I started selling when I was fourteen.

A friend of mine painted on empty cigarette packs covered in gold leaf.
He created them.
I carried the bag, knocked on doors, sold them, and collected the money.

Fifty percent each.

At least that’s what he believed.

He never understood what my real business was.

My father understood me much faster.

He used to store olive oil and wine in our basement.

I had a duplicate set of keys.

When he left the house, I opened the cellar and sold his inventory.

At first he thought he had solved the problem by taking my keys away.

Then he noticed the furniture inside the house was disappearing too.

One chair.
One table.
One lamp.

Day after day.

Eventually he threw me out because, according to him, I was dangerously close to selling his wife too.

The funny part?

I didn’t smoke.
I didn’t drink.
I didn’t use drugs.
I didn’t gamble.
I didn’t care about luxury.

One day the president of my rugby team asked me what my real vice was.

I told him the truth:

Women.
And travel.

My love career started when I was eleven.

Fifty years later, I’m still on active duty.

Ugly women do not exist.

Only men too blind to understand them.

Women give us life.

And if we’re intelligent enough, they also teach us how to make fewer mistakes.

Years later, I walked out of a brothel in Bangkok with some American colleagues.

They asked me how I managed to stay inside for four hours with no money…

…and walk out happy.

With money.

Religion calls it a mystery of faith.

I call it a mystery of women.

Good evening.