The Hattrick

 The dating game is a volume business. While I was cultivating Helena and dodging the "Wild Scorpion" Vera, I had another line in the water.

Her name was Patrícia.

We met online during the same frenzy of chatting. The digital chemistry was decent—she was polite, conversational, and seemed interested. We arranged a dinner in the city to see if the pixels translated to reality.

Patrícia was my age. She wasn't ugly, but she wasn't a prize either. She carried a few extra kilos, but over dinner, she revealed her history: she used to be obese. A health scare had forced her to lose a massive amount of weight recently. I congratulated her, we had a pleasant meal, but I left the restaurant feeling lukewarm. There was no spark, just a mild curiosity.

Then came Christmas. Helena became my primary focus, and Patrícia faded into the background. But when Helena went away for New Year’s Eve, I found myself with an empty schedule and an itch to scratch. I circled back to Patrícia.

We met in the first days of 2007. I chose a restaurant close to my apartment. The logistics of my apartment were... sparse. I was still setting up, and I was waiting for a new couch to be delivered. When I invited Patrícia up after dinner, I didn't have a romantic lounge area. We had to sit on hard, uncomfortable kitchen chairs, watching TV at an awkward angle.

Despite the lack of comfort, I ran my standard play. I stretched my arm out, resting it on the back of her chair, eventually draping it around her shoulders. She didn't flinch. I moved to kiss her face, then her lips. She was easier than I expected. The uncomfortable chairs were abandoned quickly for the bed.

But when the clothes came off, my excitement evaporated.

Patrícia had lost the weight, yes. But gravity had won the war. Her body was a landscape of loose skin. Her tits, her belly, her legs—everything sagged. Her ass, usually a focal point for me, was deflated. It was a harsh reality check. My erection wavered.

But I was already there, naked in bed. I couldn't just tell her to leave. There was work to be done.

She went down on me, and I tried to focus on the sensation rather than the visual. I licked her pussy, doing the basics, before sliding inside. I wasn't motivated. The power wasn't there. I was fucking her out of obligation, not desire. Patrícia, however, didn't seem to notice—or didn't care. She was visibly happy just to be touched, to be fucked. It felt like she needed it more than I did.

I finished, and she left.

For me, Patrícia wasn't a lover; she was a statistic. She was the final piece of a personal record. That week, I achieved a "Hattrick."

1. Vanessa: She had visited me for a quick, illicit session earlier in the week.

2. Helena: I had spent the weekend in her bed.

3. Patrícia: The Tuesday night capstone.

Three different pussies in seven days. It was a peak of quantity, if not quality.

I talked with Patrícia a few more times, but I knew it had to end. I was busy, and wasting time on a "lousy fuck" with no physical attraction was bad management. I let the conversation die out. I had bigger targets to focus on.