A Fifteen Minute Stand

I meet Marco as I exit the Uffizzi Gallery.  He asks me for directions and tells me that he recently moved to Florence from Rome.  It is very important that I believe he is lost and that he is a sophisticated Roman.   He looks sophisticated in his cashmere scarf and leather jacket.  I tell him that I am also lost and looking for a restaurant that was recommended to me by a museum employee, but he does not care about what I have to say.  He tells me that he is a personal trainer to Italy's elite athletes; he is a massage therapist; a great cook; and of the astrological sign of Leo.  Sometimes, he talks on his cell phone in Italian to someone he says is his mother.  He says he is born in 1977 because he wants to know my age. I tell him that I am born in May of the same year, even though I lie.  Then, he asks if I am in Florence with someone else. I tell him that my girlfriend is waiting for me at the hotel.  Even though I am inFlorence alone, I want him to think that someone knows of my whereabouts, but he is more interested in seeing if she will join us (at first I don't understand what he means by this).  Then, he invites me to go to his apartment for coffee.  I believe him because I think that that line is only used in American movies as a code for "come back to my place for sex."

We walk the streets very quickly, leaving behind the Arno River, the train tracks and the African emigres who huddle on street corners to talk. This part of town is not pretty. The streets are uneven, the buildings are decrepit. I ask God to give me a sign if I am in danger, and I see a gargoyle handle on a doorknob.  Then I ask for a bigger sign, and I trip on the uneven pavement.  A bigger sign, please?  I have never been to a stranger's apartment in a strange city for "coffee." It seems adventurous.

Then, I am in Marco's apartment.  It smells musty and is barely furnished.  There is an unmade mattress lying on the floor by the front door.  My heart beats fast.  I wonder whether I should run out the door.  But Marco does not scare me.  He is handsome with big, blond wavy hair and blue eyes. He does not make coffee.  He goes to his room and changes into some shorts.  Then he offers to give me a foot massage.  I take of my boots and tights and lie down on the mattress with the dirty sheets and pillow case.  He rubs my feet, but he does not have the touch of a massage therapist. As a matter of fact, he grabs at the soles of my feet.  Then he starts to feel my thighs.  Still, I do not move.   I wonder whether this is what a quickie feels like. He never kisses me.  He is like a prostitute who refuses to put any feelings into the job.

I am not turned on, but he is. I tell him that he must get a rubber, so he goes back into his room and returns prepared.    By now I feel cheap.  I am also very dry.  It is difficult for him to have sex with me.  But, he tries very hard. He says I am like a virgin.  There is some truth to his observation. He is the third man I have ever been intimate with.  I just want him to get it over with.  He whispers in  my ear that he is going to "fuck me like a bull," (I guess he makes a connection between sex and my astrological sign).   I moan louder because I want him to be done.   When he comes he does not make a sound. Then he gives me a kiss and tells me that I have beautiful skin.  He says that he has an appointment and that I must go right way. He puts on his clothes and coat, walks me out, locks up his apartment door, and points me in the direction of the river.

On my walk back to the city, I see him walking with another American woman, who laughs and smiles at his jokes as she walks with him to his apartment.