If you haven’t read Part 1, check that out first.
A few months after my first Italian…err, boyfriend?…has returned to Italy I find myself at the same popular (ladies drink free til midnight, woo) club. It’s January 1st. I spent my new year’s eve alone with a bottle of Martini and Rossi so I’m ready to kick things up a notch. I did skype with Italiano no. 1 (Italy is 6 hours ahead of me) for a while, long enough for him to tell me how much he missed me, but otherwise it was a little sad and lonely. I was determined to have a good time at Popular Night Club. This club has a lot of the same people and the dj isn’t that great and the free drinks mostly juice. Sometimes to amuse myself I set goals: tonight I’ll make out with three guys, tonight I’ll bring one guy home, tonight just have a girls night, ect. It’s a stupid way to justify doing stupid things. Or a stupid way to show off my honed man-trapping skills. Anyway, I took a trip to the bathroom and came back to join my friends at the bar, not focused on my game. My friend is in town and has volunteered to be my wing-woman. Pfsh, like I need it, but she’s great. I step up to the bar and this tall, beautiful man spots me. My friend is about to pull the good ol’ How I Met Your Mother line “haaaaaaaaaave you m-” but by that point he had already introduced himself and identified himself as Italian. A lot of male names sound like female names when you say them with Italian accents-his is one of those. When I put his number in my phone I hesitated when putting his name in, but he caught on and said ‘I think it’s a girl’s name here.’
There’s something about the Italian language that when Italians speak it it makes their mouths look all sexy. The Italian language when spoken by Italians is also sexy. Italian lips are good for more than talking, in case you didn’t know. So the night progressed from small talk (he lives near Venice, he’s here until October, teach me how to say ‘happy new year’ in Italian) to dance floor fornication. I’m sure those around us were not too pleased with our passionate makeout session and hands down each other’s pants. Everyone needs one of those almost regrettable, retrospectively slightly embarrassing public hookups every now and then.
Like most of my hookups, I end up taking them back to my place. I happened to be having a party that night, so I brought him back to show him off to my other friends. I showed him American drinking games, which he loved. During more stressful moments of beer pong he resorted to Italian exclamations, mostly ‘MAMMA MIA!’ Italians actually say that, isn’t that awesome? Or maybe it’s a Northern Italy thing. I’m experienced enough now to spot slight differences between regions of Italy.
The drunkenness of everyone in my apartment was a comfortable wasted. Which is why no one noticed (or cared if they did notice) when Italiano no. 2 whipped his dick out in my kitchen. I was not content to just look at it, so we made a dramatic exit to my bedroom (meaning everyone got the hint and left) for a 4 hour fuck fest. I honestly can’t remember all the details, but it was wonderful. There was a little bit of everything…cuddling, penetration, foreplay, Italian sexy talk. It was a wonderful night. He had to work early and I don’t let my guests over stay their welcome so I dropped him back home and we made plans for a date later that week.
The day of our date came and went with no word from him. I text him, in basic English to make sure my point got across, and he responds with apologies about how he doesn’t have time for a relationship. Last time I checked dinner isn’t a binding contract, so I told him I really just wanted sex so he says ‘ok i text you soon bacioooo’ (bacio meaning kisses, google translate tells me). But unfortunately I didn’t hear from him after that. Lucky for me, I’m a creep, so it’s not hard for me to track him down. One day I had training down the street from his place of employment so I just happened to stop by for some wine after work. I wasn’t sure if he would remember me but honestly I couldn’t remember exactly what he looked like either. But I walked in and his tall, dark, handsome self was standing in the corner. It was obvious he recognized me, but spent my entire meal skirting around me and making eye contact without actually talking to me. He finally came over (thank god I had a whole carafe of wine in me, all the Italians buzzing around is just too much for me) and we had an intense conversation. “You like pizza?” he asks. If you thought he worked anywhere other than a pizzeria, you are just plain sad. He updates me about his life, says he’ll be out of town for a week but will call me when he gets back. He doesn’t. I am sad.
Fast forward to two weeks ago. I’m at Popular Night Club previously mentioned, denying unworthy men my telephone number, and make my way to the dance floor. It’s hard to miss someone as tall and handsome as Italiano no. 2, so I happen to walk right past him. When he sees me he leaves his bimbo dance partner and gives me a big hug. As best I can with the awful music blasting, I tell him I went to Italy and he wants to hear about it. He’s going to be a bartender at a new Italian restaurant opening soon. He’ll call me tomorrow, he says. All this is happening while bimbo is pissed and keeps trying to pull him back; I win and he keeps talking to me. He actually does message me the next day. He types in all caps, which is awesome. not. But it’s ok because he sends me messages like ‘TI PIACE IL MIO SESSO??’ Yes, yes I do. He’s busy opening the new restaurant, but wants to see me next week. It’s now next week, fingers crossed I get to fuck him sober soon.
Now that you have all the background information on Italiano no. 2, I can get to the eskimo sisters part. In the period between him saying he’ll call me and me running into him I told my co-workers they had to get with an Italian. A few weeks later my wonderful and beautiful friend tells me of her success. He has the same Italian-but-in-America-sounds-feminine name, but it’s popular enough, right? She says his dick is not impressive, sexy time didn’t last more than half an hour, and he gave her cheap wine. Doesn’t sound like the same person.
BUT IT IS!
The next night we’re talking about it again. Does he have a tattoo on his collar bone? I ask……yes, she says. Does his family own a winery near Venice?…..yes. It’s the same dude! Which is actually just plain awesome. I’m happy to share the joys of Italians with others and find it fascinating that we had such different experiences. It’s possible his dick really isn’t that impressive, but drunk me thought it was great. (I also have a low tolerance for big dicks). I’ll report back after I’ve slept with him again, which will hopefully be sooner than later. My thoughts on eskimo brothers has always been ehhh. My mental image is of two bros intentionally scamming some poor college freshman and then high fiving after. Is my situation equally as deplorable? Are eskimo siblings a positive or negative thing? Does the fact that he’s Italian alter the circumstances?
I like to think that my sexual liberation means it’s not a disgusting sex party trick. It’s not like any of us planned this, it was a product of natural attraction mixed with a little alcohol.
Also in the part between when Italiano no. 2 didn’t call and I saw him, I went to Italy! So that’s to come, stand by.