The Ferrari & The Bicycle

 November 2002. I was single again. The silence in my apartment should have been peaceful, but my innate restlessness hated peace. It needed a target.

I didn't waste time. I logged onto ICQ, the digital playground of the moment. That’s where I found Joana. She was two years younger than me, cute in her pixelated photos, and we had a weird connection: her brother and her snobbish sister-in-law worked at my company. We chatted, and I set the stage quickly. Coffee, then The Lord of the Rings at the cinema.

My assessment in the dark theater confirmed the photos: cute smile, small frame, and a cleavage that looked promising. She wasn't wild, but she didn't seem shy either.

I decided to apply the "Beatriz Curriculum." I took Joana to a cozy restaurant by the river—good wine, romantic atmosphere. Afterward, on a bench watching the water, I made my move. Arm around the neck, kiss on the cheek, then the lips. She accepted it.

A few days later, we were alone at my place. I started undressing her, eager to see the goods.

Disappointment number one: the cleavage was an architectural trick. Her tits were much smaller than the packaging suggested. But I could work with small tits. I went down on her, licking and teasing. She seemed to enjoy it, but she lay there like a statue.

Disappointment number two: I was still fully clothed. She made zero effort to touch me. I took off my own clothes and stood there, hinting for a blowjob. Nothing. She just looked at me, waiting for the next service.

Maybe she's shy, I thought. I climbed on top. She moaned, she came, she seemed happy. But for me? It was like fucking a mattress.

She was passive, silent, and entirely selfish. She treated me like a vibrator with a pulse—a machine designed to service her, requiring no maintenance or enthusiasm in return.

We went to the countryside for a weekend, hoping the fresh air would wake her up. It didn't. She was a "Starfish"—pretty to look at, but motionless. Then came her ski trip with colleagues. While she was gone, I realized the truth: I didn't miss her at all.

I missed Beatriz.

I broke up with Joana the moment she returned. The whole affair had lasted barely a month. I had traded a Ferrari for a bicycle just because the bicycle was newer, and I had realized my stupidity in record time.

It was January 2003. I decided to fix my mistake.

But Beatriz was a proud woman with a strict philosophy: when a chapter closes, the book is burned. She had told me once that she didn't believe in staying friends with exes. When I called her to wish her a Happy New Year, her voice was ice. She was polite, distant, and completely inaccessible. I had hurt her, and she had already moved me to the "past" folder.

Then, the universe gave me an assist: The Red Hot Chili Peppers were playing in the city.

Music had always been our language. She went on the first night; I went on the second. I took a risk and called her after the show to compare notes. The shared adrenaline of the music cracked the wall just enough.

"I'm going out tonight," she mentioned, her voice thawing slightly. "To the old club."

I grabbed Ricardo and raced there. The club was small, loud, and familiar. She was there with a blonde friend. I played it cool, dancing nearby, letting the rhythm bring us closer. The coldness evaporated. This was the real Beatriz—smiling, provocative, alive. We started dancing together. Then came the kiss.

God, I had missed that. It wasn't the dead-fish kiss of Joana. These were real lips—velvet, warm, demanding.

"Let's go to my place," she whispered before the lights came on.

Walking into her apartment felt like coming home. We didn't even make it to the bedroom. We crashed onto her small, uncomfortable couch, tearing clothes off. I went down on her, tasting that familiar landscape, hearing her loud, unashamed moans.

But the real homecoming was when she pushed me back. She went down on me. After a month of starvation with Joana, Beatriz’s mouth felt like heaven. She devoured me with the skill of a master.

We moved to the bed and spent the rest of the night reminding each other what we had been missing. The next morning, lying in the tangled sheets, we had the talk.

"We're not doing the on-and-off thing," she said. "I know," I replied. "I was stupid about the future."

We decided to stop playing games. No more separate apartments, no more fears. That same day, I packed my bags.

I moved in with Beatriz.