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I press your doorbell downstairs. A buzzing noise is heard. I enter the hallway and walk up two stories to your flat. I enter your living room. You’re standing next to the window, talking on your cell phone. Your eyes meet mine for a second, and then you return to the conversation again.

The last time I visited you, a week ago, the same thing happened. I unbuttoned my jacket and waited. After finishing your call, you came towards me. You gave me a little smile, and your lips met mine. Savagely I grabbed your t-shirt and kissed you deeply. You came to meet me in the kiss, but it didn’t last very long before you acted quite calmly again. I wanted a response from you saying that you were glad to see me. I pressed my breasts against you, hugged you, drowned you in sweet kisses and let my hands caress your body. You hugged me too, but not with the energy that I dreamed of. I let one of my hands move down to your pants, touching your crotch. Damn it! You weren’t even getting a hard-on. Feverishly I ripped your pants open and swallowed your cock. There, at last. Some kind of reaction. Afterwards I took you by the hand, and walking like a goose with your pants around your ankles, you followed me to the bedroom. I giggled. You laughed a little too. We had great sex. Your hands, those loving hands, made me scream with pleasure. Many times. But you’re a quiet kinda guy. Never once have you grabbed my hips so hard that I get small bruises from your fingertips. Yeah, you sometimes fuck me kinda wildly all right, but when you come only a slight moan slips from your lips. I curled up against your long and lean body that fits mine so perfectly. You held me tight. You fell asleep quickly as always. I lay beside you like I’ve done every time I have visited you for the five months I have known you. With a hunger in my heart.

The next morning you took off to work. A quick kiss and a cup of coffee. See you soon, you said. (I know that means in a week or two). Then you were gone. I sat there alone, staring at the wall. Took a shower, put on my make-up. Locked your door with the spare key. Dropped your key in your mailbox and headed home. Hungry.

I know that if I want to see you again I have to be the one to make the first move. We chitchat when I call you on the phone, we’re even laughing, telling jokes, talking dirty. You answer my mails and my messages. But never at once. Some times it takes hours, some times it takes days. I wait and wait. You’ve told me you have a life of your own to live. You’re quite busy sometimes. I urge for a sign that you think of me as much as I think of you. That you go round in circles, desperate to see me again. But not once have I noticed any such thing. I want you to see me as woman, to feel me as a fever in your blood. I want you to grab my long, dark hair, push me down on my knees and fuck my brains out. Several times. I want you to lay beside me in the night, staring at the stars and say that you’ll never let go. But you don’t. I want to be seen and wanted for the person that I am. But you never give me that special feeling.

So I seek the attention elsewhere. Dating other men. Taking them home with me. Many men. Men younger than me. They have strong bodies. And hard cocks. They are wild, sending me over the top a lot of times. I have small, blue bruises from when their fingers grabbed my hips. Men older than me. They have slightly softer bodies, and their cocks aren’t always hard for hours at a time. But they kiss me gently, caressing me with great experience. They make me cry when we look at the stars together. But none of these guys taste like you, smell like you, have your wit or your way of seeing the world. None of them are you.

Today I see you at the window talking on the phone. I only see your neck. I want to run to you, take that phone, throw it fiercely against the wall breaking it into a thousand pieces. I want to grab your chin, forcing your eyes to meet mine. I want to scream with all my Italian temper that four hours ago I was in bed with a nice, hot stud ten years your minor. Want to tell you that he had a cock much bigger than yours, that he made me come five times in just an hour. Want you to know that he has a nice car, a big flat and that he wants to see me again later this evening. I want you to turn off that calm behaviour of yours, want you to freak out, scream and shout and be angry with me. Because I have been cruel to you. Because you’re in agony.

But I don’t do this. I can’t stand it if your only reaction is a lifted eyebrow, a crooked smile and a “good luck to you, girl”. Neither can I stand it if you really and deep inside care for me, if your eyes get filled with something that could be interpreted as tears, if you get hurt. I love you too much.

You’re still on the phone. I button my jacket, open the door and close it quietly behind me before I descend the stairs. Starving. I won’t come back again.

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