Creamo

I’m checking in when you pull up to the valet in a cream 1983 Alfa Spider Quadrifoglio.
You say ‘fuck’ and ‘grazie’ and throw the keys to a boy who’s eyes widen as you swing long, tanned legs out, in nothing but bikini bottoms and a thinning white linen shirt, unbuttoned from the third,
sleeves rolled up like a man,
a hint of dark nipple visible through the fabric.
Your eyes narrow at me as you storm past.
I look away, then hazard a second glance.
You stride back and demand to know:
‘Do you drink?’
‘I do.’
An appraising stare.
‘Meet me at the bar in 20.’
The scent of nicotine and a sweet, dank body odour lingers after you.
The Italian summer heat accounts for the damp in my armpits, but not the damp between my legs.

‘Due aperitivi per favore.’
Your gravel-tone order to the barman (for us both) interrupts my meditation on the provincial patchwork of farms down the mountain (really a distraction from my nerves, and to look mysterious).
‘So who are you, why are you here?’ you grill.
‘Uh, I’m in Italy processing a dual passport; I have to stay in the country so I’m travelling around a bit. I read about the Basilica di Santa Margherita here—‘
‘UGH I was there today. It’s shit. I mean, medieval ruins, cool, but I’m scouting for a certain resonance to record a vocal for a new song and I thought that was my place, but no.
Anyway, do you sleep with women?’
I nearly choke in my struggle to keep up with this pace.
You interrogate me over a vermouth, a martini and a rosato,
interjecting often to talk about yourself,
which I should find rude but I see the way you repeatedly tuck your bob behind your ear, and the way your eyes dart to me or to the side, seeking approval.
I sense a chink in the armour.

The pianist plays Roy Orbison’s Only the Lonely and we both roll our eyes.
‘Ha, what?’ you ask
‘I mean, it’s predictable. My dad’s a session drummer, his cover band does this. What about, like… Shadaroba?’
‘Mmm, that’s sultry. Blue Angel fucks your heart tho. Wait—‘
Booze or bravado propels you over to the pianist, and next minute he’s playing Blue Angel and you’re adjusting the microphone.
You start singing and I fall
fall
fall…

Every patron has stopped talking to watch you.
You finish and stride back,
tucking that bob behind your ear again.
‘Holy shit’ I begin, ‘you’re incred—‘
You silence me with both hands,
one atop the other over my mouth,
pinning me against the bar.
I part my lips and push my tongue into your palm:
Salty.
You scowl,
smirk;
first time you’ve (almost) smiled yet.
You shove one hand into the space between my thighs
and hold the other to my neck
tender or threatening?
I can’t tell and it turns me the hell on.

While everyone else is in bed, we get naked and go swimming in the underground pool,
the green underwater lights illuminate our pubic hairs like kryptonite
as they float up and away from our bodies
weaving together when you pull me toward you
by taking one ass cheek in each hand.
We don’t kiss,
we just talk (with our faces so close together our lips sometimes touch) about how sad it is that beauty has become a dirty word in art (our hip and pubic bones, the holy triangle, occasionally bumping).
When you disagree with me your nails dig into my slippery flesh, driving your point home.

We tiptoe back thru corridors dank with decades of cigarette smoke,
naked coz it feels like a double dare,
double dark bobs dripping on the carpet.
I feel your eyes on my ass,
wet, white, wobbling like twin crème caramels.

We dry off, order dirty martinis on room service.
In your bathroom the tiles are cold;
my piss feels hot against my wet, goose-pimpled thighs.
I snoop out your dark red lipstick,
almost black,
and put it on –
you seem like an egomaniac,
you’ll love kissing your mirror image.

I walk in as you’re taking selfies in the bedroom mirror. I come up behind you, watch our reflection, trace my fingers along the front V edge of your panties,
slide back and forth over those creases where the body bulges ever so slightly out around the elastic.
You turn around, embrace me and yank my underwear up into my butt crack, hard.

‘Hey!’ I say, and bite you on the neck.
‘Hey!’ you mock, and push me onto the bed.
As I fall backwards you suck two fingers into your mouth;
barely have I hit the mattress than,
with no warning,
you plunge them deep into my pussy –
it takes my breath away.
My lips find your lips,
my hands find your tits,
and there I’m anchored as you push in and in and into me,
harder and faster than a dick,
matching or mocking my moans
with that raised brow and smirk combination,
smug to have found my little shortcut switch inside so easily,
watching me like a cat teasing it’s prey
as I fold up and cry out
(the first of three).

After we’ve stroked and spread and tasted each other all the ways,
we watch videos of FKA Twigs pole dancing,
suck each others fingers,
roll over and fall into sleep,
back to back
like two walnut hemispheres,
spines touching.

The Mediterranean sun is high when it penetrates my lids.
I wake you, tracing a finger from behind your knee up to your shoulder blade.
You check your phone;
‘I’m meeting friends for chianina con patate.
Come.’
It’s an order, not a question.
You shower and come out wearing nothing but a bra under your open suit, and a defiant stare, willing me to ask ‘is that all you’re wearing?’
I bite my tongue and you know it by the wry smirk I’m wearing.
‘What?’ you say, knowing exactly what.
‘Fuck you’re a prick tease’ I say, slipping my hand inside your jacket and flicking your nipple through the black silk until it’s as hard as mine are.
I unzip your fly just so far as my other hand can fit inside
and slowly graze you over your matching silk panties,
nipple, clit, little circles
over and over and over.
You tuck your bob behind your ear
the better for me to breathe slow and heavy into it
(last night I learned that gets you there).
I catch you against me as your knees softly buckle
and a little kitten whimper escapes your lips,
so discordant with your tough guy image.

That’s why we’re late leaving the hotel,
but you breathlessly tell Simona and Fab it was coz you couldn’t find this pair of Grenson brogues you just had to wear;
they’re pretty sozzled on lambrusco by the time we arrive
so they don’t notice the flush in our cheeks,
or else attribute it to the mild heat of the day.
I order a Campari soda, you a Negroni.
You light up a cigarette and hold my gaze thru the haze,
left corner of your lips curled,
always appraising; I wonder if I passed the test.
I take a giant olive,
take in the view over Cortona,
lick the olive oil and the smell of you off my fingers;
lean back as I mentally compose a postcard to home:
‘Loving Italy! Wish you were here.’