December 25th, right in the middle of Christmas. It’s snowing outside. I peek out the window: I see a fire truck speeding down the snowy street. “Santas” of various races are pedaling tourists around in rickshaws with colored neons. On the sidewalk, a homeless Black man kicks the snow, laughing, shouting, and cursing at something I can’t hear. He disappears around the corner, behind the hot dog stand of a vendor I’ve befriended over the last few days, who asks me every time if I support Milan or Inter (“Messina,” I reply every time). Behind it, white steam rises from a Seventh Avenue manhole. I smile, thinking that nothing could be more New York than this scene.
I turn around, leaning my shoulders against the cold glass of the window. My gaze wanders around the room looking for my phone: I need to know what time it is. I’m in an elegant suite in the heart of Manhattan. About a hundred square meters, finely furnished with period pieces. A low bronzed table sits next to the fireplace, defining the living area along with a very comfortable sofa, two tiger-print armchairs with questionable taste that feels very European, a large face-height mirror, and a round table. Just beyond, the kitchenette houses about ten cabinets, one of those giant American fridges, and all sorts of appliances, including a toaster, juicer, and blender.
I love the bronze details in this room: the knobs, the decorations, the sink equipped with a beautiful spray gun. It’s ironic: in the country without history, in the city of the eternal present, I chose the oldest and most historic hotel. We’re talking about the legendary Hotel Chelsea.
Today it’s a luxury hotel, but for decades the Hotel Chelsea was a stable and permissive haven for artists, with flexibly managed rents and an internal community almost like a bohemian colony. Founded in 1883, it’s among the few residences to have hosted Andy Warhol and his questionable entourage during countless nights of sex, drugs, and hallucinogenic trips.
Bob Dylan, Janis Joplin, Leonard Cohen, and Patti Smith lived here.
This is where Sid Vicious stabbed Nancy Spungen before dying of an overdose.
This is where Jimi Hendrix was mistaken for a delivery boy by an old lady (and he played along).
But above all, this is where literary deities like Mark Twain, Dylan Thomas, Arthur Miller, and one of my favorite writers, Arthur C. Clarke, wrote great works. “And here today, the Magnifico writes,” I think as I burst out laughing, embarrassed by the blasphemous comparison.
Manhattan, suite with a view of chaos
“Damn! It’s 5:56 PM, the girl will be here soon. These New Yorkers are all incredibly punctual: they’re precise to the minute. And sure enough, two minutes later, she texts me that she’s arrived. I reply: I am arriving, wait for me in the lobby. You will recognize me by… red shoes 🙂
I put on my red European dandy loafers and head toward her. Everywhere in the hallways, improvised paintings pop up, works created on the fly by many former residents to pay the rent. “Artists are like sugar babies,” I think, “they always find a way not to pay.”
Xmas Lady has very pale skin, two small eyes of icy blue tending towards deep blue, with gray reflections like the Arctic sea. Her features strongly resemble Liv Tyler in The Lord of the Rings… That damn gorgeous babe capable of simultaneously conveying innocence, femininity, and sex. An elegant little nose and small lips adorn her face. When she’s serious, her face conveys a cold detachment. When she smiles, however, a warm burst of enthusiasm and liveliness hits you in the face. And it’s precisely this ability of hers to alternate availability and detachment that will weave a web around me, capturing me like a spider captures its prey: a spider with innocent and lethal little eyes, and a fabulous booty.
Twenty-five years old. Physically, she’s petite: about five-foot-three, thin, small breasts, but a narrow waist and a round butt. She has muscular legs. She’s dressed in a simple, dark dress, without too many frills. But, just below the hem of the dress, two stay-ups peek out—in total contrast to the understated look.
But what strikes me most of all is the shape of her eyes: almond-shaped, Asian style.
“How lovely, a little Chinese girl!” I think, “for once I didn’t end up with yet another Russian.” I ask her about her origins and… I find out she’s half Italian and half… Russian!
” But how? I thought you were Asian, with those eyes!“
Her: “No: I’m Russian, Jewish, from the Asian part.”
Italian, Russian, Jewish, Asian… my head is spinning!
Anyway, she’s Russian, and I think that like the heroes of Greek tragedy, “no one can escape their destiny. The Fates spin, meanwhile let’s console ourselves with the whores“.
The Hinge girl
We settle into the hotel’s French restaurant, dimly lit with a decadent vibe. At first, I struggle to understand her English accent. I was hoping that, being half Italian, she might speak a bit of my language. But nope.
We tell each other stories.
We understand each other.
We see each other.
We kiss.
“You are a good kisser, signore,” she tells me.
I notice she likes me, but she’s shy and elusive. And what do I do when a girl is shy and elusive? I play with her like a cat with a mouse. I sit next to her and start being physical: I stroke her, touch her legs, take her face in my hands. My voice becomes slow and deep. I notice the reaction: I see her body melting while her mind protests in vain, claiming decorum. In response, my hands slide along her thighs; my fingers slip in where her legs cross and my pinky, politely, says hello to her pussy—shielded just by her tights. She looks at me stunned, visibly excited and, a little bit, scandalized.
“What are you doing?!” she asks me.
“What your body wants, considering you’re wet,” I reply.
She realizes there’s no point in resisting: the game is already decided.
But she’ll get her revenge at the end of the evening.
Me: ” The restaurant is closing. Why don’t you come up for a drink with me?“
Her: “Never. I don’t go to a man’s room on the first date!“
“But we won’t do anything, just to have a chat in a more intimate setting,” I reply with the same tone mothers used to use—wooden clog in hand—when they told their kids: “Come here, I won’t do anything to you.”
Her: “No“
I look at her. I see her body shaking with desire and her mind staying, obstinately, still.
“Look, against my own interest, just because I’m an old Italian gentleman, I’m telling you: another 10 minutes and you’ll give in. If you want to keep this noble intention, you have to go now, before those 10 minutes are up. Otherwise, you won’t be able to stop yourself.”
She smiles. And she doesn’t wait the 10 minutes to leave.
As soon as she gets home, she texts me:
I provoke her a bit, sketch out a half-baked post-hypnotic suggestion to be dreamed about, but I keep it light. She tells me: “Good thing I was wearing tights tonight,” ” I’m curious to get to know you better. I hope we’ll find the time to meet again“. I reply, annoyed, that I’ve made my move and now it’s her turn.
In reality, I’ll be the one to text her again after a few days to see her again. She can’t make it: she’s busy and I’m leaving for Miami soon. What to do?
I invite her on the spot to come with me. She accepts.
Once in Miami, the pussy paradise, I wonder if I did the right thing bringing a snack from home. After all, I invited her before we’d even slept together. What if she’s boring or we’re incompatible? Over text she’s cold: she writes like a paralegal (her profession, btw).
But meeting her triggered something inside me. And so it’s fine. I’ll take the risk. At worst, I’ll send her back early.
She joins me after a few days in Miami. I go to pick her up at the airport. The chemistry is instant. We’re super cuddly. So sweet it would give a diabetic a hyperglycemic crisis. We’re always glued together. My hand doesn’t move from her shapely butt, hard and soft at the same time.
We arrive at the hotel. I chose the 1 Hotel South Beach in Miami Beach.
The hotel doesn’t have the charm of the New York one. Glossy, modern, full of super-fancy rooftops… but, a bit devoid of personality… this hotel is just the backdrop for a thousand high-end hookers. And then there’s the three of us, cuddly romantics from another era:
Me.
Her.
The butt plug.
Oh yes, because you should know that Xmas Lady is a bit vanilla. So I felt obligated to add a little spice to her existence.
Once in the room, I grab her and throw her on the bed. I undress her and admire that treasure of a butt in all its beauty, which reminds me a bit of my friend Gabriella’s.
She’s on her period.
Who cares.
We fuck.
She’s a bit passive. She lets me do everything. I see she’s very connected to the experience, but I don’t see her coming.
I move in to touch her.
She stops me.
I look at her.
She says: ” Don’t worry, I can’t come with a man. I only come alone, touching myself the way only I know how“.
I look at her.
I smile devilishly.
I get up from the bed.
I take a black case.
I open it.
I pull out a bunny tail-shaped butt plug and a nipple stimulator, which I discovered is phenomenal as a vibrator too.
She looks at me scared.
I look at her reassuringly.
She shakes her head no.
I smile at her.
I nod yes.
She smiles.
She shakes her head no again, but less convinced.
I raise my eyebrows and squint, smiling slyly.
She smiles and nods yes.
All this silent communication seems straight out of a Sergio Leone movie.
I throw myself on the bed and we start again.
The simultaneous triple combined stimulation of penetration, butt plug, and clitoris makes her come in just under a minute. I anchor the sensation by pressing a specific spot behind her right ear, so it’s easy for her to come again in the future with a simple touch.
She finishes moaning. My right eyebrow goes up. I smile smugly and start pumping again to come myself.
She’ll tell me: “To think that until two years ago I was convinced the female orgasm was an urban legend. Then I discovered how to touch myself. You’re the first man who’s made me come.” Seriously, who are these women hanging out with!
Time after time, the sexual chemistry increases. After exchanging test results, we decide to do it without a condom.
I come inside regularly… Anyway, the biohacking therapies I do have the pleasant side effect of making me momentarily sterile. Basically, I’m a man on the pill. The dick is happy. I’m happy. She’s happy.
All this influences the level of connection, which becomes increasingly intense.
We spend our days cuddling, like a couple. I receive a lot of love. She seems to be particularly into it. She’s very attentive: you only have to tell her something once and she keeps it in mind. In the morning she brings me coffee in bed, positions herself exactly as I told her, and gives me the wake-up blowjob just the way I like it. I even give her tasks for the vacation: find what to see, what to do, what to eat. And she takes me to super cool places.
Honestly, I’m not used to being treated this well. Always being with crazy supermodels who think they’re grand princesses just because any man would kill to be with them, I spend most of my time acting like a butler. For once, I feel like Batman. And it’s beautiful, for once, not to be Alfred.
Xmas Lady is of few words. But incredibly tender. In terms of cuddles, she’s my female version. Most of our dialogues pass through our hands, through physical contact. I love her soft and hard butt at the same time, and I don’t miss an opportunity to touch it in every possible way. She’s shy and reserved in public, so I enjoy embarrassing her a bit, within the limits of what she can tolerate without being uncomfortable.
We spend New Year’s Eve at Sugar, a super fashionable rooftop in Miami with a Balinese taste, located on the fortieth floor of a skyscraper. Among the plants, peculiar characters pop up, dancers dressed as Cleopatra, and a guy with a scooter chain around his neck (lest someone steals it!).
By the second Espresso Martini, Xmas Lady loosens up. She becomes super talkative; her eyes are hyper-communicative. At one point, I manage to complete the sentences she’s about to say and read her mind. She stops for a moment to look at me and I understand exactly what she’s thinking. I smile and say to her, “Hey , what are you thinking! Is this the right time!” She blushes, embarrassed and surprised, saying I certainly can’t read her mind. I lean into her ear and whisper: “You were thinking: I love you.” She looks at me with her eyes popping out, super embarrassed, looks down mumbling something in protest.
The connection is palpable. We dance.
As you know, I always joke that I’m a dancer on loan to business and that there’s only one difference between me and Roberto Bolle: the tight leotard. Not because I’m particularly good at dancing (but I’m not too bad either, eh!) but because when I dance I feel totally myself, able to express my nature. I feel happy, in communion with creation, deeply masculine. In short, I’m a Mother Nature in a sugar daddy version.
Dancing with her is beautiful: the connection is at its peak and, without a doubt, we’re the best dancers on the whole rooftop.
And when I ask her—at the end of the vacation—what the best moment was, she’ll say: “Dancing with you.” We head home, her collapsed in the Uber. I post a message to the nation on Instagram wishing all of creation a 2026 as perfect and beautiful as this New Year’s Eve of mine.
The first date
Days go by and several times I find myself looking at her and thinking about the reasons why this beautiful thing can’t last: we’re far apart, I’m not ready for a relationship yet, I feel like a bottle abandoned on the asphalt, empty, with its precious liquid now leaked onto the pavement. Every now and then I think I’m stuck in some adolescent circle, that maybe I should settle down and have a child. But like clockwork, every time I feel the strong happiness of this new free life, of discovery, of exploration.
This time she’s the one reading my mind and she makes me a proposal that’s really hard to refuse:
“If you’re with me, you can still see others“
My eyes widen with the typical “too good to be true” expression.
She insists: ” But yes: if you take care of me, if you treat me as your priority, you can also sleep around. After all, you’re a man, it’s normal and right that way.
In fact, I’d like to have a sister wife!“.
“A sister-what?” I ask.
“Yes, a sister wife. It means you have a child with me and one with another woman too. And maybe we all live in the same family. That way I have a friend to share the experience with!”
Ah, Satan, tempter in an angel’s body!
Ah, Wormtongue, persuader of a heart that’s stone on the outside but tender as a lightly seared fillet on the inside.
Ah, clever and intelligent woman who casts the hook knowing the fish can’t resist!
Ah, intense and blinding fire that wickedly attracts the poor moth and condemns it to its fate!
I see myself as the star of the series Mormon Life, lounging in a Hugh Hefner-style robe, surrounded by a lively harem of cute, wiggling wives, adjusting each other’s lingerie.
I see my parents finally as grandparents, happy, with lots of little blonde kids bouncing around, singing about how wonderful Magnifico Life is.
I’m already planning the complex scheme of international trusts to ensure my offspring inherit my wealth without going through inheritance taxes.
In short, everything a man could desire: women, love, and tax exemptions!
A wise voice in my mind tries to destroy my dream: “It can’t be true! Be careful! They all say that! They do just like your ex-wife, who signed the contract during the day authorizing you to play around and then tore it up at night!” (true story, btw).
“Call your friends, let them stop you!”
But I already know:
– if I call Lella, she’ll tell me it’s an adolescent dream.
– if I call Elena, she’ll tell me it can never work.
– if I call Masino, he’ll say that then I have to support them all and I’ll spend too much money.
When the snow melts
I decide to hold onto the dream and not call anyone.
Let me enjoy this moment of happiness. Let my manhood dream of watering with joy—and my seed—a world otherwise barren. I’ve earned it.
Survey
Dear readers.
What do you advise me to do?
File it away because of the distance or move forward?
How would you see the evolution of this story?
And regarding the “you can go with others and have children with them,” do you believe her? What do you think?
Should I have this kid? 🙂
Write in the comments!
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