asu letty – ciao amore ciao bella
Chapter 11:
October 12, 2020
I am in love and I don’t want to eat. The thing is—she is not Barbara. “Barbara” was just her nickname. For a long time she didn’t tell me her real name. She thought I knew it and was mocking her because I introduced myself as Denis (Dennis). We had an agreement: I would come to her only as the first client. That is, she would tell me when she started working, and I would arrive on time. After sex, she would examine me—my body, my eyes, my hands and legs. She stroked me and murmured something in Romanian. It sounded like a spell.
We were absolutely alike. Eyes, hands, legs, hair color. We even laughed in the same way. Our sex was completely open and sincere. My lover was able to experience orgasm several times. After sex, we lay together for a long time, hugging. And my love told me her real name—Denisa. I asked for proof. A passport. She took it out and, smiling, said: “Denisa—do you see it written here?” Goosebumps ran all over my body. Tears welled up. I had never met a girl with the same name as mine. Denisa once asked me whether I had seen many beautiful women. And Denis answered Denisa:
“It doesn’t matter how many women I’ve had. What matters is that I’ve found the last one.”
After that, my love, with tears in her eyes, rushed into my arms.
We planned a trip to Romania. She showed me her parents, and we laughed at the fact that we were lying naked in a brothel and discussing our life together. Before leaving our Room No. 8, with tears in my eyes, in a state close to delirium, I hugged her and said in Russian: “My love, let’s go home. Enough. I can’t take this anymore.”
bogdan de la-ploiesti haziran aoleu sufletul meu originala 2020
We argued for a long time about where we would live. We laughed about the fact that our children would be named either Denis or Denisa, because we didn’t know any other names. Our correspondence turned into round-the-clock communication. We kissed passionately, which is absolutely unacceptable in a brothel. That is exactly why I always had to be the first client. I didn’t understand how she managed to combine work with constant texting.
News about the second wave of Corona was gaining momentum. Denisa was very nervous, constantly calling her mother. I calmed her down and told her I would take her home—to us. Here, in Solingen, in Romania, or in Italy—it didn’t matter. We would live happily and carefree until death. She answered, “Yes.” I listened to lyrical music and sent it to her; she sent me hearts in response. In the evenings, I fell into deep depression, realizing that my love—with the same name as mine, with the same eyes and body—was now, every half hour, giving blowjobs to clients.
That the body I kissed and caressed was now being squeezed by some animal. But Denisa reassured me, saying it was just work and that she did nothing with anyone else the way she did with me. But the prostitute was planning to leave. I agreed, but insisted that before leaving she could live with me for a while. We could walk around, go to restaurants. She said, “Yes.” Then I would put my love on a plane, and a month later I would fly to Bucharest to her.
But we also had Plan B. I would help her buy a car and drive her home myself. She suggested that herself. The prostitute asked how long I could stay in Romania. She said we could live at her place, but we would have to come up with a convincing story about how we met—for her mother. In short, the plans we made on a bed in a brothel were quite serious. We didn’t stop communicating for a second. Our phones were full of hearts and declarations of love.
One day, I arranged to meet her on Friday at 5:00 p.m. I was supposed to be the first. Barbara (Denisa) said she would start working at 5:00. I arrived at 4:30 so I could change calmly and bring immune-support medications into the brothel for my girlfriend—the prostitute. Her job is dangerous, and I bought her a month-long supply of medicines so my love wouldn’t catch anything, including coronavirus, while taking 20–30 penises into her mouth every day.
At the entrance, I accidentally saw Denisa with disheveled hair running somewhere. She nodded to me and disappeared up the stairs. I felt nauseous. My hands turned cold, my legs weak. It felt like my heart was about to stop. I was standing at the entrance to a brothel with medicines, while someone had just put his penis into my love…
Denisa lied to me. She came earlier and had already been working for at least several hours, as if it were her last day. I quietly went into the changing room, changed clothes, and walked to the bar—our usual meeting spot. She came up and handed me the key to the room. That meant she had just had sex. She blew me an air kiss and went to the shower to freshen up before the next client. Before me. Business is business.
I fled.
I ran into the changing room, trying to hide my tears from the visitors. My heart was pounding, my hands shaking. I sat down on a bench so I wouldn’t collapse. Somehow I got dressed and ran out. The girls at reception didn’t understand where or from whom I was running. I jumped into the car and sped off, not understanding where I was going. The main thing was to get away. My car flew toward Solingen across an empty landscape.
There was nothing around—no clouds, no sun, no trees, no cars. I saw only a small stretch of the autobahn. I felt sick. I received an SMS: “Where are you?” she asked. I didn’t answer. I was flying away from the factory of love.
Denisa sent several more messages explaining that nothing had happened and that she was waiting for me. That she had taken the room key just to call her mother. But it was a lie. She also said she had bought a ticket home. My condition didn’t improve. I cried like a child, staring in the car at the box of immune medications. I got home. Got drunk. Among other things, I wrote to Yulia and asked her to forget me forever. I treated her well and could no longer lie. Then I wrote to Denisa that I understood who she was and demanded nothing from her. That day she worked until 5:30 in the morning. I knew this from WhatsApp—where you can see when a person was last online.
The next—or rather, the same—morning, my love sent me a photo from the airport. She wrote “Bye.” She was angry at me for running away the day before. I wrote that I would never forget her. I said that I loved her madly and believed that we couldn’t have met by chance in a brothel. Denisa kept writing that I had ruined everything by running away. I pressured her. She wrote: “One more word and I’ll block you.” A couple of hours later she appeared online—that meant she had landed in Bucharest. I wrote one last declaration of love, and she blocked me. Now it was really over.
I bought not only sex in the brothel. For relatively little money, I bought a bucket of the elixir of love—and drank it in one gulp.
I still feel it. I don’t know when it will pass. No appetite, cold in my stomach. I’m afraid to listen to “our” music. I try to work, but I can’t. Still, I’m holding on. Alcohol helps.
Nastya—whom you don’t know anything about yet—doesn’t allow me to drink. Three days ago, when I was texting with Denisa, at the moment she was already at the airport, I was drinking vodka on the street near REWE. Nastya came up to me and asked: “Sweetheart, why are you drinking on the street?” I said: “She flew away.” Nastya replied: “Dear, let’s go home.” “Home” meant the castle where a lonely man lived—me—on one floor, and a lonely cleaner, Nastya, on another.
I played too much with love. If you go back to those days—and I still live in them now—you understand that it wasn’t an illusion. It was real love. Once she changed her SIM card to a German one and said that I could delete the old number. Giving me the new number, she clarified that now only her mother, father, sister, and you—her boyfriend, me—would be there. That is, only family. She was also very worried that she smoked and I didn’t. The lover-client reassured her, saying that at the moment it didn’t matter, to which Denisa replied that in the future she would have to quit smoking for me.
Love is a natural drug that, in some cases, causes instant addiction. She is gone, and I still love her. Some of my friends might now think: what kind of man cries over a prostitute? I write this consciously and feel no shame. I’ve been living alone for two years and I want to love. There is no one to love. Tears in a brothel are the accumulated desire to cook breakfasts for someone, buy flowers, give gifts, take care of someone—and finally sleep under one blanket with someone.
Our world has become so dirty and insincere that in a brothel I now feel much better than in real life. Yes… and most likely I’m staying here. The girls sitting in Meer Bar (Düsseldorf Hafen), scanning for rich men, lying and extracting money—aren’t they prostitutes? They are worse. They are lying thieves with one goal: to suck every last cent out of you. Instagram is swarming with sexualized asses in tight jeans. Ask yourself—why? I’ll answer: the ass is bait. They catch men with it like nets. Tons of fish in the comments send kisses and hearts. Who do the whores look at? Accounts with expensive cars and watches—there’s the fat fish. Ordinary guys have no chance. These are prostitutes.
In the following chapters, I will explain why I fell in love in a brothel, why I suffered so much on the trash heap where my ex-wife threw me. Fear of loneliness led me to the brothel. And the love that awakened in my heart was a consequence of the tragedy I had lived through. My expulsion from my life and the loss of my children completely changed me.
I am sure that I did not fall in love with Denisa herself, but with some kind of female image. If I saw her on the street today, I probably wouldn’t even recognize her.
German acquaintances ask me: “Denis, do you sleep with prostitutes?” I answer: “Of course—and I’m happy.”
First, there is no alternative. Second, sleeping with prostitutes is honest. I am sure I am far from alone. Humiliated at home by men’s disrespect and indifference, they are pushed onto this path by feminists. My affair in the brothel was a protest.
Risn-Murphy-Ancora-Ancora-Ancora Severino Nico De Ceglia Remix
The fact that we live in brothels is the fault of a system that has given rise to radical and separatist feminism in Europe. Feeling unnecessary at home, we look for love, relationships, and feelings elsewhere. And there is only one such place—the brothel. In most European families, a man serves only to earn money.
This paradox, my dear friends, I call domestic prostitution.
The woman who lives with you under the same roof does not care about your health, your worries, your illnesses, or your problems. You must be healthy and bring money home—alive or dead.