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“He is beautiful,” I whispered, unable to look away from David’s perfection. We passed by unfinished sculptures by Michelangelo, and while you could appreciate the skill that each of the uncompleted works had, nothing could keep me from drifting to David. Staring upward, I studied the hands on the famous statue and then the feet. The form of his legs, his cock, the beauty of his stomach and face. Donvino stood at my side, patiently, his hand tight in mine, telling me tidbits about the statue that was stealing not only my breath but my heart. I swiped at the tears gathering in my eyes, unsure of how a man who knew nothing about art could be brought to tears by viewing a sculpture.
I turned to look up at Donvino. “You are beautiful too. Thank you for bringing me here.” I rose to my toes to kiss him, just lightly on his mouth. He met me halfway, the touch of his lips to mine stirring up all the emotions. I giggled, then cried, then sniffled, then snorted, then fell into his arms. David stood above us, a testament to the beauty of the male form.
“Would you like to see more here?” he asked, leaning down to pat my wet cheeks with his fingertips. “Or would you like to go home?”
“You live nearby, right?”
“Well, in the city, yes. Do you want to come to my place? It is…” He stooped down to allow me to snap a few hundred shots of him, me, and David before steering us away from the statue to allow others to get closer. “My apartment is small. Not as grand as your room at the villa.”
“Any room that you’re in is grand,” I replied and got a shy, brilliant smile. It took us some time to leave the gallery, as there was just so much to see. Finally, we stepped back out into the heat. Donvino led me through the city, stopping only once on the way to the train to buy some postcards to keep as mementos. As if I would ever forget this man. Somewhere, way in the back of my head, a craggy voice that I didn’t recognize began whispering to me.
Do not give your heart away. This is only an extended holiday. If you fall for this man, leaving next summer will shatter you. Be cautious.
Sitting on the train, with Donvino’s thigh pressed to mine, I tried my best to recall what part of my conscience could be speaking. Then it hit me. This strange voice was my common sense. Huh. So that’s what it sounded like. I was expecting it to be more akin to a grasshopper in a top hat. No, wait, that would be my conscience and a cricket. Are they the same thing? Maybe. Still, it was interesting to hear from that part of my brain. It rarely spoke up.
Untrue. You just choose not to listen.
Oh okay, so Arlo Grasshopper was going to be that guy. No wonder I blew him off all the time. Just like I was going to do now.
I tipped to the side to rest my head on Donvino’s shoulder. He tipped his phone to show me the video of a rowing team he had been watching. His competition was this weekend. I’d not told him yet that I couldn’t attend because I was a sniveling coward. Not that he needed me there to be magnificent. I was sure he would win all the medals or trophies or whatever they handed out to rowers. Golden paddles? Not a clue, but he would do well. Still, I did need to let him know soon. Maybe after we had some time alone in his place. Kisses would soften the blow.
Jumping off at a tiny little stop with several other folks, we jogged across the street to where we had parked at a local superstore called Ipermercati. It looked a great deal like Wal-Mart to my American eyes as we darted in to buy some wine, crackers, and cheese. We split the cost, jogging back to his bike and racing to his home. I held onto him tightly, forcing myself not to let the impatient drivers intimidate me. I’d yet to bring my sweet little Bianchina into the city proper. I’d been using it to drive to farm 20 almost daily now, as I’ve been working in the business office to ramp up social media for the Bonetti Farms Olive Oil franchise. Also, I had to reassure the workers that the bus was on its way—Bianca had run into some difficulty finding parts for such an old minivan.
Signor Piravino didn’t seem super keen on me telling him how to do this and that online or suggesting how to interact with workers. The older man did not have the mindset of many younger workers, the kind of workers the farm so desperately needed. We’d come to loggerheads once already over simple things like longer lunch breaks. I’d thought of going over his head to my father, but instead of doing that, I made the call to add fifteen minutes. The workers were thrilled. The farm manager? Not so much, but tough. The days of gangmasters were over, at least on Bonetti Farms Olive Oil, and hopefully, all the mills that we associated with. Yes, I’d done some reading on migrant workers and the conditions some lived in despite my family thinking I was some sort of wastrel cock hound.
“Hotel.” Static. “Backup.” Static. “Nunnery.”
I came back to the here and now at the crackly dialog. Glancing to the left, I just caught the view of a lovely hotel situated behind tan walls with a large black metal gate. We moved too quickly to see much of it as the road turned sharply at the gate. We slowed, coming to a halt about a block from the hillside hotel. Donvino eased his bike in between two others that looked to be in the same condition. Not that I had any room to dis someone’s ride. My little jitney had mouse nests in the heater vents, which I had to clean out by hand. I did that in the driveway. My aunt had not been amused, tutting at the balls of urine-soaked stuffing and calling my car something that Alessio had translated later into ‘stinking piece of shit,’ which was not true. Okay, it was kind of true that Greenie did stink a little, but she was mine even if the smell of mice wafted out of the vents when you had them open.
Is the car truly yours? Lies do nothing but foster more lies.
Ugh, Arlo Grasshopper was annoying. Mostly mine. Okay, fine, I drove her, but she legally belonged to my aunt. There. That was the truth. How the hell did Pinocchio not squash his little shoulder bug with a shoe?
Once the bike was quiet, I removed my helmet, slipped off the tatty seat, and studied the homes on this street. Tight. That was my first impression. The houses were packed in side-by-side, most with itty-bitty front areas that held some potted plants, no grass, and a door with a name on a thin mailbox.
“This is me,” he said, gathering up the helmets and leading me into a doorway with one sleepy orange cat curled around a withered tomato plant in a pot. “I live on the top floor. Very small. So small I think maybe we should go somewhere else.”
“Small is fine. I once hooked up with a guy who lived in a New York flat that was the same size as my closet.” Donvino looked stricken. I shuffled the bag of wine to my other hip. “The closet, not the guy. That didn’t sound nearly as compassionate after coming out as it did inside my head. Stop worrying about it. Honestly, I’m here to spend time with you.”
He smiled, feebly, then unlocked the front door. We climbed two sets of steps, him with helmets and food, me with a bag of wine. A TV could be heard playing on the first floor, a baby crying on the second. By the time we reached the top of the stairs, the temperature had climbed about ten degrees. Sweat beaded on my upper lip.
“Is hot up here, sorry,” he whispered, placing the snacks on the floor to unlock the thin door with his name DONVINO MARINI scribbled on a blue note card and taped to the wood with strapping tape.
“It’s fine, truly.” The door opened with a squeak and he moved inside, hustling ahead of me to turn on a fan sitting atop an old desk. Stepping in, I paused just long enough to take in the sparse one room flat with slanted ceilings. There was one window in the front overlooking the street, the shutters tipped up to allow some air into the stuffy room. “This is quite the manageable sized apartment for a busy single man.”
“You’re being gracious again,” he teased. It was a compact space, with a desk, a dresser, a bed, and a coffee table heaped high with magazines, hand weights, and empty orange juice boxes. Along the far wall in the corner was a kitchenette area with a tiny fridge, a sink, and one lone counter for a dish drainer and coffee pot. “It is a flea trap on the back of a rat as my grandmother says, but it is mine. The rent is cheap. I’m close to my job, and I can have friends over for wine and crackers.”
I padded over to put the wine into his hand, easing closer to him, his eyes flaring darkest brown as I went to my toes. He blindly placed the wine and snacks on the coffee table.
“I hope I’m more than just a friend,” I whispered, carding my fingers into his hair to pull his sinful mouth down to mine.
“I think you are,” he replied after the kiss ended, his breathing ragged just like mine. “I would like to be a lover to you.”
“I’d like that too, very much,” I panted, sliding my hands up under his tee to feel all that definition I’d been drooling over nearly every morning since arriving in Italy. “Very, very, very much,” I added, pinching his nipples as his mouth reclaimed mine. Suddenly my feet left the ground, strong hands cupping my ass as Donvino hoisted me upward. I moaned into his mouth as he carried me to the unmade bed in the corner. Our tongues tangled and teased. I nipped at his lower lip then sighed dreamily as he placed me on the rumpled mattress as if I were a porcelain doll. “Undress me, hurry!”
I writhed about on the bed, my cock painfully pushing on my zipper, as he went to his knees between my legs.
“No, no hurry for this.” He ran his hands over my thighs and down to my calves, removing my leather loafers with infinite care. He kissed my ankle bones, then rubbed the bottom of my foot over his stubble. “For this I take time.”
