THE MALE CHAUVINIST - An Erotic Autobiography

Part One - II - III

II

By the way, I no longer drive a beat-up Golf, but a roaring black Alfa Romeo as dark as the night, a 200-horsepower beast with turbo, xenon headlights, and alloy wheels. Samuele gifted it to me; he got a family car and there was little to no point in keeping the Alfa. Since he's put on weight, he's also passed on a bunch of clothes to me. I know, I'm lucky to have such a successful and plump brother who gives me shirts, trousers, and cars. I drive through the hamlet of Pieve de' Salici, slowing down because of the speed bumps, cursing at the driver of the Mini tailgating me, one of those hotheads who don't feel manly unless they're speeding at 120 km/h and sticking to your bumper as if they want to push you along. Remember, speed is one form of madness. Another is the Thermomix.

I arrive in town and stop the Alfa Romeo in front of the Corallo, which is closed at this hour. Figures. Nightclubs don't open before midnight unless they host matinees, but that's for morons. Puzzled, I get out and look around. The Boiardo fortress stands solid before me, with its 16th-century aplomb. From a window, through the crisp October air, comes the voice of the jovial Jerry Scotti hosting his quiz show.

The streets of Scandiano are quiet, and there's no sign of Jacopo... or anyone else. In these little towns in the Emilia region, it's as if there's a curfew at dinner time. Shops close sharply at 7:30 PM, and by 8 PM everyone is home gobbling down cappelletti and guzzling Lambrusco. I call the Bedouin. "The customer is not reachable at the moment," says the recorded female voice of the phone company.

In front of the nightclub, there's a bar, and miraculously, it's open.

Caffè Carpe Diem

"Five minutes," I tell myself. If Jacopo doesn't show, I'm heading home, and when he calls, I'll tell him to go to hell. It's the least I can do.

Caffè Carpe Diem is one of those old-time bars, with a zinc counter and padded stools, where the glorious representatives of the elderly in the Po Valley guzzle "bianchini," play Briscola, and discuss the Gazzetta dello Sport. The only touch of modernity in this establishment is a young woman, busy writing in a notebook—about twenty years old or so, straight hair, slender, with glasses and sneakers. "Can I get a beer?" I ask the bartender—a robust man with thick Peppone-style mustaches. "Damn straight!" Smiling at that genuine response, I clear my throat loudly hoping the young woman would lift her head. No luck. She seems absorbed.

I grab today's edition of La Repubblica from the shelf and start flipping through it. An article titled "Chess Accused of Racism" catches my eye. It appears that some brainless person has sparked controversy by promoting the absurd notion that chess is racist because white always moves first. Huffing, I close the newspaper and check my phone, just in case Jacopo has sent a message. "Got a light?" The voice, somewhat faint and with a quiver of shyness, reminds me of the peep of a chick.

I look up from my Huawei screen... Lively eyes peer at me through the dark-framed, teardrop-shaped Ray-Bans popular among students. In front of me stands the Girl Next Door—slender, flat-chested, a face neither pretty nor ugly, but likable and intriguing due to her plainness. Her skimpy, furry sweater accentuates her thinness and the long, floral-patterned gypsy skirt might categorize her among the neo-hippies, who I know from experience are quite libertine.

She's about five foot three. A wispy chick, by the eye, attractive for her years, especially.  I wish I had a little spider like that clinging to my cock, continues my exceedingly high inner monologue. "If you offer me one, I'll keep you company," I smile.