I finished the chapter, turned the page, and rested my well-worn bookmark snug in the gutter before closing The Country Girls and placing the book on the accent table next to my armchair. Edna O’Brien’s writing inspired and frustrated me in equal measure.
A breeze disturbed the sheer curtains flanking the balcony’s doorway. The shifting air came as a welcome relief. I was no stranger to sultry weather, but this Italian summer had California’s soundly beat and I did not care for it. My nightie clung uncomfortably to my body. I pulled the silk away from my skin and fanned myself. It was so unusually hot, they had said on the tube, that The Beatles‘ concert at the Teatro Adriano had been poorly attended as a consequence. Even the locals couldn’t take the heat.
Thinking of The Fab Four made me feel warm in a different way. They were so dreamy. Especially Paul. It stung bitterly that I had arrived in Rome the day after the concert. No heatwave could ever have stopped me from going had I been in the damn country. It would have been so boss to see them in person, but sulking was unbecoming. Crying, however, was absolutely warranted. And I had cried, for at least an hour after learning I missed the opportunity of a lifetime by one lousy day.
I stood and strode out onto the balcony, seduced by the cooling wind and night-sounds, determined not to dwell on what ifs. By ten o’clock, the day’s light had gone, but the city remained busy in the dark. I held the railing and leaned over to inspect the lamplit street. Our hotel suite was on the third floor, close enough to the ground to accommodate people-watching, but not so close that I felt self-conscious for spying and eavesdropping—though I understood not a lick of Italian beyond pleasantries and insults.
An elderly gentleman crossed the street and was nearly run over by a woman riding a Vespa. He cursed in her wake as she zipped down the road. A group of rowdy friends laughed and mocked the old man, who promptly turned on them spitting obscenities, which only fuelled the blitzed men’s mirth. He gave up and stomped off, crossing the road without further incident. Shortly after disappearing from view, a boy wearing the hotel’s gray and red livery approached the noisy men to shoo them away. The bellboy turned out to be surprisingly effective at handling drunkards, and before long the street was calm again, if not quiet. The occasional car sped by, taxis arrived and departed, a handful more Vespas zipped. No accidents. The air smelled of jasmine, cigarettes, and pastries, almost perfume-like, but underneath rested the faintest notes of urine and ripe fruit. A complex scent, very different to San Francisco’s but not completely unlike it either. A pleasing smell, I decided.
Across the road, a couple strolled leisurely along the sidewalk, holding hands. They passed another man and woman but failed to notice, or simply didn’t care to notice, the horny pair necking and groping each other.
I noticed though, and cared a great deal about the lovers making out. The man had the woman pinned against a wall and he cupped her breasts while he kissed her. The woman, for her part, groped his butt.
How different the Italians were to Edna’s Irish protagonists? I could not imagine young Cait and old Mr. Gentleman being half this ardent. The scene in the boarding house where the two undressed in front of each other lacked a certain passion. She touched his “pale orchid” manhood and he fondled her bottom, but the whole affair was awkward more than anything. Not that reading the passage wasn’t a thrill. The scene excited me, for sure, but it also left me wanting. After the quick fondle, they make a pot of tea, for God’s sake. Sure, Mr. Gentleman was supposed to give her the time in Vienna, but he flaked out! Where’s the sex, Mrs. O’Brien?
“Ciao bella!”
The call diverted my attention to a middle-aged, balding man below the balcony. He looked right at me.
“Ciao,” I replied hesitantly.
The man smiled, and then did the most peculiar thing. He grabbed his chest with one hand and jiggled it crudely.
Perplexed, it took me a few moments to realize that I was presently touching my own breast, which I must have done while admiring the randy lovebirds across the street. The pervert below was so emboldened by my silk-wrapped bosom and provocative hand that he mirrored my stance and dared me to mimic his jiggle.
Third-floor-anonymity was not what it’s cracked up to be. I felt decidedly self-conscious and didn’t quite know what to do. I settled on forming a finger purse with my offending hand and gesturing my best che vuoi? at the creep. “Stronzo!” I cursed for good measure.
“What’s going on out there?” Ray said.
“Nothin’,” I replied to my brother, entering the sitting room.
“Didn’t sound like nothin’.”
I crashed into my armchair. “Just some chrome dome being a perv.”
Ray looked at me, his eyes resting on my rack.
“*What?*” I said. Glancing down, I saw my nipples sharply outlined against the satin.
He raised an eyebrow.
“I can’t help that I’m stacked,” I said, “or that boys can’t control their urges.”
He looked suddenly bashful. His gaze lingered on me, and then he went back to reading The Catcher in the Rye. Curiously, he didn’t turn the page for a long time.
“Is there any sex in your book?” I asked after a prolonged silence.
“Not really,” he said, his face buried in the paperback. “I mean, they talk about it, but it never happens. At least not so far.”
“Same in mine,” I complained. “So annoying.”
Ray closed his book with a sigh. “You want more sex in literature?” he asked.
“Don’t you?”
“I guess,” he said cautiously. “But they won’t publish those kinds of stories. It’s indecent. You know The Country Girls is banned in Ireland, right?”
“It’s a good thing our potato-farming ancestors immigrated to America, isn’t it?”
“If you say so, sis,” he said. “The point is it doesn’t take much for a book to get banned, and I can’t imagine that’s good for publishers, so they won’t take the risk.”
“That’s stupid,” I said. “How are we supposed to learn?”
“Huh?”
“Don’t you want to know how it feels to have sex? What to do? How to do it?” Without waiting for his answer, I said, “*I* do.”
“You have a point,” he conceded.
“Mom and Dad won’t educate us,” I said. “Imagine asking them!”
“I’d rather not, thanks.”
“Mom would faint,” I joked.
Ray shared my grin, then said, “There are naughty books that could help, but I wouldn’t know how to get them.”
“Me neither.”
“I guess we will learn like everyone else, by doing it,” he said wisely.
“But I want to be prepared,” I said. “I don’t want to suck my first time.”
“I bet your future boyfriend would very much like you to suck.”
“Would he?” I said seriously, even though I knew what his joke meant. “I don’t know, and that’s the point. I’m so scared it’s going to be awkward and awful.”
“I’m sure you’ll be great, Laura. You’re good at everything.”
“Thanks,” I said, not knowing how else to respond. “I’m sorry I disturbed your reading.”
My brother looked at me again, taking in my body. “It’s okay,” he said, standing. “I’m tired anyway. I think I’m going to bed now.”
Ray took Catcher with him to the bedroom. I considered this peculiarity for a second. He usually left the novel in the sitting room. Did he use the book to hide an erection? I wondered. Come to think of it, Ray had covered his boxers and walked a little weird.
Thinking about the effect I had had on him made me feel funny. I reached under my nightie and felt my panties. Sure enough, they were soaked. Further examination confirmed my clam was sensitive and puffy. Is this a girl’s erection? The academic thought came and went. Suppressing a moan, I tended to my needs, my fingers turning ever harder over my cotton delicates.
My mind, like my body, was electrified. The Bellboy pushed me against a wall, kissing me with tongue and everything. He fondled my breasts and I grabbed his ass… I stood on the balcony and pulled my nightie down to expose myself to Balding Man. He pulled out his plonker and played with it while I wiggled my jugs… Ray kissed my nipples. J.D. Salinger protected his erection, but I slapped the book away. And then I kneeled before my brother, removed his boxers, and started to suck…
Oh God, I thought, I’m close.
And then I came. Ahh… Jesus…! Jesus, Mary, and Joseph… “Fuck!” I cried out loud before I could stop myself. I should’ve worried, but riding this wave of debilitating bliss made it impossible to care. So what if Ray heard me?
My orgasm lingered, the waves rolling and rolling, slowly subsiding.
Creaking floorboards broke my reverie. The sound had come from our bedroom, and I realized that my brother may have had a watch and not just a listen. Upon consideration, I decided I liked this idea, and feeling the rejuvenation of my pleasure, it seemed that I liked it very much indeed.
Since discovering masturbation two years ago, I have become a regular practitioner, taking care of myself at least twice a week and sometimes several times a day. Tonight’s experience, for whatever reason, triumphed over all that had come before. What, I wondered, determines the quality of an orgasm? Where was the damn literature so I could learn more?
At eleven-thirty, when I had fully recovered, Aunt Grace and Uncle Edwin returned from their nightcap at the hotel bar, dressed to the nines but looking worse for wear. They were giggling as they entered our suite. The tabloids once described them as the poor man’s Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton which I’ve always thought did them a great disservice.
“You’re still up,” my aunt said as she removed one of her earrings.
“Reading,” I lied.
“You look flushed, dear. You okay?”
“Just unbearably hot.”
“Ain’t that the truth,” she said. “Ed, undo me will you?”
“Gladly,” he said and winked mischievously at me before unzipping the cocktail dress down her back.
“I have to be on set by six,” she complained. “I need my beauty sleep!”
With that dramatic delivery, the pair marched to their bedroom, leaving me with my thoughts.
Why couldn’t Mom be more like Aunt Grace? The sisters were so different. One, an actress, glamorous, full of life, a person who did things, like travel the world with her handsome husband. The other, a businessman’s boring housewife, who had probably never even left California.
I shouldn’t complain. At least I had a cool aunt and uncle with whom to spend my summer vacations. Abroad, no less. None of my friends could say they’d been to Italy once, let alone twice. I was a lucky girl despite my parents being a drag, and yes, even despite missing The Beatles by one goddamned day.
After finishing my ablutions, I entered our bedroom. Ray slept on top of the sheets in the king-sized four-poster. The blankets were bunched up at the foot of the bed. I paused to watch him in the light of the lamp that he had left on for me. My brother could be a real pain in the ass sometimes, but he could be sweet and considerate too. Ray had taken off his undershirt and wore only boxers. Next to the bed were two socks, one on the nightstand and one on the floor. I climbed into bed next to him but under a sheet. What kind of lunatic, I thought, sleeps uncovered?
My last thought for the day was that I ought to feel ashamed for fantasizing about sucking my brother’s pecker.
~~~
“One,” I said.
“Two,” said Ray.
“Three,” said Uncle Ed.
Together, with our backs to Trevi Fountain, we each tossed a coin over our left shoulder—a tradition to favor a future return to the “Eternal City”. I turned quickly to spot my fifty-lire splash into the water.
“What do you think?” my uncle asked. “Beautiful, right?”
“It’s alright,” I replied.
“Alright?” He gestured a sweeping hand like a ringmaster introducing his troupe. “It’s the most famous fountain in the world!”
“Be better if it had Anita Ekberg in it,” Ray said.
“Well, I can’t argue with you there, son.”
I unfolded my tourist map. “Where to next?”
Uncle Ed checked his watch. “You know what, let’s get some lunch. After that, we invade the Vatican!”
“I could eat,” my brother was quick to say.
“We know, Raymond. You could eat after you’ve eaten.”
“Well, I can’t argue with you there, unc.”
My uncle tousled Ray’s hair, and then his eyes followed a beautiful woman with long, dark hair. “Wait here.” He jogged after her, tapped her shoulder, and presented his Canon Demi. “Scusi, foto, per favore?”
The woman accepted the camera. “Sarebbe un piacere.”
“C’mon,” he called and pulled us in close for a picture in front of the fountain. I felt acutely aware of his arm around my back, his hand on my midriff.
“Smile!” the woman said in a thick, beautiful accent and snapped the photo.
“Grazie,” my uncle thanked her, retrieving his camera.
“Where we eatin’?” Ray asked.
We consulted the map, chose a restaurant en route to the Vatican, and set off.
Twenty minutes later we were seated, menus in hand. Our choice of where to eat turned out to be a good one. The restaurant was air-conditioned and the interior was immaculate, white tablecloths, crisp lines, sparkling glasses. The servers wore identical uniforms, pressed to military perfection. Spiffing, my mother would have described the place.
Was it a law in Italy, I wondered, that waiters had to be young and handsome? It was quite distracting, each of them more good-looking than the last. I imagined them naked, smooth-chested like my brother, hirsute like my father, manly bits dangling and jostling side to side as they whizzed between tables. They were distracted by me too, I knew, stealing glances as they performed their duties, no doubt picturing me stripped of my summer dress and brassiere, just like many of the diners who peeked at me with hungry eyes as they ate and drank and talked. Over the years, I have grown proficient at spotting male gazers. Not that it was difficult. Something about my all-American blonde and buxom appearance appealed to the coarser sex and they were comically bad at hiding it. Not all men concealed their admiration, of course, but most tried, and that was just fine by me. More than fine. I welcomed their eyes, overt or not. Let them look. Why not? They got to fantasize and I got to feel desired. Was that not a perfect contract? If only men could be trusted to honor the terms, but I was experienced enough already to know that not all men were gentlemen. Balding Man entered my thoughts uninvited and I ejected him by studying the menu.
Arturo, the handsomest waiter of them all, poured a glass of chilled Frascati for Uncle Ed, and half a glass for me and Ray. He put the bottle on ice next to the table and flipped open a small notepad. “Carbonara,” I ordered, “per favore.” Arturo said something back which I didn’t understand. I presumed he praised me for my excellent choice. Ray ordered Pork Ragu over Polenta and my uncle decided to go for Cod Arracanato after changing his mind at the last minute. Arturo couldn’t resist a quick peek at my chest as he took my menu and for a brief moment, we locked eyes and smiled at one another.
“When do you shoot your next movie, Uncle Ed?” Ray asked.
“September, in England.”
“What’s it about?” I asked.
“I play a soldier—”
“Again!” I said. “You’re doing another war movie?”
“Well, this one isn’t so much about the war. It’s a love story. And it’s a pretty big deal, actually. I’m one of the three leads.”
“Three leads?” Ray said. “Does that mean it’s a love triangle?”
“Aren’t you clever? Yes, I play an American soldier who has an affair with a married English woman.”
Good casting, I thought. My uncle could charm the panties off a nun. Some married broad would be a cakewalk.
“Do you get the girl in the end?”
“I get the girl in the beginning, Ray,” he said with a twinkle in his eye. “And the middle.”
My brother grinned like an idiot.
“But does she choose you or her husband?” I asked, invested.
“Neither. She dies.”
“Oh shit,” said Ray.
“Yeah, then the husband and I become friends through our grief.”
“Interesting,” I said and meant it. “Does sound different. You must be excited.”
“I really am. Great script. Good director too.”
Before long, our food arrived. On this point, I agree with my brother: the best thing about Italy is the food. Food first, boys second, or girls second if you’re Ray, I guess. Famished, I tucked into my pasta. How could a dish with only five ingredients taste this* good?*
We ate, and drank our wine. We ordered dessert and coffee, and talked about movies and books and the Italian economic boom, and more besides. It was a lunch of indulgence, rich sustenance for both stomach and brain, and I would never forget this communion with my family in the spiffing restaurant with handsome Arturo who couldn’t take his eyes off me.
The invasion of the Vatican consumed the remainder of the afternoon. Art, artifacts, architecture, we saw it all, and even I had to admit that it was more than just alright. The Sistine Chapel took my breath away, but my favorite experience was walking through St. Peter’s Basilica.
At seven o’clock, we took a taxi back to the hotel where we met Aunt Grace for dinner. She regaled us with stories of her day, praising the director of the film, complaining about the producer, and gossiping about her scene partner’s on-set trysts. We were happy to listen.
Back in the hotel room, we took turns bathing, and after, we relaxed in the sitting room. Ray and I rested in our armchairs, books out. I finished The Country Girls and started The Group by Mary McCarthy. Aunt Grace and Uncle Ed discussed…
