It was 2011, and I was traveling solo in Italy. Wandering around Florence and Tuscany with my camera, no phone, and sensory-overloaded bliss. As a single girl in Italy - it was exciting, if a bit lonely. I was fresh off a string of mis-matched short-lived relationships. There was the Russian tango dancer, the soon-to-be famous entrepreneur, and the reality TV show producer - a motley crew of total charisma and zero emotional maturity.
One of my friends gave me the assignment to take photos of the hottest Italian men I saw around Italy and post them to my blog. As there is never a shortage of hot and obliging men in Italy, I completed the assignment in a single flirtatious afternoon. After my first steamy blog post, my female friends began asking if I had slept with any local homegrown Italians yet. As they say in Italian… “No.” At the time, I was still a strict sex-only-within-a-stunted-relationship type of woman.
I realized I needed to get with the times. I decided, “Dammit, I can go casually fuck an Italian man if I want to!” But, a few months of puttin’ out the vibe passed with no salami. On my last day in Italy, with zero Italian guy notches on my new Italian leather belt and my deadline looming, I went to dinner determined to bring someone home.
I went to one of my regular ristorantes in the Oltrano district, where my favorite waiter asked for my order by saying “Tell me everything” with a high-wattage smile. I’m a sucker for a great smile. And anyone who serves me.
A couple glasses of vino rosso, truffled burrata, and a bistecca later he was headed over to my place after closing. My Italian mama - the woman who owned the Villa where I was staying - politely tried to talk me out of my late night rendezvous. But this was my last night in town, and I was going to fuck an Italian while I was in Italy, and nobody was going to change my mind! So I ran across the street to meet him at the home of a good friend (who was out of town and cheering me on).
The sex was meh at best - starting with his razor stubble arms, chest and abdomen ripping up my skin. (Since when do Italian men shave their body hair?) But it was nearly game over when my shirt came off, and at the sight of my perky full tits, he gasped and exclaimed in a thick accent “Whooz da lucky boy?!”
From then on, the smile I had loved looked like a geeky, too-eager man-boy about to eat a plate of homemade gnocci. But I let it slide and redirected to insisting on a condom. He tried twice to be sly and take it off. Ugh. I should’ve kicked him out right there. Instead, I insisted he put on another and sped things up to let him finish and fall asleep. While I went out on the patio solo to finish myself, and a glass of wine, in the nighttime air to savor the remainder of my last night in Italy.
The next morning, with great enthusiasm, he tried to get laid again. No grazie. I gotta go. I walked him to his bus stop while we chatted a bit, and thought: Well you did it, you had casual sex with an Italian. They can't all be great. As his bus approached, I asked “By the way, where in Italy are you from?” To which he proudly exclaimed: “Albania!”