It was the summer of 1997 and one of my most amazing lovers had died in a car crash. As a man of experience I have some moments of my sexual life recorded in my brain, which I revisit from time to time. She was in a few of those — but since then I never revisited. Oh not by respect, but because it was painful really. I didn’t go out with her friends after it happened by respect – to her and myself. Until then I’ve always wondered how would be the feeling of losing someone you’ve made love to — and believe me, it’s not pleasant. She was wild and very vivid, behind closed doors. A bit too mild and discreet as a person, to my taste. I would never had seen a sparkle of a chance of coitus had I encountered her on a social function. But I met her at the lobby of the Hotel d’Inghilterra, in Rome, for she had mistaken me as her escort for the night. I looked at this wonderful lady, alone, a bit embarrassed. I also saw a row of concierges and bellhops smiling awkwardly, waiting for any move from her that could be read as a request. Waiting nervously to serve her — not as I did. So I came close to try my luck, not knowing the situation, but before I could say any cheap line that would define me a as disposable fuck, she smiled in relief. And readers, that was one of the very few times in my life where I muted before a lady.
She said a very timid hello, and with her pinky gently touched my hand, then moved towards the hall. I could recover my functions swiftly enough to follow, entering the elevator right after her — as if she was leading a dance. Her uncomfortable ways, looking to the metal doors and not saying a word, made me wonder if she was English. And guess what? Then we headed to the bedroom and 48 hours later to Morocco. That was the first of seven extended weekends we spent together over 5 years. I know precisely how many for they were in different seasons, cities and heartbreaks she’s been through. We never spoke about money, but after that first weekend her bodyguards paid me — and I didn’t really know how to react. They asked me for contacts and after I spelled out my welsh cottage address I was given 5 grand in cash. A good six months later and I got a call to see her in Monaco. When I opened the door of that rented house in La Condamine, she failed on her attempt to look excited and started to cry, falling in my arms. And there we stood for about 10 minutes. Thankfully I was never paid again. And after that day, at least with me, she never cried again.