—–OOPS….this comes after A Persistent Memory….
It’s been a while since I’ve sat in this seat with coffee, prawn salad sandwich and a lap-top.
Not much has changed except for the bar staff; two strangers paid to smile and be constantly cheerful.
The laughing banker-boys are not here today. Perhaps they’ve migrated to another watering hole. I found them mildly obnoxious, but I still miss them. Odd.
On the left by the window, four lady-shoppers sip gin and tonics, natter and giggle; their leather handbags by Bottega, Givenchy and Alexander McQueen stand alongside plastic Harrods and Selfridge bags.
If you could see me you’d note the vaguely belittling smile on my face. I’m not proud of it. I am mildly envious of the pretty, pampered creatures with their Rolex watches and Gucci pumps. I admit it – I’m a snob. I’m proud of the fact that I work bloody hard for what I have.
Anyhow, back to my recent visit to Italy.
Just as we had all changed since my last visit, the house too has also been altered. I don’t know why I was expecting it to be exactly how I’d left it on that fateful day so long ago. I suppose it’s like being used to a friends face, and then running into them after it has been tucked and tightened by a plastic surgeon; the same but somehow different. Nicer but still disappointing. Just imagine being given bigger breasts – an improvement, but somehow missing the familiarity and comfort of the original smaller ones.
A classically Italianate extension had been added to the east-wing, for Vitalia and her growing family. The floor of the outdoor dining area near the pool had been re-laid with an intricate blue and white mosaic of Aphrodite bathing; and the orange and lime orchard has been dug up and transplanted well away from the main house, making it possible to extend the lawns and flower borders.
Like all good reunions, a lot of time over dinner this evening was spent giving run-downs of all that had happened in the intervening years. When it came to my turn to give an account, I didn’t leave out too much. But as you might guess, my relationship with the Sicilian, the Canadian, the strange dark skinned gentleman, (of whom I have yet to tell), Inga and the others, (again as yet untold to you) are still a closely guarded secret between you and me.
I did come clean about my stop over in Thailand, but left out the salacious details of the brothel and the reason for my eventual, tearful flight in the middle of the night.
If I’d been meticulously truthful, I’d probably have been called a puttana (whore), and kicked out of the house with orders never to return.
All evening I was aware of eyes that followed me………
“My younger brother wants to carry you off and make you his sex slave,” Vitalia laughed, when we were alone in my room later that night.
I made a surprised face. “He does?”
She giggled. “You mean you didn’t notice the hungry looks he was been giving you all evening. It’s a good thing his fiancé is arriving in a few days to distract him.”
“You forget that I’m a happily married woman.”
“You might be, but unfortunately my beloved brother is no respecter of matrimony. In fact I think he prefers them married and initially unwilling. The more they struggle the harder he chases. They all give in to him……..eventually.”
“Kicking and screaming, I suppose?”
She laughed and sat down on the bed. “I’m sure they kick and scream, and scratch and bite, but afterward they keep coming back for more. I’ve seen his cock, so I’m not surprised they fall on their backs. It’s much bigger and prettier than my husband’s more moderate weapon.”
“The size of a man’s cock isn’t everything.”
“It may not be everything, but a nice wide cock is a comfort in the night.”
I didn’t know what to say so I asked the obvious question. “Aren’t you satisfied with the size of Carlo’s penis?”
“It’s OK…. I suppose, but Carlo is always so fucking gentle when he makes love.”
“That’s because he loves you.”
“In that case, I’d like him to love me a little less and brutalize me a little more. Is your husband always gentle?”
“No. Not always.”
“Lucky you. What is he like when he makes love?”
I looked at her for a minute. It was an extremely personal question, but we’d always had a fairly no-holds-barred, no subjects off limits relationship.
“He can be rough sometimes,” I began, “but I know he loves me and would never really hurt me…. too much.”
“Does he actually hurt you then?”
There was a gleam in her eyes and I knew what she wanted to hear. “He’s got big hard hands and it does hurt when he spanks me. Sometimes chokes me… a little.”
She shivered with a kind of glee, and I could see that her mind was creating pictures of my words. “I’d love some of that, but Carlo’s not the type.” She hesitated a moment. “Has he ever taken you the other way?”
“What other way?” I asked, although I knew exactly what she meant.
“You know….the other way – in the bottom.”
I should have lied, I know that now. “A few times, yes.”
“I’ve seen pictures of women being ass-fucked and I’d love him to try it. I did once sort of suggest it, but he wasn’t keen. He called it a mortal sin.”
“What’s Giovani’s fiancé like?” I said trying to change the subject.
“Oh, as you might expect. She is tall, elegant, beautiful, aristocratic and best of all, fucking loaded.”
“She sounds perfect.”
“Oh she is, if you enjoy screwing a porcelain doll. And I can’t see her taking it up the pooper either.”
“She’s a cold bitch and still a virgin….apparently.”
“Really! You mean he hasn’t….?”
“Nope. Astonishing isn’t it. By dear brother has fucked women, married and single, the length and breadth of Italy and he chooses to settle down with the only one who won’t share his bed. ”
“He must love her a lot.”
“The only thing Giovani loves is her father’s millions, and the fact that she’s probably the only twenty-something virgin in southern Italy. Their children, if she lets him between her thighs after they’re married, will be very beautiful. But I have a feeling she isn’t the type to allow anything to push out her flat belly, let alone stick it’s bloody head out of her tight vagina.”
“Giovani does want children, I take it.”
“He hasn’t said. But he’s Italian, and you know Italian men.”
“Not really,” I said quickly, recalling Marco the Sicilian.
She laughed softly and lowered her voice slightly. “Nobody knows this, not even my husband, but I wasn’t a virgin when I married. I had five men in the thee years I was at university in Milano.” She sighed, a smile of memory spreading over her face. “First there was Paolo, then Michel, Aldo, Cesare and best of all Franco. Carlo wasn’t the best lover, nor did he have the biggest or nicest cock. That prize goes to Franco. I fell for that handsome bastard, in my final year. I still pray that he catches something really serious and that his beautiful cock falls off. So I know a little about Italian men. They are mainly dominant in the bedroom, as well as being sensitive lovers. They love their daughters, but wives have to give them sons. They can also be lying, cheating sons-of-bitches.”
“Carlo isn’t dominant I take it?”
“Hardly….most of the time I’m on top. I married him because he made me laugh, because loves to go down on me, and isn’t the type to chase other women. Not like my dear philandering brother. I’ll be surprised if he isn’t off screwing some other woman within a month of getting married.”
“When is the wedding?”
“Next June. It’d be nice if you came, but Isabella is likely to take one look at you and mark you down as trouble, with a capital T.”
“Why? I’m no threat to her.”
“You might not be, but my brother might find it hard to explain the bulge in his pants when you are in the room.”