DISCLAIMER: the following post may be disturbing or offensive to some audiences, includes frequent explicit sexual references (unsuitable for children, parents, fundamentalists of most religions and other sorts of puritans) and bitter humour (unsuitable for idiots). Also, no creatures of male sex were harmed in the making of this article. Quite the contrary.
For a start, I should have probably called the post “Advanced user’s guide…”, because let’s face it, “beginner’s” is an euphemism. Or wishful thinking (not really, at most other people’s wishful thinking, I certainly don’t wish to meet all those arseholes all over again, and God knows there’s been a few of those).
We already established elsewhere on this blog that gentlemen of a certain age and/or an uncertain self-esteem go to Thailand when they want to (re)feel the thrill of (fake) affection and tenderness, but where do we go when we crave something preferably not too tender? Some ladies, I’ve heard, fly to Cuba, and others prefer Cape Verde. Personally, my destination of choice is Italy. After all, even the great Raffaella Carrà (for the non-Italians: the undisputed Queen of masturbation fantasies of several generations of Italian men, a spokeswoman of sexual freedom of italian woman, therefore a pioneer feminist of sorts and a trash disco artist) sings that nothing compares to lovemaking anywhere south of Trieste. And who am I to disagree.
Yay, I’ve been neglecting the blog for a little while, but I am back now and in full strength. And in case you haven’t already guessed, I’ve just spent three weeks in Italy. Sightseeing. Birdwatching. Honest. (And looking for a job. Loosely.)
Have you ever noticed how the intensity of feelings expressed, the eloquence some men suddenly discover when talking about emotions becomes inversely proportional to necessary distance covered to reach the interlocutor, or generally to the possibility of an actual encounter? Translated: They all talk and talk from the safety of two oceans keeping you apart, they make promises they have no intention of keeping, and they will not admit the conversation ever even happened if you try to hold them to the bullshit that leaves their mouths. Experienced user’s advice: ladies, spare yourselves the humiliation of a random combination of the following explanations: They were busy. The world was falling apart. And most importantly: they disappeared for your own good. Because they know what’s best for you. Speak no more of them, but look, and pass them by. (*)
Actually, my first stop in Italy was of an almost romantic nature. I met a man one night in Mongolian steppe who turned out to be a friend of a friend (yes, the world really is small), and “Love, which won’t let beloved stay apart, struck me with such strong enjoyment for this man that, as you see, it has not yet abandoned me.” (**) Or rather, has not abandoned me for the 10 months I’ve spent wandering around the world following the mysterious encounter. It was only natural to verify whether there was more to the gentleman than my imagination (and of course lust), and once established there was not, we decided that this could be a beginning of a beautiful friendship (with an occasional benefit). Hopefully, because (benefits apart) in my opinion (and unfortunately experience) it is much more difficult to keep friendship alive than it is to stay in love. It takes two to be friends, for a start, while as I can be hopelessly in love with someone completely unaware I even exist. On the other hand, points to the gentleman in question, because at least he grew a pair and took a stand. Much appreciated (no sarcasm).
Oh, that got a bit too serious. I’m a heartless woman at worst and a helpless one at best. I better get to all the good stuff I promised in the disclaimer.
So, girls, when you go on holiday on your own and you look for some fun, of course you can just fly to some third-world country and pick your toyboy, same as the guys do in south-east Asia. To me, that is the definition of boredom. I am all for a bit of consenting adult fun, but I also expect motives that go beyond economic interests of the lucky guy. Otherwise there is no fun to speak of (which is the reason why, I guess, most women have no desire to benefit from services of a brothel, we simply do not get turned on by exercising economic power over someone else). I am not 16 anymore, and I am able to establish within 15 minutes of conversation whether I am interested in sleeping with a man or not (point 1: does not mean it is going to happen; and point 2: guess what, every woman knows that, they just won’t admit it, most often to themselves). I just want the interest to be mutual. I do not expect to marry every guy I get to “know” (polygamy is illegal in most parts of the world after all), I simply expect them to share the lust. I do not wish to be considered a walking ATM. Therefore, sod the Caribbean, Italy is the obvious choice.
There is more to the country than men of loose morals: you actually get to do some proper tourism other than sipping sugary cocktails on a beach while sizzling your way to a melanoma. There is something for every taste. The landscape, the sights, the ever-present history. The food is unparalleled. The wine is incredible. You could stay in the country for two and half years and drink wine made from a different grape variety every day. Provided you keep it to one bottle a day, I could probably manage quicker.
And then there are the men. Some claim that the Italians are all mamma-boys, and it may be true to some extend (but then it is true with most men), however, remember you are not in Italy to get yourself a diamond ring. You are on an ego trip. And boy, does it work. The appreciative glances, the comments, all those “ciao bella”. Of course they do it with every woman, but do you really care when your main concern is digging your self-esteem out from six feet under? Besides, most of them are impeccably groomed, well-dressed, fragrant and fresh-looking (how they manage in 35°C heat is a mystery, but they do). Yes, you can see straightaway that it takes them 2 hours (at least) to leave the bathroom, but again, what do you care, you will only share it for a night or two. And if you are a spontaneous spirit, you can get yourself abducted somewhere you’d never been before (hence the photos from Lecce, which, by the way, is breathtaking) and convert your one-night-stand to a little summer affair.
Allow me a little pep talk. I imagine many of you may have a problem with letting your morals go loose. Don’t. For several reasons. Firstly, they have been doing it for thousands of years, and when they boast about it, they get an appreciative pat on the shoulder from their mates. Why should we be any different? Because we get labeled as “whores”? So what? It does not matter if you sleep with them or not, they will tell to everybody you did anyway (and it does not matter if they are 15 or 45 of age), so you may as well go for it and have some fun. Secondly, there is no such thing as moral hangover. We are talking about casual sex, not selling heroin or guns to children. As long as you are throwing away your knickers out of your free will, you are not doing anything wrong. And I still have to meet a woman who will wish she’d been more chaste when her time is up. Thirdly, “Something for the weekend, Sir?” is not a courtesy question, it’s an imperative. For the non-Brits: condoms are a great invention; use them. But most importantly: I know we all have been taught that we should keep ourselves for someone who deserves us, whatever that may mean. My problem is, if I behave like I am the only being in the universe blessed with a vagina, I am pretty much reducing my value to what is between my legs. And I am so much more than that. So much more. Sure, most of them do not care about who I really am, but do you really think they would care more if I played the blushing flower?
Just remember the most important rule: do not believe a single word they say. They are all world champions in sweet-talking, they will give you a lifetime of promises in no time. They feel like they are obliged to give you a good time, even though both you and them know that whatever is going on will be short-lived, they will still tell you just about anything (to feel better about themselves) and they will look convincing like an Academy award nominee while at it. They do not mean it. And in the rare case they do, they will find a way to prove themselves. Remember, it’s the exception that proves the rule, and exceptions are, in fact, exceptional. In the meanwhile, it’s always guilty until proven innocent. And most importantly, better to be pleasantly surprised than disappointed. And never ever allow yourself to think that you can change them (or anybody else).
With these simple rules in mind, ladies, go in peace and enjoy yourselves.
*) Dante Alighieri: Inferno, Canto III: In the antechamber of Hell, Dante encounters the indolent: sinners who refused to take a stand while alive, and thus disdained by both Heaven and Hell. Translated by H. F. Cary, 1880s
Fama di loro il mondo esser non lassa;
misericordia e giustizia li sdegna:
non ragioniam di lor, ma guarda e passa.
Fame of them the world hath none,
Nor suffers; mercy and justice scorn them both.
Speak no more of them, but look, and pass them by
**) Dante Alighieri: Inferno, Canto V: Francesca describes how she fell in love with her brother-in-law Paolo so helplessly, that the love she feels for him has failed to diminish even though it has condemned her to eternal suffering in Hell. Translated by Damsel Plum, 1991
Amor, ch’a nullo amato amar perdona,
mi prese del costui piacer sì forte,
che, come vedi, ancor non m’abbandona.
Love, which won’t let beloved stay apart
struck me with such strong enjoyment for this man
that, as you see, it has not yet abandoned me