People have wandered through my life like travellers passing through an ancient, mystical bazaar. Some left only faint echoes of their footsteps, others lingered like a perfume that never quite fades, and a select few carved their names into the architecture of my heart. Some friendships came with a dash of intimacy, others with shared pleasures, and a few with adventures that could make even a seasoned storyteller raise an eyebrow. And then, of course, there were the crushes.
Agata, the Polish gamer queen, a priestess of indie titles, and a goddess of Steam achievements. She has cantaloupe-sized breasts, a few strategically placed tattoos, and a personality as rare as a AAA game without micro-transactions. She’s nearly judgment-free, refreshingly honest – like a sacred, bug-free patch update for the soul. Talking to her is like inhaling crisp mountain air – or at least, the digital equivalent, where the lag is nonexistent and the vibes are immaculate.
She has graced my inbox with high-heeled, tatted foot pics (absolutely my thing) and, on special occasions, a selfie with just the right amount of mischief. A tease, a temptress, a damn fine enigma. 🥵 Would I love to see more of her, more often? Of course. But I don’t ask aynmore. She’s got her own battles – bouts of insecurity, shifting moods, the weight of her own thoughts. I’d be a pretty lousy friend if I started pestering her for attention when she’s trying to keep herself afloat. Lately, she has also been super busy with life-redefining changes – something I absolutely hope will move to completion. So, I give her space, but space doesn’t mean absence – I still send the occasional message, a little reminder that she’s in my orbit, that no matter how far she drifts, I’ll still be here, signal strong, connection stable. Game on, babe!
Then there’s Amber. I was 30, she was 20 – soft-featured, effortlessly stunning, with a glow that made some of my friends whisper, “Uh… are you sure she’s not 12?” 🤦🏻♂️ Yes, obviously. She might have that unfairly youthful glow, but I assure you, she was well past the age of rolling her eyes at judgmental Karens who think relationships should come with perfectly synchronized birth certificates – as if everyone matures at the same pace like pre-packaged avocados at a supermarket. Of course, Amber became my wife a few years later, because some crushes aren’t just passing showers – they’re full-blown hurricanes, sweeping you up, spinning you around, and before you know it, you’re putting a ring on it and bracing for the wild, beautiful storm ahead.
And then there’s Kari. I met her when she was a teenager, back when I was in my mid-20s, and our connection has been a slow-burn novel – emails, WhatsApp, the occasional treasured Skype calls, and phone chats. But two years have passed since our last conversation. Life happened, boyfriends happened, and the tides pulled her in a different direction. Still, I think of her sometimes – the blonde bombshell with breasts the size of watermelons, an ass sculpted by the gods, and those damn tan lines that could short-circuit a man’s brain. Then there was that blue bikini – my personal Mona Lisa, a masterpiece that burned itself into my memory.
But Kari wasn’t just a head-turner – she was unapologetically herself. Whether skinny, curvy, in-between, she never let it define her. I always wished I could be there when she was down, not just as a voice on a screen but someone who could hold her, cook her a meal, give her a break from the noise. Hell, I’ve even daydreamed about being rich and setting her up with a house and a music studio – just so she could create without worrying about rent. If only past me had been smarter with money.
And then, Tahliya. The most understated in the chest department – large oranges at best, no tattoos, no excessive flash. But damn, she felt good in my arms whenever we hugged throughout 2012. Her warmth was welcoming, her empathy made me feel fuzzy – things that shone before 2015 and, briefly, flickered back to life from March to June 2024. I’ve entertained plenty of what-ifs about her too – imagined a life where I had the resources to give her the stability she never quite found, both emotionally and sexually.
Yes, of course, I’ve indulged in the dream – the fantasy of my own little harem, a perfect quartet of passion and companionship. Amber, Agata, Kari, and Tahliya – an empire of affection, with me as the benevolent, ever-devoted emperor, or gardener. Alas, Agata thinks all Asians look the same, so I’d just be another face in a lineup of Mao Tse Tung, Kim Jong Un, Ke Huy Quan, and Bruce Lee. Kari? She once looked at me like a predator eyeing prey during our long-distance Florida beach rendezvous, but let’s be honest – she’s just a natural flirt. I’m 99.99% sure I rank somewhere between trusted friend and amusing distraction. Like a conch shell she picked up off the beach, listened to briefly, and then casually dropped back onto the sand when something more interesting caught her eye. Tahliya? A walking paradox, a swirling storm of passion and uncertainty, saying yes and no in the same breath. And then there’s Amber. Well, we have sex 3-4 times a week. That counts for something, right? Not exactly the fantasy, but hey, it’s a close fantasy in the making!
Each of them – a different kind of attraction, a different kind of story – all woven into the intricate, unpredictable tapestry of my life. Most of them still make me smirk, still make me wonder, still make me feel like a fortune cookie cracked open with every trip around the sun, revealing a new, unexpected message each time.