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One Night in Florence

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In May 1997 I was two months shy of my twentieth birthday & just finishing my sophomore year at St. Joseph’s College, Brooklyn Campus. I had grown up speaking a dialect of Italian at home, had taken Italian as my foreign language all four years of high school, and at college I was doing well in advanced Italian…my professor said I spoke nearly as well as a native of Florence. And so when I got the chance, that May, to leave Brooklyn, where I’d spent my entire life, and spend six weeks in Florence, studying art history (with emphasis on Michelangelo) and the deMedici family, both courses to be taught entirely in Italian, I was thrilled. Even more thrilling was that my parents agreed to let me go.

I arrived in Florence to find I was the only New Yorker in the group. The other students were all from some university I’d never heard of in Spokane, Washington, of all places. I was also the only Italian-American in the group, and thus, the only one who had grown up speaking Italian. They all knew each other already, which made me the odd girl out, a position I didn’t really mind as it wasn’t new to me. Our first night in Florence, in the boarding house, we were unpacking, and I noticed my two roommates had these contraptions that appeared to be complicated systems of ropes and pulleys. I stared, befuddled, not knowing if they were two Dominatrixes who wanted to meet and suspend Florentine submissives, or a lesbian couple looking to suspend each other. Turns out those contraptions were some manner of rock climbing gear. My Spokane roommates were outdoorsy girls…and I soon found out I was the only one on the trip who hadn’t packed some sort of rock climbing or hiking gear.

Monday through Thursday we had classes. Classes were held on the top floor of a palazzo that belonged to the Marquis d’Antinori. The Marquis himself could sometimes be seen smoking a cigar in the courtyard. It was said that he, like all the Italian noblemen whose titles had become worthless in the modern world, had to work, and made his living in wine…he had a vineyard outside of Florence. The Marquise d’Antinori, along with their two grown daughters, remained unseen to us. So we were kept busy with class Monday through Thursday, but Friday through Sunday we were at liberty. My cohorts sometimes ventured out to Cinque Terre to hike on weekends, staying gone Friday morning through Sunday evening. I, of course, having not packed hiking gear, because I owned no hiking gear, never joined them on these excursions.

Not that I minded being alone in Florence at the weekends. There was plenty to do. By day, I could shop, go look at exquisite fresco paintings inside churches, take a quick train ride to Pratto & explore that town, another time I made a day trip to Sienna. Once I went way out by the Florentine soccer stadium to go to a flea market

By night, there was The Fiddler’s Elbow, an Irish Pub. Located a few blocks from my boarding house, it had a sign on the door in English, something few places in Florence had, and raucous music from inside the place beckoned from half a block away. Upon entry, I discovered the place had something else few places in Florence had…air conditioning. Having seen the sign declaring the place an Irish pub, I made my way to the bar expecting to see Paddy O’Sullivan, or some other stock Irish character behind the bar. So you can imagine my surprise when a Samoan guy asked me, “Cosa vuoi da bere?”

“Wow, OK,” I started pulling money out, “voglio un Cuba Libra.” The Samoan guy gave me a blank look. “Rum and coke,” I said in English, “that’s all it is.”

“Oh,” he grinned, “gotcha. You sound like New York,” he said as he poured.

“I’m from New York,” I smiled.

In the course of that night, I came to learn that although The Fiddler’s Elbow called itself an Irish Pub, I would most likely never see a single Irish istanbul escort person in there, unless they wandered in by mistake. The place was staffed by foreigners, like the Samoan guy, who worked there to finance their studies at Italian universities, and aside from the occasional American-born like myself, the clientele was mostly European. Some might go so far as to say the clientele was mostly Eurotrash, and while it’s probably true no one who drank there was the head of a Fortune 500 company or a member of any of Florence’s oldest or most respected anything, I didn’t give a good goddamn. I had flown halfway around the world to have an adventure, and this seemed as good a place as any to have it. So most weekend evenings I found myself at The Fiddler’s Elbow. I always went alone, I always started out on a barstool, but more often than not, I moved/was invited to join someone/a group of people, at one of the tables upstairs. What follows is loosely based on one of those nights at The Fiddler’s Elbow.

“Bella ragazza,” the stranger to my right said, as I sat on a barstool that night, drinking yet another rum & Coke, or as the Florentines called it, Coke and rum, “come ti chiami?”

“Mi chiamo Cara,” I said, swiveling to face him, “e tu?”


“Buon conocerti, Salvatore,” I said, taking him in. He had dark hair and eyes like myself, and stood about 5″5. His shoulders were spectacularly muscular, and the black T-shirt he wore said he knew goddamn well how good his shoulders looked. Yes, it was good to meet Salvatore.

“Anche tu,” he smiled, “quanti anni hai?”

“Diciannove, e tu?”

“Diciannove,” he had this shocked look, like he couldn’t believe I was nineteen, “no, veramemte?”

“Si, da vero,” I nodded.

“Va bene, Cara. Io ho ventisette anni,” he said.

“Ventisette,” I mimicked his shocked look, “no, veramemte?” He laughed at that.

The bar area started to get crowded, so Salvatore and I moved to a table upstairs. We were joined by some friends of his. At least I think they were friends of his. I wasn’t really paying attention to them. Salvatore had them make trips downstairs to the bar so my glass never went empty. Once he found out I was from New York City, he insisted we speak English, which was fine with me. His English wasn’t the greatest, but after a few more rounds from the bar, neither was my Italian.

“You so beautiful,” Salvatore said later on that night, planting a sloppy open-mouth kiss on me in front of all his friends. “I looooove you.”

“I love you, too,” I said, my lipstick smeared. Did I mean it…who the hell knew. But he was rubbing my back while his friends talked a mile a minute, so it was all good.

“Baby, baby,” he murmured softly. “You touch me.” Without a sound, without missing a beat, I put a hand on the bulge in his jeans and started kneading it like it was dough. He started to moan, and I realized his eyes were closed. Then he opened his eyes, took my hand out of his crotch, and said “Not here.”

The bartender (not the Samoan guy, our bartender for that night was a Moroccan who spoke with a French accent) was heard bellowing about closing time. The music abruptly stopped.

“I come home with you,” I said to Salvatore, making things easy. I knew he wanted me, or at least his dick wanted me. Some rational part of my mind knew damn well he didn’t love me, didn’t even think I really was beautiful, but that part of me was drowned in rum and didn’t care…Or maybe that part of me never existed, never even knew what love meant in the first goddamn place, only knew what it meant when somebody’s dick wanted me.

By some great miracle, I was able to stand, and even better yet, I was able to walk downstairs and out the door. Salvatore held my hand, but he didn’t have avcılar escort to carry me. Outside, he led me towards a Vespa scooter. I’d never ridden before…truth be told, I was half-afraid of those things. I’d seen them, zipping around Florence, weaving in and out of traffic, sometimes getting up on the sidewalk…as if the drivers had no fear. I was more afraid to hang off the back of that thing than I was at having invited myself to spend the night with a stranger. But it didn’t stop me. All that rum had made me brave, or crazy. Salvatore got on and told me to get on. Of course I clung to him like white on rice.

“Lean the way I lean!” He shouted as he started the engine.

I may have screamed a couple times, when he took us around sharp turns…and I thought for sure we were gonna die when he took that “shortcut” down the Piazza steps, muttering “Dove si trova la strada?” (which translates as “Where is the road?”) all the way down, but by the time we arrived at Salvatore’s apartment building, which was way out by the soccer stadium, my nether region was vibrating. I wasn’t sure if I was vibrating from the Vespa ride or in anticipation of the sex we were about to have or what, but I felt alive and it was weird and wonderful.

His actual apartment was a third floor walk up. I took off my heels so as to climb the stairs as quietly as possible. Inside the apartment was tight quarters, what the Europeans call an efficiency apartment. Without air conditioning, it was hot as hell. First he showed me where the bathroom was, then he showed me the phone. It was just a regular landline phone, and a wall unit at that.

“I don’t wanna make any calls,” I said.

“No,” he said, “if you wanna go and I don’t let you go, you call four-two-four-two. OK?”

“I don’t understand.” I scrunched up my face, having no clue who I would reach in the event I dialed 4242 from his phone.

“Polizzi,” he used the Italian word for police.

“Ohhhh,” suddenly I realized 4242 was Florence’s equivalent of American 911, “but I don’t wanna leave.” At that he smiled.

I used the bathroom first…I had to pee like anything. He used the bathroom after me and on his way back from the bathroom he stopped in the kitchen to grab a bottle of red wine. When he got back, I was naked and waiting for him on the bed. We swigged wine right out of the bottle and started to kiss and touch each other. I had expected that at twenty-seven years old, Salvatore would be a man of considerable sexual experience. At nineteen, I was no innocent, but that was another story.

“You virgin?” He asked me. I was lying in the bed, legs wide open, and he was kneeling between my legs. Right before he asked me that, his hand had just barely grazed my mound.

“No,” I said, which was true.

“How many?”

“How many what?”

“How many lovers you have, baby?”

“Just one,” I lied, “and now you.” I didn’t ask him how many lovers he had before me. It didn’t matter.

His hand grazed my mound again, this time did more than graze. I moaned a bit when I felt his finger slide inside me. After he fingered me a bit, the whole time stroking himself with his other hand, his eyes gleamed and he said, “Io voglio sessantanove.” I was kind of surprised he asked for a 69, I’d always thought myself too fat to get on top, especially with my ass in a guy’s face. I quickly found out, though, that Salvatore was not most guys. My inhibition disappeared as I sat on his face, put my head down, and took his fat cock in my mouth. I knew how to suck a cock…I may have told him I only had one previous lover, but I sucked a lot of cock. His was of the uncircumcised variety, but that didn’t phase me. I had the whole thing in my mouth and worked it with my tongue, massaging his testicles with my hands. I felt his tongue deep in me, writing şirinevler escort the alphabet.

He didn’t come in my mouth. After I worked his cock with my mouth for a few minutes, I felt him tap me on the back. I sat up, drooling, and slid my ass off his face and on to his chest so he could speak.

“I go on top now,” he announced. I got off him and stood up. He stood, I got back on the bed, flat on my back, legs wide open, and he mounted me. He pushed my legs open more as he inserted himself between them. My knees bent, the full weight of him on top of me, I started moving with the rhythm of his body. I’d never had a real orgasm before that night…I didn’t think I was capable of having one. Having been raped as a child, I just figured something was irrevocably broken inside me, that I couldn’t have orgasms like a normal person. And so my plan that night was to wait until Salvatore told me he was about to come, & then say me too and sort of fake it.

He started to fuck me harder. I moaned without even realizing I was moaning. The bed springs were squeaking loud as all hell as he fucked me faster, his cock boring deeper into me. I kept moaning, having the distinct sensation that something was soaking wet, but I couldn’t for the life of me figure out what. I didn’t think I peed the bed, and I was fairly sure he didn’t pee in me. All I knew was something was soaking wet and I felt better than I had felt in my entire life.

“That’s good, baby,” he muttered, “next time tell me when you gonna come.”

“Don’t stop,” I said. If that soaking wet feeling, coupled with feeling better than I ever felt before was the orgasm I thought I’d never get to have, I wanted another one. And I got it. All in all, I had four orgasms before Salvatore roared like a bear and came. I didn’t mind that we went missionary style the whole time, I didn’t care that he came inside me. All I knew was I wasn’t broken inside like I thought I was. After we made love, Salvatore produced a bottle of Pellegrino. We drank that, he rubbed my back some more, and we lay down to sleep.

I woke up to him rubbing my shoulder as the first streaks of daylight streamed through the window. I half-opened one eye, but there was none of that where am I feeling that usually accompanies waking up in a strange place. No, I knew where I was, I remembered what we’d done. Although it was barely light out, Salvatore was already dressed. It was Sunday, and he said that meant he had to get the train to Pisa to visit his aunt and uncle. That meant my ass had to jump up and get dressed. I got up and threw clothes on. He was sorry he couldn’t spend the day with me, he said, but he visited with his relatives every Sunday. I understood. It wasn’t like I expected him to be my forever or anything. As I was putting my shoes on to go, he attempted to give me a handful of bills.

“No,” I said, emphatically, “I had fun last night. It was pleasure, not business.”

I walked out, down three flights of stairs, and out the front door. At that early hour, and on Sunday no less, the cleavage-baring top I’d worn to the bar the night before looked out of place. I walked a block and a half before I realized I had no fucking idea how to get back to my boarding house from there. Just when I was starting to wonder about the fact that all my adventures ended with me unable to return to my regularly scheduled life, and what, if anything, that said about me, I came upon a cab stand. I was never so happy to see anything as I was to see that cab stand that morning. I stood there and waited. It took about a half hour, but finally a cab appeared. The driver was a Moroccan, like most of the cab drivers in Florence. I got in the back seat, he looked at my cleavage-baring shirt, I told him the address of my boarding house, and that was that.

The sun was up by the time I got to my boarding house. I went in, climbed the stairs, said good morning to the front desk guy, and he handed me my key. I fell into bed fully clothed and slept until three in the afternoon. Then I got up, showered, put clean clothes on, and ventured out in search of something to eat. For some reason, I was starving as though I hadn’t eaten for days.

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