally I wouldn’t do it: the main reason for sugar dating is to save time. But I see her for the pleasure of seeing someone I care about again, so it doesn’t bother me. We agree to meet at 2:00 PM. Which then becomes 4:00 PM. Which then becomes 6:00 PM. Normally I would be elsewhere by now, but I had accounted for it… She needs to settle things.
Another message arrives: “I’m late because I have to go to the hairdresser, for the third time this week, because it’s closed tomorrow“. I’d say we’ve crossed the line: I don’t reply and start looking for alternative company for the evening.
Finally, I get the message saying she’s at the bar of my hotel. Well, let’s go down: I’m here anyway.
The fox in fox fur
Among the bystanders, a head of carmine red hair stands out against pale skin. It’s her, wrapped in a fox fur: super trendy, super glamorous, super classy. I greet her; she stays seated with her Cosmopolitan in hand. I lean in to kiss her and sit down beside her.
I look at her: she’s even more beautiful now than at 19. I didn’t think it was possible, but it also helps that she had her nose done. Small, upturned, French style. I liked the old one too, but I understand that with this nose, she’s even more perfect: ethereal, the archetype of inaccessible beauty. Hence her power: making the most inaccessible accessible – at the right price.
The first thing she says to me is: “Oh, I see you’ve put on weight!” I smile: I’d anticipated that too. I tell her that if it’s a problem for her, I’ll free up her evening right away. She smiles and says no. I ask her what she’s been up to over the past five years. She tells me a few things that I won’t share for privacy reasons. She has an amazing life, but also a dangerous one, so sorry: the things she decided to reveal to me I’ll keep to myself.
Let’s just say it was a non-stop series of high-value proofs: millionaires chasing her, billionaires sending marriage proposals, big names in politics and finance obsessed with her. While we’re together, a message even arrives from a prominent politician writing that he can’t wait to lick her pussy (the guy has a photo online with the Pope blessing his wife and kids). Talking to her is like reading the Wall Street Journal, but with sex thrown in.
She asks me why I broke up with my long-term ex. I tell her various things; eventually, I reveal that her decision to start an OnlyFans played a part. ” What a stupid decision! Such a beautiful girl, ruining herself like that. With the way algorithms work, it’s now impossible for a European to enter the top influencers. She’ll make a little money and be branded for life.. I completely agree, but I try to make her understand that it’s not about the money: she’s doing it to express a part of herself she felt she’d lost in the relationship. She insists: “In my opinion, she left you because you weren’t giving her enough money, you weren’t giving her gifts”
Not at all: my long-term ex is interested in attention, in how you treat her, not money. I know someone who leaves you to start an OnlyFans looks very bad, but if there’s one person who loved me totally and fully, it was her. My long-term ex only has to snap her fingers to get whatever she wants from the latest loser: for her, money is a commodity.
When she steps away for a moment, I write to Filippo.
SCROLL FOR OTHER LANGUAGES. Just for non-Milanese, “LTR” means “long-term traditional monogamous relationship”. Basically, that thing everyone does.
We move to the restaurant, which has a great atmosphere. She’s very sincere: she tells me things she wouldn’t normally say. Maybe she realizes I’m there for her, not for her looks or because I want to fuck her.
We order caviar, salmon, and finely cooked shrimp. She enjoys Champagne; I order a Dom Pérignon 2015. At the end of the bottle, she’ll reveal that it’s not the type of champagne she loves.
I listen a lot. She, on the other hand, interrupts me every time I start a sentence, changes the subject, talks about something else. Throughout the evening, I couldn’t finish a conversation. It’s clear she has no real interest in me or my life. But she seeks my validation. Subtly, here and there, she asks:
” But do you find me more beautiful now or five years ago?“
” But do you like my body?“
And finally, she asks the question that had been lingering for too long:
“But why didn’t you manage to sleep with me that night?“
I tell her I was afraid of getting too attached, of falling in love with her and losing control of my life; of being destroyed by a beauty and power I wouldn’t have been able to handle back then. “I don’t believe you”, she says. “It can’t be. Actually, the story you wrote about me is too exaggerated. You added things, those words about the effect of my beauty… I don’t think you really thought those things you wrote.”I reiterate that every word written is exactly what I thought and experienced.
She insists: “But is it because I wasn’t shaved?” I burst out laughing! I see the child inside the Goddess.
By the way, she reveals a backstory from five years ago. When I sent her away from home, she was more excited than ever, so excited that… she slept with the Uber guy.
Me: ” What?! I did all the work and the Uber guy got the prize?“
Her: “Well, it’s your fault!“
Well, she’s right. But how much do these Uber guys get laid?
Interesting: all evening she emphasizes that I’m too poor for her, not at the level of the hundreds of men she’s dated over the years. Yet she remembers every single detail of our date: the song she played, the things we said, Solomon, etc. At one point I point it out to her:
“Nothing special, I just have a good memory.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah yeah, it’s just that you were one of the first I met.”
Maybe I’m wrong, I can’t know, but… I get the impression that for others she’s a trophy to show off, an object to have, a great genetic base for having kids. And even the gifts and exorbitant sums she receives are peanuts for those who give them to her: does she really have value for them?
But I can’t know, and anyway, she has an extraordinary life.
I have a lot of respect and admiration for her. At one point I tell her:
” I don’t know if you realize it, but with the life you lead, you’ve developed amazing skills. You told me how you saved your life by pretending not to understand, how you disarmed a guy with a knife, and how you stand up to various billionaires. With these skills, you could be a spy or who knows what else.”
We move outside, to a sort of winter garden, to smoke. We bring the bottle. The place is emptying. It’s our confession area.
And the sex? Hold on, we’re getting there
Dear reader, you know me: you know how physical and piggish I am. I imagine you’ll be surprised to have read pages and pages of story without any piggishness on my part… you’ll ask me: “ Hey, but didn’t you put a hand in her panties? At least two fingers in her pussy? A nipple lick? Nothing?”.
Nothing.
It’s not that I don’t like her or don’t find her attractive: quite the opposite, she’s very beautiful. It’s just that tonight I’m here with her for her, not for her body. I’m not in any way seeking validation. I’m not doing anything to please her, to win her over, to have her. I’m a person who cares about her, who listens to her.
It’s more her touching me. And she’ll be the one to kiss me, halfway through the evening, in the middle of a sentence. I, occasionally, reciprocate and move closer. She, occasionally, moves away, just to remind me that she’s inaccessible if she wants. And that’s exactly what we’re talking about. She tells me:
” The most beautiful thing a woman can do with a man is show him how much she likes him, give him attention and security. But it’s a mistake! A terrible mistake! Because the man – as soon as he feels secure about his woman – starts shifting his attention to others, even trying with them. And you end up with a broken heart.
I never make this mistake. I always keep them on their toes; I make sure they don’t feel too secure with me.”
It’s a sort of confession. With me, she’s been doing the same thing all evening.
The place empties; it’s just us. I’m exhausted: I’ve only slept three hours. I ask her:
” What do we do? Are you coming to the hotel with me?“
Her: “Did you notice that when you proposed sugar dating and asked me for details, I deliberately didn’t answer? I wanted to see you and have dinner with you, without any obligation to sleep with you.“
I look at her in silence, as if to say: “So? Please, make up your mind quickly: I want to sleep.”
Her: “Yes, it can be done. It’s just that you understand… I don’t want someone who goes out with me just to sleep with me once and disappear. That’s why I ask for money, to have continuity“.
This speech, to me, makes no sense: it seems like a baseless justification. But, for the sake of truth, I must say that it’s possible I misunderstood: half of my brain was asleep and, with English, I sometimes make blunders.
In any case, I don’t stay there asking for clarifications: I already knew that after that first date I would have to pay. She doesn’t need my money: she has seven houses, maybe she’s richer than me and hangs out with billionaires. Making me pay is probably a matter of pride, a way to put me in my place. And then, let’s face it, it’s the premise of her life as a sugar baby. It can’t always be Christmas.
Me: ” Ok, fine. How much did you have in mind?“
She immediately tells me a figure, then lowers it by a third on her own. It’s four times what the few sugar babies I’ve paid have asked for, but who cares. She’s special. I agree. I just ask if she’ll stay over: I’m exhausted, I’d rather fuck her the next morning; right now, I just want to sleep.
We return to the hotel, to my nice diplomatic suite: elegant, but austere. She takes off her blue contact lenses – which give her an air of detachment and inaccessibility – and I finally see the true color of her eyes: a deep, very beautiful brown.
Her iris is a portal to her soul: I look at her and immediately feel connected to her; I see the person behind. She changes her attitude: she’s less arrogant and hot, more genuine girl. She’s tender. I care about her, I told you?
She does everything: puts on music, opens a bottle of prosecco, starts dancing with me. She shows me the jujutsu move with which she took down the guy with the knife: she wraps an arm around my neck from behind, choking my throat and throwing me to the ground. I look at her as if to say “are you crazy?!”, but it’s confirmation that her exceptional stories are probably true. And that when I die, it will be at the hands of a woman. In fact, I hope at least three.
She takes me to bed.
How do I tell her I’m tired and would prefer to have sex tomorrow?
Oh well, let’s avoid making a second blunder.
We kiss. We lick each other. I have sex with her.
She comes twice (or so she says). I don’t come: I’m tired. I tell her I’d prefer to finish tomorrow. Her face darkens, dims for a second. I have no way of knowing, but I think she’s having some paranoia because – once again – she thinks I don’t like her. I reassure her and we go to sleep.
We hug naked, under the covers.
And after complaining all evening that I’ve gained weight, she starts with:
“But you’re so soft!
But you’re so cuddly!
But it’s so nice in your arms!
Wait, let me try lying on my side… beautiful!
No, now I want to try lying on my stomach… fantastic!
And now I turn around and you hug me… Ah, amazing!
No, no, you shouldn’t lose weight. It’s too nice to sleep in your arms. You’re my Teddy Bear“.
Me: “No, I’m your Daddy Bear!“
She laughs. I remember SweetTits, the first to compare me to a cuddly teddy bear.
Anyway, all of them tell me this. There’s no place in the world where you sleep better than in my arms, with your head resting on my chest and the rest of your body wrapped around my belly.
I really wish women would choose me because of Rocco. Instead, they choose me because I’m the Four Seasons of sleeping: luxurious, super comfortable, and exclusive. Sleeping with me is addictive. I’m like the Maldives: once you’ve tried them, the rest of the world seems ugly and inadequate.
The next morning, while she’s still asleep, I fuck her with satisfaction. I come. I even do a couple of things I shouldn’t, to be honest. But it’s fine. We have breakfast. Finally, she gets dressed and puts her contact lenses back in… damn it! She becomes the French Goddess again. I ask her: “How do you want to receive the payment, cash or gift?“
She: ” Of course, cash AND gift. I was thinking of stopping by Gucci for a bag and then Apple for an iPhone.“
Me: “No, wait, those weren’t the agreements. And anyway, there are no bags under 5k at Gucci, so no way.”
Her: “Alright, then let’s do cash + new iPhone. Yesterday you told me you’d give it to me.“
Yes, I meant to give it to her in the arrangement, not separately. It perplexes me that someone with seven houses, who boasts of hanging out with billionaires and being richer than me, plays these games to beg for a little more. Maybe in her reality “gifts” = “receiving affection”.
I should send her request back to the sender, but I tell her it’s fine with me. I’m annoyed, but I want it to be clear that it’s for the methods, not the price. If she had told me before, I would have said yes anyway. But these power or cunning games make her fall from grace.
We were supposed to spend the whole day together, but after buying the iPhone, I leave early with an excuse.
Before leaving, we stop at the Christmas markets to drink some mulled wine. As we walk, everyone turns, everyone looks at her. A woman in her forties films her. She notices, chases the so-called documentarian, and snatches the phone from her hands: ” Why are you filming me? Now delete the video from the phone.” The lady, violently, takes back her phone and mumbles that she wasn’t filming, that she’s in a public place. We walk away annoyed. The lady soon returns: she wants an explanation and justification for the aggression she suffered. I step in to mediate, quickly close the matter, and continue my walk.
I ask the French Goddess: “Does this happen to you often?“
She: ” Constantly. They film me. They put me on TikTok” and she shows me a couple of videos of her taken in Monaco and via Monte Napoleone.
We finish sipping the mulled wine, I give her what I owe her, and I leave.
The goddess steps down from her pedestal
As I head home, I think she no longer seems like a Goddess. Don’t get me wrong, I care about her. But she seems more like a fox… a charming little creature that uses cunning not so much to defend herself from a tough world, but to dominate it, to bend it to her will, with a smile. So, from now on, I won’t call her the French Goddess anymore but FrenchFoxy.
Other scattered thoughts… I write to Filippo:
Dear FrenchFoxy, I’m still rooting for your happiness.
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