ValerieMoretti

I am 30 years old and, even if I do not say it out loud, I feel at a very special moment in my life: I have confidence in myself, I am more aware of my desires. and much freer to imagine whatever I want. It's not being perfect that interests me. What interests me is to feel alive. And to be honest, for me, it's always been a matter of desire. I like to feel sexy. Not in the superficial sense of the word – although, of course, I love a dress that fits me perfectly – ​​but sexy in the way I communicate: the way I talk, listen, bite my lip without realizing it when something or someone stimulates me.. My sensuality lies in what I let appear. and also in what I don't let appear.

I am very romantic, yes, but not sentimental. I like complicity, long looks and soothing silences. An intelligent conversation, a well pronounced sentence, a well felt pause seduce me. There is nothing more erotic for me than to feel that someone really sees me. I read all the time. I am one of those who walk with a book in their bag. Words excite me. Imagination, play. Sometimes I read something that makes me sensitive. Other times, I imagine scenes as I turn the pages: empty libraries, old offices, voices reading softly as night falls outside..

And then there are my fantasies. The ones that come back, the ones that reinvent themselves, the ones that I confess sometimes, and other times that I keep to myself. Sometimes, I imagine myself in an old Parisian bookstore, alone, in the middle of dusty shelves. I approach a collection of poetry and I feel like someone is watching me. They ask me what I read. I'm recommended something. They follow me. There's nothing sexual yet, just a tension that stretches like an invisible thread. I like foreplay, this eroticism that feeds on suspense. Other times, I imagine myself in a night train to Venice, with a private cabin, traveling with a stranger. The idea of not knowing who he is, but something in his presence that makes me imagine all that we could do to each other. me remue. I'm excited about the journey, not the destination. The enclosed space. The whisper of the train as the backdrop of a silent and growing desire.

I also have this fantasy: being in a luxury hotel, alone, in a red dress, inventing another identity. Be someone else for a night. Sitting at the bar, ordering a glass of wine, crossing eyes with someone who knows nothing about me. No name, no history. Just an alchemy. And let the night decide everything.

Words excite me. It excites me when you write to me. No photos, no emojis. Words. Descriptions. Details. Long messages where someone tells me what he wants to do to me, without hurrying. If he can write, he's already halfway to my bed or my head.

I find it exciting to play someone else. I imagine myself a stranger, in another country, without names or rules. I fantasize about fleeting encounters, without past or future. Just bodies looking for each other. It gives me a freedom that, in real life, I rarely grant myself.

I don't always say it. Not everyone knows. But at the bottom, it's me: a woman who lives between books, travel and fantasies. Who loves romance, but also the game. Who believes in the magic of a slow kiss, a well-pronounced sentence, a well-directed desire. I like to explore my mind as much as my body. And even if I like to imagine, what I desire most. It's someone with whom I have nothing to keep to myself.