THE MALE CHAUVINIST - An Erotic Autobiography

Part Three - IV - V - VI - VII

IV

That evening, around 8, I wander around Trastevere looking for a place to grab a drink. As usual, Pimm's and Ombre Rosse are packed with tourists, so I opt for San Calisto, a historic bar in the neighborhood. Let me tell you a story... a few years ago, right at San Calisto, I picked up this Arab brunette from the Emirates. We chatted a bit, and she confided that she was about to get married and this was her last vacation as a single woman. Since I had dinner plans with some friends, I invited her to join us. She agreed, and we headed to my buddies at Tana de' Noantri, a restaurant that's now gone, replaced by one of the many tourist traps that seem to be cut from the same cloth. After dinner, as we all walked to the cashier, we discovered she had paid for everyone's meal. We then said goodbye to the others, went to my place, and spent the night together. All I remember about that night is that she was extremely wet, which was a bit odd while I was going down on her. The next morning she got dressed, took off, and in the evening, when I tried to write to her, I found out she was no longer on WhatsApp or Messenger, and the Italian number she had given me was no longer active. I guess I was her self-given bachelorette party gift, along with that Roman holiday.

At "Sanca," I grab the only free table before someone else snatches it and order myself a Ceres. I deserve a shot; I've been working like a mule lately. Oh, and I forgot to mention that a few weeks ago, I had this kind of creative explosion. I'm writing two novels at the same time—one in the morning, the other in the afternoon. And at night, I compose poems. I feel like Dr. Manhattan, like Jobe Smith in "The Lawnmower Man" after Dr. Lawrence's experiment.

While sipping my beer, I grab "Il Messaggero" from a nearby table and read an article titled: "'Gone with the Wind' Removed by HBO Max: 'It's a Racist Film'". It seems that the platform has removed the movie, which it says portrays 'racist America.'

Annoyed, I close the newspaper and start a conversation with Maria Sole, a twenty-something blonde, petite, with a round pig-like face... and a nose ring that makes her even more piggish. Sitting at the next table with another paler blonde she met that afternoon, the little doll displays an intriguing double tattoo on her thighs (one says "Left," the other "Right," go figure) and is quite sociable—the classic bitch in heat, gentlemen (lucky me!), and I'm all too eager to make her moan in pleasure, licking my lips as Maria Sole makes a vague gesture indicating the surrounding environment and says something that makes me jump out of my seat. "You know, I could fall in love with anyone here." And I'm like, "So you're bisexual?" "Gender fluid." Not satisfied, nodding towards her friend, Maria Sole adds, "She's my type." Her friend blushes but from the languid glance they exchange, I gather she's interested. You can imagine my reaction. What is wrong with today's girls? One (Valda) talks about the games she played with her ex and about asphyxiophilia. Another (Lavinia) suggests unprotected sex on the first night. This one (Maria Sole), instead of getting it on with yours truly, would rather lick her friend. Something's not right.

Two minutes later, Fabrizio arrives, a bubbly lawyer from Naples, whose exploits I've chronicled in The Search for Self. "How are you?" "These days, I have more dealings with legal entities than physical persons," he says, sitting down. "I'm still trying to figure out if that's an extreme form of perversion." Fabrizio is about to get married to Rosaria, a beautiful Sicilian girl, the daughter of a notary from Messina, and he hands me a wedding invitation. "You have to be there," he insists. "After all, if we're getting married, it's partly your fault." I introduced him to Rosaria. "When's the bachelor party?" "I was thinking of skipping it." "What the hell are you talking about?" I blurt out. "The bachelor party is crucial." "Why?" "Because after you've systematically destroyed yourself for two or three days, the prospect of marriage seems almost reasonable."

Massimiliano also joins us, an artist and author of treatises on Etruscan and Roman magic. Massimiliano shares my principles, meaning he's a bachelor and doesn't want children. "What do you say?" he suggests. "Shall we summon Marcello?" Marcello Capogrosso is a former porn actor. He's a handsome, athletic man with thirty centimeters of meat between his legs and discreetly dyed hair. He kills time playing golf. He has style, some money, but he's very alone, you can see it in his eyes. I often spot him in the neighborhood bars, he enjoys company but is never intrusive, always polite, and embodies what likely I and Massimiliano will become in a few years (except for the thirty centimeters of cock). He's our Ghost of Christmas Future, a living warning, come to caution us about the fate of good-looking but lonely and somewhat sad bachelors we're heading towards if we don't change our nefarious ways. Marcello is at an "event" on Via di Ripetta, and invites us to join him. We go. The "event" at Via di Ripetta is the vernissage of a photography exhibition in one of the many art galleries in the Campo Marzio district. The artist has titled his exhibition "Shit Photos" and has displayed photos capturing dog, cat, bird, and even human feces. Next door (but I suspect the organizers were in agreement), another gallery hosts a painting exhibition titled "Scabs." In this case, the artist has exhibited paintings that are utterly akin to crusts.