It was supposed to be a solo vacation. All about solitude. Dedicated to focusing on myself, taking care of myself, loving myself. Pushing beyond my limits. I deliberately avoided bringing a girl from Milan. “I’ll prove I can be perfectly fine on my own”, I said.
It was supposed to be a vacation where silence would cloak me, letting my inner voice express who knows what profound insights.
Well, it was supposed to be like that. So why are my hands under an elegant black suit, caressing warm Russian breasts in my Manhattan suite?
And I know it doesn’t surprise you. Nothing ever surprises you with me, huh. I try not to be a caricature of myself, to put myself out there, to push beyond the boundaries of the usual. But I’m just a man, like Montalbano, with my own limits and characteristics that make us all a bit like characters.
The warm Russian tits
Warm Russian breasts, as we were saying. A suit that for a little while longer conceals her body from my inquisitive gaze. The black of the dress contrasts with the albedo of her complexion and with a brilliantly bright smile of thirty-two teeth. She looks at me, tender and hopeful, cuddly, almost timid.
It shouldn’t be like this:
She’s twenty-four.
She’s Russian.
She lives alone, without a sponsor, in one of the most expensive cities in the world, where a burger and two fries cost eighty dollars.
Moreover, I met her on the most questionable of dating sites, an infernal circle where unscrupulous she-devils skin lonely men, too proud to admit they’re cannon fodder.
Yet she has this sweet face and innocent air. She doesn’t even have the typical Russian bitch face. “Well, let’s read these cards a bit”, I think, as I undress her.
She, shyly, tells me “If you want, I have some cute lingerie in my bag”.
“I want, go ahead”.
And she goes, all pretty, trotting.
In the meantime, I put on her white fur coat. I stand on the couch to see how I look in the mirror in front.
And that’s how she finds me when she returns, still trotting. She’s wearing two pieces of fabric that must have cost a fortune. I’ve never understood the world of lingerie: the less fabric they use, the more they charge you.
I lift her onto the kitchen table, gently spreading her legs. “This suite is really nice”, I think as I caress her pussy.
We’re under a vintage chandelier, with beaten brass leaves encasing filament bulbs from another era. Around us, brass finishes hide all the comforts of modern man.
I’m in one of New York’s oldest hotels, the Hotel Chelsea. Home to artists, writers, and cursed souls. Andy Warhol, Sid Vicious (who killed his girlfriend right here), and even Madonna in her early days lived here. Bukowski, Mark Twain, and other cursed souls wrote here.
And here, now, the Magnificent is getting laid.
The Magnificent’s loneliness
But there’s no point in acting cool. I felt lonely, to tell you the truth. On the first day, I was euphoric, excited about a vacation just for myself, dreaming about everything I could do. By the second day, I realized I’d done very little, partly because I had to work and partly because of the jet lag. On the third day, I forced myself to go out for walks, but I could feel the shadow of a lack of human contact looming over me.
The fourth day is Christmas. I decide to spend it in a jazz club, at the Blue Note in New York. A great night. I’m by myself but I’m not alone: music brings everyone together, sharing emotions and leaving room for reflection. A perfect synthesis of being in your own head and being present with others.
I miss Piccolina a lot. The fact that I live like this, seeing other women, makes her suffer. I’m letting her go, but I miss her dearly.
I also miss Ninfetta a bit, who I know is traveling around Ukraine, amidst the bombs and who knows what lovers.
Thank god for Teppistella, who writes to me every day and keeps me company.
I need human contact.
And here we are, with the Russian nurse.
The Russian nurse has been in the United States for a year. She has a degree in international relations, unrecognized, gathering dust on the bookshelf. She’s studying to become a nurse first, then a doctor. She lived with a guy for six months who first showed her the good life, then left, leaving her with the lease in her name and forty thousand dollars in back rent to pay.
It’s interesting that she doesn’t have a single word of hatred towards him. With Soviet resolve, she found a way and solved it.
Keep Italy’s name held high
As I caress her pussy, I notice she’s already wet. My hands glide very slowly and gently over her skin. I kiss her tenderly on the neck, feeling her trust in me.
I’m a bit rusty, it’s been two weeks since I last had sex, I think. But everything feels very natural. Then she tells me this:
“I’ve never been with an Italian before!”
“That’s great, I hear you guys are good in bed!”
“I wonder how much pleasure you’ll give me… Keep Italy’s name high, please!”
I think: “But – Holy cow! – do you think these are things to say to a man while he’s about to screw you?!”
I look up and see all my ancestors, from Grandpa Paolo and Grandpa Nino to that first great-grandfather with the thick hair who gave rise to my surname. They all look at me sternly, reminding me of family pride as well as national pride.
I burst out laughing and tell the girl about the scene. We laugh together. Everything continues smoothly, I take her to the bedroom. She compliments me on my dick; I force myself to remember never to believe what a woman says in bed. She says I have a beautiful nose, that I look like a Greek god. Maybe she’s lying, but this story of Alexandrian features has been following me for over twenty-five years, since the first vacation in Tropea with friends.
This was supposed to be my selfish fuck. She was supposed to be my sex toy. But of course. She compliments me. The ancestors watch me. And, above all, she looks at me all cuddly, like Puss in Boots when he’s being sly. Oh well, let’s be Latin lovers.
Slowly I caress her everywhere, my lips writing invisible words on her neck, framed by my sweet kisses. My fingers dance between anus, pussy, and clitoris, culminating in a triple simultaneous stimulation. Even before inserting the Sacred Bird, she’s already come twice.
We fuck.
“Thank you”, she tells me. “I was a bit scared. I’m not used to meeting men on dating sites, I didn’t know what to expect.”
I tell her I want the tip, twenty percent, as is customary here in New York.
And finally, we get under the covers, indulging in a long session of cuddling. More than sex, what I needed was precisely this human contact. To be hugged. To cuddle.
I feel completely recharged. My mood is through the roof.
I really start to enjoy the vacation in New York. From this moment on, all the moments alone are magical. I go to Broadway twice, visit Central Park. I walk with a smile.
I’ve realized that to be happy and content alone, I just need intimate contact about every twenty-four hours. And so I see her two more times, once a day. She’s my therapy, my cure, my magic tonic like in Yattaman cartoons.
The second time I focus more on myself, I get a proper blowjob. I like how she blows: she has nice lips, a sweet face, and good technique.
The third time I bring out sex toys and an anal plug but – let’s say – the absence of a bidet in American culture makes me desist from continuing.
I’m off. She’s cute, she keeps writing to me. She makes me promise that I’ll host her in Italy, that she’ll come with a friend, that she wants to visit Venice.
“Okay, but Venice is dangerous… I’ll host you only if you put it in writing that you won’t fall in love with me”, I tell her.
I act cool, but here the one at risk of falling in love easily is me.
It’s time to leave, away from the snow of New York, towards the warm beaches of Miami.
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