German, tall, powerful, attractive, client of my corporate past in one of the big international software companies I used to work for. Trading in Mühlheim, rising up through the ranks in Cologne, at the very top in Düsseldorf as CFO, raking it in throughout Germany during a planned mega insolvency. In the run-up, planned loss of share value.
“No, darling, you needn’t buy these shares, not at IPO and not later. Never!”
Says Charly the insider, forbidden Champagne prickling on my velvety-soft skin.
When the insolvency hit home across the German Republic, we were no longer acquainted. Sixty-nine salmon-pink roses delivered every Saturday to the Lüneburger Heide where I lived at the time. Every Saturday - sixty-nine, no other number delighted Charly more! Champagne coloured lingerie from La Perla.
“Are your breasts really this big?”
I hear his manly voice breathing through the telephone, establishing my “goods” with one terse question. “What are you doing now? Come on!” he demands. “Describe where your hand is! Do you use the right one or the left? Yes, that’s it!”
Moaning through my telephone, landline or mobile, as required. By him. Business trips. Luxury hotels. Me. He on top, me underneath. Practising my position. Perfectly played, right up to his orgasm. An old story. Reinvented again and again. My friend William always says:
“Most women sit on their capital - they just don’t realize it.”
He’s right. I put my capital to good use: between my lover’s legs! Nowadays just those of my God of Love, Amos. The only man there is. All the Charlies of this world, forgotten as though they never even existed. And quite probably, they didn’t.
“Come, Aelitina, come, fly out to me! To the South of France. I need you. Want you.”
Amos loves me eternally.
“I can’t without you,” he intones on the phone.
Here and now, Amos with me at the Hotel de Paris in Monte Carlo - so easy to get to from the villa, where he is spending August with Bellarosa, at the Southern French Cape of her Good Hope. Bentleys, Rolls-Royce, Ferraris are vying for the best places of sun-drenched vanity outside of this hostelry of opulence. Me at night at Jimmy’s. Me in the mornings at the spa. Me at the pool. Me at Monte Carlo Beach Club. He between my legs. My mouth between his. In bed. In the shower. In the great outdoors. Dunes, beach, sand, it’s scratchy. In the car. On the car boot. Constantly. Always and everywhere. On Sardinia, in Berlin, Milano, London, Ferrara. He has never done anything like this before. I believe him.
“You are the first, the only, my girlfriend, lover, geisha, the one who understands me! You are forever,” he says.
Spellbound, exhilarated, drunk with lust. Laughing, I soak up the unforgettable magic of his words.
“You, only you,” I whisper.
Moan during sex into all eternity. At the Four Seasons in Milano - stopover. I’m waiting for you. Checking myself in the mirror - make-up, hair, perfume, lingerie, a dress. Precautionary measures again - again, separate suites. No financial expenditure was too great to ensure our sweet secret would remain just that. To maintain the perpetual thrill. Only the sheets could give us away now -our fragrance - the heat, the sweat! He bought me: with his love, his emotions or that which I believed, I wished for, I hoped. Addicted! Completely!! Because at this point in time, nothing is more attractive to me than his power, his control, that which I regard as love. So beautiful, so simple. I surrender, he wants me. And nothing in this world is hotter than surrendering to him, this attractive, intelligent, wealthy, international, emotional, demanding man. Using all my feminine wiles. Such a pleasure to see him dependent on me. Orgasmic!
That summer, I decided to go with Aurelia’s idea: he’s the best, he loves me, I want a baby! Naively, I ask her:
“How do I do that? Got him used to being careful - I don’t use contraception.”
Aurelia advises:
“Just don’t let him out again! You’ll see - you’ll be pregnant before you can count to three!”
She should know, she has three children.
“And how do I do that?” I ask Aurelia, uncertainly.
She laughs and says:
“I think you can manage that, don’t you?”
He was inside of me and I wouldn’t let him out. He loved it! Me, I’m imagining a baby.
“What are you up to?” Amos, my God of Love, asks me.
“I want your baby,” I say and am reminded of Romy Schneider in Sissi.
Yes! From now on, he never wanted to get out of me again... He couldn’t wait to come inside of me. To come into me. Just never get out again. Never ever get out. It will happen...
All worries and troublesome thoughts, from Bellarosa to the possibility that he might not support me, had gone overboard. Feeling no fear, no danger. No warning would have worked now. Never. There was only he and I. He even wrote our story - even named me by my original name in his book: Maria, who had his son. Aelita, the mother. I think of the stable in Bethlehem and of “Saint Joan of the Stockyards”. Brecht between virtue and greed. His story is Don Giovanni, told and interpreted by his son, whom he never saw. Never knew. In his story. Suddenly both men find each other. The son is a teenager by then and they spend all their time philosophizing about Don Giovanni. Amos’ book is published in late summer -just for a few people. So he says. Published by his “communications company”, the publishers of philosophy. Published as a special kind of silent movie. His love of art, philosophy, of himself - his second “Laurea” at over forty years of age - tired of all those many directorships and board meetings. Another luxury he allows himself. He needs new toys. Me. The Barbie of the modern age. Helicopter flying in Southampton. Then me again. It’s like a drug - more! Only the fantasy turns into reality - YOUR FANTASY... One day you don’t evade your trauma anymore. Not your emotionally impoverished mother. A harsh woman. Full of inner poverty. Incapable of showing emotions. Of witnessing, feeling, perceiving them in others. A poor communicator. Poor in every respect. Amos is the second-born, after the tragic death of the first daughter.
“A boy! What mother would not be happy?” Amos asks.
Amos, the man I, the Queen of Mars, chose as my God, my Amos, my lover, Amos. His mother gave him that name for the dead baby of her “patrone” - the family she worked for as a maid. Yes, in Italy maids have “patrone” - that’s owners. A life of serfdom. Who cares, as long as there is enough money! Amos is flying to the stars. With me! In a helicopter or a private jet. In his dreams, his fantasies. You dreamt of Petunia... you called me SORELLINA while you screwed me... little sister, and you told me about her. When she was so small and so innocent. Even today, you like young girls, just about eleven years old, that’s what you say. You talk about the daughter of a friend, regard her - eleven years old - as a perfectly mature, complete woman. You even know those sites on the Internet where you can find them, touch them. Is that your fantasy? You say that you love me like you love her, your sister. Petunia is so ill, poor woman. Always under medical care. Not even your mother can cope - that’s why she is forever on Procida, can’t bear to watch her child die. The only one with her is that dutiful fool of a clerk, a humpbacked pen-pusher at the local municipal offices... her husband. A good job for one like him. He, good enough for one like her - Petunia, his sister. A minimum of non-fertile womanhood, married
