The Man Who Made Love to More Women Than Casanova: And the Apocalyptic Aphrodisiac

By Lorenzo Baccalà

The famous Venetian Don Juan, Giacomo Casanova, made love to 132 women and G about 300. G, a bachelor, is now retired from the world of sex adventures. He traveled the world having only one night affairs with women in different countries and cultures. He concentrated solely on sexually satisfying women by employing a broad range of personal skills which he describes in vivid detail. Interestingly enough, his amorous adventures began before our sexual revolution. He compares his wooing ways with women of all types- White. Black, Asian, Hispanic, beautiful, attractive and average to highly intelligent ones describing in detail how they reacted and surrendered to his variety of stimulating sexual rituals from domination to mnage trois to drugs. He believes the authors of the Kama Sutra were amateurs!

After his story ends, G, in a philosophic mood, muses about both modern sex in America and on the soon to come arrival of the first pansexual aphrodisiac.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: May 9, 2013
• ISBN: 9781481743846

Lorenzo Baccalà

Lorenzo Baccalà is, among other things, a social philosopher who ponders over the impact of sex both on individuals and life in general. Once he read what has become one of his favorite quotes. “Sex is like fire. It can warm up your home or burn it down.” He observes that sex is now everywhere and, paradoxically, little is reliably written on the details of the art and science of making love to women let alone the other way around. Because of G’s vast sexual experience with women, Lorenzo concluded that, unlike books or editorials on sex scandals, descriptions of his real-life encounters with women have immense educational values for both sexes. One night, while having drinks at the famous King Cole Bar at the distinguished St. Regis Hotel in Manhattan, he, with great difficulty and calling upon all of his persuasive powers about the need of such a book, convinced him to be interviewed for it. G, however, recognizing the heavy criticisms which will inevitably follow its publication, insisted on one unbudgeable condition – that he remain anonymous. He currently lives in isolation in a small cabin on top of a mountain but promised to keep in touch on sexual matters by writing a column on sex, G’s Spot, at www.thedecraptitationsociety.com.

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© 2013 Lorenzo Baccalà All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 11/21/2013

ISBN: 978-1-4817-4386-0 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4817-4385-3 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4817-4384-6 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013907242

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Table of Contents

Meet G

G’s Story Begins

G’s General Profile of Women

G and Kissing: The First Step

G Explores Domination

G Says, There’s No G-spot!

G, Muff-diving and the GMD

G’s Take on Faking Orgasms

G’s Adventure in Wonderful, Wonderful Copenhagen

G Compares Domination to Seduction

G and Black Women

G and Asian Women

G and Hispanic and Spanish Women

G’s Encounters in Trains, Planes, and a Convertible Mercedes

G and the Big Sur Taoist Gal

G and the Tantric Gal

G and Prostitutes

G Held Hostage by a Nymphomaniac

G and the Brazilian Hose

G Sings Rigoletto at the Villa d’Este

G and Female Entertainers

G and Lesbians and a Ménage à Trois

G’s Naked Culinary Experience

G, The Monster Dildo and Nose Jobs

G’s Gondola Contessa under the Bridge of Sighs

G’s Experience with Silicone Breasts

G and Beastiality in Saturnia

G Struck by a Mexican Thunderbolt

G’s Black Curse

G’s Reflections on the Apocalyptic Aphrodisiac

LA DEDICA

To All the Girls I’ve Loved Before,

Who traveled in and out my door,

I’m glad you came along.

Thanks for the memories!

Your Humble Servant, G

Meet G

This is a very unusual book about a very unusual guy. His name is G. He claims that he’s made love—and I now have no reason to doubt him—to more women than the great lover Casanova.

We met at a dinner party while I was in medical school in the early sixties, and we hit it off right away and have remained friends ever since. He’s a very charming, dynamic, and open guy, and we both like to talk about subjects such as philosophy, politics, religion, and social things, such as what’s going on in our country. Though our discussions about the latter sometimes included sexual subjects over the years, they were almost always limited to social patterns, such as contraception, freer sex, and homosexual marriage. We uncommonly discussed actual details of our or anyone else’s private sex life. We are both very private men and were taught by our parents that we should mind our own business.

For decades, he traveled the world extensively, beginning before the computer was used in flight-reservation systems. He made a healthy amount of money and is now retired. He is now busy doing other things, which I can’t reveal for reasons of confidentiality. Because of distance, we meet only about three or four times a year, but it’s a kind of friendship that, like a great wine, gets better with time. In general, friendship comes in many forms, and I often wonder why some people hit it off for long periods of time. Wise old Aristotle and brilliant Francis Bacon wrote extensively on friendship, but the bottom line is that I haven’t the slightest idea why our friendship has lasted and strengthened over time. Anyway, who needs a reason?

One night, G and I met for a couple of drinks at the St. Regis King Cole bar, one of our favorites, in Manhattan. It’s a small but elegant bar. An attractive waitress approached the table to take our order. G did not seem to notice. When she brought the martinis to our table and leaned forward toward G and not me, showing her wares with her low-cut décolletage, G did not look her way.

A guy at the next table had a big, booming voice, and we couldn’t help but overhear him now and then. He said he’d read about the great gigolo Porfirio Rubirosa and how all the rich and not-so-rich women went nuts over him and his enormous organ. Some gal had even fainted just by beholding it. He added that Rubirosa was one of the greatest lovers in American history.

G gently kicked my shin under the table, leaned toward me, and whispered, Not so. The guy was an amateur.

I must confess that this took me by surprise, so, out of curiosity, I asked How the hell do you know?

G, smiling, quickly shot back, The guy was really superb at making love to the rich and famous. Though it is said that he made love to tons of women, the evidence is simply not there. He wasn’t a Casanova by any stretch of imagination. An even bigger smile came over G’s face. Now, if it be true, there are a couple of big-hitter lovers living today who put Casanova to shame. My assistant told me that she read that Warren Beatty made love to 12,775 women over a thirty-five-year period, which calculates to about one a day. I doubt, however, whether they were all different women. But, if his story be true, the greatest lover of all time is Fidel Castro. He made love to two different women every day—one at lunch and the other at dinner—for forty years, which calculates to 29,200 different ladies. Maybe that was his main motivating force to conquer Cuba.

It’s funny how patterns develop among all kinds of people but particularly those who have been married for a long time. God knows how many times G and I have had martinis together, but we more or less always finish our drinks about the same time.

I called the attractive waitress to our table and asked for a second round, and, once more, G didn’t acknowledge her presence. And, once more, when she returned with the drinks, she repeated the same subtle, sensual ritual—and, you guessed it, G continued to ignore her existence.

I was about to turn the subject matter of our conversation to the next presidential election, but something in G’s remarks about Casanova made me curious, and I decided to pursue the topic. It was that instinct thing that grows among friends. I felt that G’s statement had been more than just an off-of-the-cuff remark. As an opening, I asked, G, what do you know about Casanova? He’s an historic legend, but is there anything out there that documents his amorous conquests? Is it all bullshit? I mean, is the guy for real?

Good question, Lorenzo. For sure the man was a very bright and intellectual guy who wrote novels and papers on mathematics and even dabbled in astrology. He had Mozart, Voltaire, and even Ben Franklin as friends. He was a wild guy, the kind who grasps life to the utmost. A number of years ago, a friend gave me a copy of his memoirs, which is longer than all of the books that I had previously read in a number of years, and I didn’t read much of it. He wrote in detail umpteen episodes of his life, which makes me wonder whether he made some of them up. I can’t remember what I did last week, let alone twenty-five years ago. But no doubt he was a guy who made love to lots of women of all types. And some of his descriptions confirm my experiences with women.

This last remark hit me like a thunderbolt. I knew that women easily took a liking to G, but to compare Casanova to himself struck me as being way out of character for him, particularly since he isn’t an arrogant guy. In fact, in all occasions that I’ve been with him with other people around, he has rarely, if ever, talked much about himself. Intuition took charge, and I decided to make a move that normally would have been out of order. I asked, G, if Casanova made love to lots of women, how can you, with your experience that doesn’t nearly match his, say that he correctly read women?

G extended his arm for a handshake and said, Lorenzo, that’s a very legitimate question, and I understand why you ask it. Then he sipped his martini and remained silent. During this brief moment of silence, the big voice of the guy at the next table invaded our privacy again, lamenting about how poorly his divorce was going. I could see that G was disturbed by this public discourse of a private matter.

The second martini was halfway down the hatches when G leaned forward a second time and whispered, "Lorenzo, I made love to more women than Casanova. You’re both the first and the last person to know this. Capisci?"

How many women did the guy take to bed?

In his memoirs, I believe he says 132. It could have been a little bit more. It doesn’t matter. My count is way above this number.

I couldn’t believe it and was at a momentary loss for words. G was either pulling my chain, was a pathological liar, or was telling the truth. I knew that G was not a liar, and I figured it would have been impossible for him to far exceed the number 132, so I concluded that he must have been joking. G, I know that you’re pulling my chain, but I’m clueless about what you’re up to. Is there some humor in these Don Juan credentials? What’s the catch? Am I supposed to laugh?

There ain’t no catch, my friend; there ain’t no catch. In fact, I could kick myself in the ass for bringing it up. Maybe that big mouth next to us, along with the martinis, triggered a long-suppressed part of my brain that wanted to be free to tell the world about all the gals I loved before. But it’s not going to happen, so let’s move on to another topic.

I, as anyone else would have, had real problems accepting the fact that my friend for many decades claimed to have made love to more women than Casanova and then didn’t want to talk about it and changed the subject. I was pissed off and got aggressive.

G, you’ve got to be off your rocker if you think you can walk away from what you just said. It’s like we’re two physicist buddies and you discovered that the quantum theory and classical physics are compatible near black holes in the universe, but you don’t want to discuss it with me. Are you fucking nuts?

Silence followed. G and I then lifted our glasses and polished off what was left. We exchanged glances in a silent discussion about whether we should have a third martini. Then G said, Let’s split one, for we’re over our limit. We called over the attractive waitress, and the same ritual was repeated. It was only then that I began to have an inkling of how he operated with women.

I decided to go for the jugular and said, You can at least tell me how many women—I’m talking about a number—you’ve taken to bed. Okay?

G asked, Are you talking about individual women and not repeated episodes with them?

Individual.

He sat back, gazed at the ceiling of the bar, and said, I’ve never calculated a precise figure, but over a thirty-year period, I would estimate about ten each year, which adds up to about three hundred ladies. Wait a second, and let me think about it a little more.

G, deep in thought, swirled the ice around in his martini glass and then said, The number is about right. Maybe a shade less. Only God knows how and why I did it. What I can tell you, my friend, it was not about the search to have orgasms. It was something that just was, and I’ve experienced something that perhaps few men have or ever will. Women, in a sense, have taught me more about life than men.

A crazy idea suddenly jumped to my mind, and, without hesitation, I excitedly blurted out, Hey, G, why don’t you write your memoirs about your lady escapades? Except maybe for Beatty and Castro, there’s no one out there with anywhere near your life’s experiences with women, and what you have to say can help women deal with life in these crazy, changing times.

G leaned back in his chair and paused a little. I think the idea hit the curiosity part of his brain, but he answered, No. It’s too risky. The shit will hit the fan, and the book and I will be attacked from all kinds of people, from religious organizations to feminist media. It’s a no-win deal, and, frankly speaking, I don’t want it. And, there’s no doubt that even if I write under a pen name, someone will find out who I am in our non-privacy culture. At my age, Lorenzo, I need that like a hole in my head. Also, Lorenzo, I don’t feel like writing a book about me. In addition, as I said, unlike Casanova, my memory of the past is not good—never was. So most of the moments have been forgotten or are blurs. And here’s a big issue: though most of the times the ladies and I didn’t use drugs, they were used a lot in fantasy types of situations and played a critical role in making them happen. I’m not talking about heavy use—but enough to move the ball, if you know what I mean. To describe my experience with them in a book is kind of risky, even in today’s open culture.

G reached for his martini, took a sip, and said, Nope, no way, Lorenzo. No way. My skin is now too thin. I loved the battles of life when I was young, but that was long, long ago.

I refused to accept this. "Listen, G, I know where you’re coming from, but what you have to offer is not just about your love life but what happens in the sexual world where no one has been. In a funny kind of way, I believe it could help many millions of folks who are heavy into sex and confused about it. Men and women are now in a new world of sexual relations, ranging from hanging out to open marriage. There are lots of books out there about sex, but most are written by therapists, researchers, and novelists who made love to only a few women. They rely heavily on what they read, what their patients tell them, or surveys covering various aspects of sex, from how often high school students take drugs and have oral sex on the fire escape to how many times tired working women have sex per month. There was a great article in the New York Times Magazine, describing the frustrations of horny husbands to get a blow job, let alone the real thing. It didn’t happen. There was another article—I don’t remember where; I’m having memory problems too—describing how a baby-boomer wife was still raring to go, but the husband had little interest, even after she bought him Viagra tablets. I—"

G interrupted me. Lorenzo, my experience has been with women, not men. If I have any words of wisdom to offer, it’s for women.

G, I disagree. It’s obvious you haven’t thought about it in depth. It’s for both—maybe even more for men. I think it makes sense to assume that men can learn much about women from a guy who made love to more women than Casanova.

G smiled and said, Lorenzo, you’re right. I really hadn’t thought much about it. But it’s all academic since I’m not going to sit my ass down and write the book. In addition to the reasons that I already gave you, I just don’t have the fire in my belly to make the effort. And let me add that what I have to say may not be helpful in today’s scenario, where times have changed and everything goes. Today, oftentimes sex is like eating a hamburger. In fact, it’s almost as easy to find as a hamburger. It’s everywhere, from elementary schools to assisted living homes. It’s frequently a momentary hit of pleasure with nothing metaphysical or mystical about it. In a sense, sex is more masculine than ever. Historically, what men wanted from sex was primarily an orgasm, after which they would walk away. Women usually wanted more than men from the act and rationed their availability. Now, with the pill, antibiotics, and the lifting of social restrictions on the broad significance of sex, women have become more like men. They just want their orgasms and, like men, easily walk away.

Look, Lorenzo, let’s take a quick look at history and how certain cultures handled sex. Bottom line, there were always ground rules that limited acceptable sex practices, but there were always gray no-no zones where partners were quietly allowed to trespass.

I was interested in his remark about women walking away and asked, G, you don’t believe that women are now walking away after their orgasms, do you? That’s a big statement. Do you really believe it?

He took a sip of his martini, smiled, and, kind of in a wondering mode responded, "Lorenzo, you son-of-a-gun, you know me well. You’re right; I’m really not sure. My experience with women of all types and different cultures tells me otherwise, but when I look at what’s going on today, I’m really not sure. Technology is changing everything, and I have