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Chapter 16:
SEND ME 200 EUROS
I skipped December 2—the day I arrived in Germany. What I mean is that today is already December 6, 2020. Our timelines have now merged into one. While we were living in this hotel, my tragedy with Denisa happened, and both Dominik and Nastya knew about it. It was Nastya who picked me up drunk from the street and led me back to the castle—on that very day when the witch Denisa flew to Romania.
I will now tell you about the events of the last three weeks and finish the first part of the book on Wednesday, December 9. On that day, my last lovers and friends of this year—prostitutes Alexa and Mirela—will fly away.
The author of this romantic work freed Cinderella, removed her arrest, and allowed her to go up to the third floor again. We started communicating once more. My best friend Sayud began visiting us again.
Sayud.
*A Moroccan who has lived in Germany for 30 years. Well-mannered. Clean in soul and body. Understands the meaning of friendship. Cunning—but with close friends, he has never been noticed abusing it. Well… maybe just a little.
All brothels in Germany were closed. I thought about Denisa and listened to beautiful romantic Romanian music. I wasn’t working. One day Sayud came to the castle. We were eating something in the kitchen and discussing the catastrophic situation caused by the brothel closures.
All brothels in Germany were closed. I thought about Denisa and listened to beautiful romantic Romanian music. I wasn’t working. One day Sayud came to the castle. We were eating something in the kitchen and discussing the catastrophic situation caused by the brothel closures.
I did go to clubs a couple of times after Denisa—trying to kill love that way. It didn’t work. I had decent but meaningless sex a few times with a gypsy girl named Zlata. She flew to Romania. Left me her phone number and later tried to get 200 euros from me via messages. I collected all her voice messages, edited them, made a rap track, and sent it to Zlata. She blocked me. That music is still laughed at and played in the mornings. You’ve probably heard it too.
So I asked Sayud: what are we going to do all winter now? We really were alone. Women were nowhere to be found—like on a deserted island. They probably existed somewhere, but they looked so awful and repelled us with their unjustified feminism that we had absolutely no desire to flirt, knowing in advance we’d be rejected.
Remember? The virus: “I have a boyfriend.”
Where do you meet a woman?
How do you talk to her? And why? Sayud answered instantly:
“We have a super option left—Mirela and Alexa.”
I hugged him. Thank you, brother—we’ll somehow survive this winter.
I had seen Mirela once in a brothel. She’s one of the best. An old acquaintance of Sayud. He gave me her phone number. We met. Mirela is open, relaxed, and very attractive. We agreed to meet more often. She lives with Alexa—a very modest, charming, home-oriented girl. We would become very good friends, and I would do photo shoots for them.
Real conversations on WhatsApp with participants in the events
We didn’t meet only for sex. Between Denis, Alexa, and Mirela, a friendship formed. Mirela provided me with sexual services, but it felt friendly, almost casual.
I want to note that for an adult, healthy man, even doctors recommend sex at least twice a week. In Germany, this natural fact is ignored—especially when bar prostitutes tell you that you need to wait. And we wait—in brothels. And we spend money there—money that the one telling you “wait a little longer, I’m not like that” is counting on.
You wait. She doesn’t. She has, first of all, a silicone vibrator at home—and a couple of men she sleeps with at her discretion.
During one of our meetings with Mirela, we invited Alexa into bed. Now we always sleep as three. After sex, we always laugh about how I fell in love with Denisa and about the rap track for Zlata. They knew about the tragic comedy in the brothel with Denisa—they worked there at the time too.
Back to the castle. About a week ago, Nastya and I were sitting in the kitchen. By the way, she left yesterday and will never return—and thank God for that. During the meal, I started receiving messages. She asked:
“Who is that?”
It was one of the prostitutes. She had my number. Not a pleasant character. She had long been looking for an apartment in case brothels closed.
“Kleine Schlampe,” she asked if there were free rooms left in my hotel. I answered yes.
Nastya looked me straight in the eyes and said:
“It’s not her asking. It’s Denisa.”
I snapped at the cleaner:
“Don’t hurt me. What Denisa? Forget her. She’s gone and will never be back.”
She repeated:
“Denisa.”
I suddenly felt unwell and stopped eating. A minute later, I received an SMS from an unknown number. In English:
“Hi, hi…”
And then a photo with the caption:
“You remember me?”
In the photo—my love, Denisa.
I felt sick. Cold sweat on my forehead. Weakness. Nastya, completely calm:
“I told you.”
I felt short of breath.
I wrote back that of course I remembered her, thought about her constantly, loved her, and was dying without her. That was my mistake. I should have written “I don’t remember” and blocked her—just like she once did to me. I couldn’t. Love is a series of mistakes. Denisa asked me to continue the conversation with the prostitute who had messaged earlier. Then, in a second, the young girl wrote that she wouldn’t come. Denisa said she wouldn’t come either. I didn’t understand that maneuver or its purpose.
A few days later, she blocked me again. The witch burst into my brain after a month and a half, stabbed my heart with the same concentrated love on the tip of the knife—and disappeared. But she left a thin thread. Now I could write to her through the young girl. But I’m holding on.
Real conversations on WhatsApp with participants in the events
My friends Mirela and Alexa know everything. They say: don’t pay attention—she’s mocking you. I like them very much. Mirela is businesslike and principled, earns money with a cold heart. Alexa is soft and gentle, does everything Mirela says. A very good duo. In fact, Alexa could be a good wife.
One day, the three of us spent the whole day together. They asked me to go with them to MediaMarkt to buy a heater. Then we drove back to the castle.
These girls behave completely differently.
Mirela walked down the street with me arm in arm. When we reached the supermarket and I stepped aside to throw away an empty cup, my woman waited for me at the entrance—even though the doors were wide open and she could have gone in. But Mirela waited. When I came back, she took my arm and we entered together.
She left the choice of heater to me—but paid for it herself.
On the way out, we bought potatoes and sausages. Our hands were full. Alexa was waiting in the car, which I had accidentally locked. Mirela put everything on the ground, instantly reached into my pocket, took out the key, opened the car, and loaded everything inside. She handed the food to Alexa. When we got into the car, Mirela put the key in the ignition—and immediately put a sausage into my mouth. That’s how she fed me the whole way. She carefully spread mayonnaise on the potatoes and gently let me bite the sausage. We laughed the entire drive. Alexa told me to try her potatoes too. By the way, Mirela paid for the potatoes as well.
At one point, she laid her head on my shoulder. I hugged her and felt something. I smelled her hair. It felt like she was my woman. As you know, I can fall in love very quickly. But we were more friends than lovers—though she is very sexy. That day, they were not prostitutes. They were Romanian—very beautiful, sensitive women who respect themselves and men. Attentive, domestic, and gentle. Nothing was about money. It was one of the best days I’ve had in years. I will miss them.
In every woman lives a prostitute, and in every prostitute lives a woman.
At the end of my story, I must admit one important fact: a Romanian wife can truly become yours forever—care for you until the end of days, remain loyal and faithful, give you children, and care for them. Our terrible, corrupted reality has forced many future wives and mothers into this dirty business. All the money they earn through this awful, thankless work, they take home—to their children and mothers. They don’t buy expensive cars or diamonds like local prostitutes do. One day, they will stay home and forget the horror they went through.
Mirela and Alexa leave for Romania on Wednesday, December 9. On Tuesday, we will be together one last time before a long separation.
Another page of my life in Germany will turn in three days. The first part of this book will end on Wednesday.
I still haven’t told much—for example, that I plan to work with Vanessa and the hotel owner. They invited me into the company. I’m learning real estate. My design skills are useless here. The car business has stopped forever.
