Dear Charlie

Dear Charlie,

When I came to Spain, I felt like I could start again with a clean slate, rebrand my name and forget everything about the old me. It's so much harder than I thought. After all, it's hard to forget you and Fran whenever I see an opened bottle of root beer perspiring in the sun, slowly losing its fizz and carbonic flavor and all. God. I miss you both. I wish you both can play house with me in my new apartment and set aside your third world problems, even for just a while.

You'll like my new housemate, Carolina. Unlike bitch Linda, Caro’s a sassy, happy-go-lucky Bolivian bitch in her thirties who knows how to party. She's always up for a good time, inviting her fabulous gay friends over to our place. Energy is just radiating from her, even though I sense she might be going through some sortufa mid-life crisis.

Last week, she went on a wild clubbing and drinking spree with her hot gay friends from Madrid. On the final night of her escapade, she stumbled home completely wasted, bringing along a handsome Irish dilf she met on Tinder. Their thirsty energies rapidly swarmed all over the entire living room. I didn't want to play third wheel and I wanted Caro to enjoy the long night so I retreated early to my room to give her and the hot dilf some privacy.

Late late that night, I felt our thin walls trembling and heard Caro moaning in intense pleasure. It sounded like she was biting her lips and trynna keep her screams contained but I could tell that the dilf was very good at dominating her will power. I imagine his hard shaft ripping her big moist Bolivian pussy apart again and again as she squealed uncontrollably with ecstasy.

The next day, Caro couldn't even look me in the eye. She had that guilt-ridden expression of a child begging for forgiveness from her parents. But deep down, all I wanted to do was give her a big wet kiss and congratulate her on a job well done. Little did I know that Caro is an even bigger tramp than I am. If I had known that earlier, I wouldn't have felt the need to hide my own wild sexcapades from her.

Oh, C, something’s not right with me. Ever since I moved to the Airbnb and reclaimed my independence from bitch Linda, I've been having the time of my life cruising late at night with hot Spanish guys, riding giant Serbian and Italian cocks, and invading the West with my sex. My libido is worked up all day, every day and I'm not sure how to get a hold of it. Sooner or later I gotta get a hold of it, C. I gotta get a hold of it before I lose my mind and burn out. I really thought I'm past the period of sexual exploration turns out, I'm just getting started. Oh, but I promised myself to take things slow for a change.

Starting next month, I'm planning on abstaining from or at least delaying any sexual activities (with cheat days for emergencies, of course). I've heard that delaying intimacy with partners can increase sexual tension and pleasure. Do you think it works the same way for you? I'm trynna be serious here, C! I wanna feel like a fresh virgin again. There's a 99.9% chance that I'd fuck up my goal being surrounded all the time with hot guys flashing around their big hard cocks at me and a horny af housemate but I wanna do this, Charlie. I'm serious about this. Believe it or not, I wanna preserve my body and soul and my tight pussy for the love of my life if he can just trust me in this very delicate whore to Madonna transition phase I'm going through.

Swear to god, C, I think I can do this. If I fuck up, I'll try harder again next time. But, swear to god, Charlie, I can do this.

Please tell me I can do this…

***

Post-script:

Oh, C, let me explain my reckless involvement in these wild sexscapades. You see, I'm young, independent (thank goodness I escaped from that dreadful Linda), and this vibrant city is like a mouthwatering feast for my senses.

But amidst these euphoric nights, I can't help but feel that each encounter with a foreign man, whether it involves true intimacy or not, gets woven into the tapestry of my narrative. That simple thought alone is a bittersweet melody, a sentimental ode to the fleeting connections I've made. It may sound silly, but in my girlish thoughts, I see my own vagina as some sortufan open portal for globalization.

I know, I know. I sound like a total loon bag right now, C. And maybe in a year or two, when my thirst for novelty has waned, it’ll finally sink in—that the true epidemic here in Europe, one far more alarming than any other, is the pervasive feeling of loneliness that has silently taken hold of me.