Friday night. Three guys. Galerias de Paris.
My buddy says he knows a gin bar with good milfs. We trust him. We shouldn't.
We walk in. Go downstairs to the lower floor. The music is fine. The drinks are fine. The women are not milfs. They're gilfs. I'm talking 60 plus. Full makeup. Dancing like it's 1985. God bless them but this isn't what we came for.
We finish our drinks fast. Since that night I call him "the gilf guy." He hates it.
"Plano B?" I say.
Nobody argues.
Plano B is one of those Porto spots that works every time. Dark. Loud enough to feel something but quiet enough to talk. Two floors. We go downstairs.
I find the smoking area. I sit down and light a cigarillo.
If you don't smoke, I get it. But a cigarillo in a smoking area in Porto is a conversation starter better than any pickup line ever written. You sit there. You take your time. You look like you're not trying. Because you're not.
Two minutes. Maybe three.
She sits next to me. Spanish. Dark hair. Dark eyes. The kind of face where you don't need to check the body because you already know.
"Que fumas?" she asks.
We start talking. Half Spanish, half English. She's from Barcelona. In Porto for the weekend. Open. Direct. No games. Spanish women don't do the shy thing Portuguese women do. They look at you and you know within thirty seconds if they're interested.
She's interested.
We talk for maybe twenty minutes. I don't buy her a drink. She doesn't ask. We just talk. About Porto. About Barcelona. About why she left Spain for the weekend.
I pull out my phone. "Give me your number. I'll take you to breakfast tomorrow in my neighbourhood."
Here's the thing. When a woman gives you her number after you invite her to your neighbourhood, she knows what she's doing. She's not confused. She's not being polite. She sees two things: you're not desperate, and you have the balls to invite her close to your home.
Why not invite her straight to your place? Because it's not safe for her and she knows it. The coffee shop nearby signals safety but also opportunity. If she chooses to walk home with you after, that's her decision. You just made it easy for her to make it.
Some women will shit test you. "Is it because it's close to your place, hihi?" Just smile. She already said yes. The question is for herself, not for you.
She types it in. No hesitation.
We go back to our friends. The night continues. Nothing else happens. I don't push it. I don't try to close that night. Some guys would. Some guys would ruin it.
Next morning. I text her. "Breakfast. 11." With a Google Maps pin to a coffee place near my house.
She says yes.
She shows up at 11. We walk to a cafe near my place. Eggs. Coffee. She's even better looking in daylight. Little hangover but relaxed. Laughing. The conversation flows naturally.
After breakfast we walk. I guide her towards my home. "Here I live. Come in, I'll show you around."
She nods.
We enter the apartment and start kissing. End up on the sofa fucking well. Spanish women know how to do it.
That was a nice Sunday. By the afternoon I have to kick her out because I have another woman scheduled for the evening and still need to prepare my work schedule for the next week.