THE MALE CHAUVINIST - An Erotic Autobiography

Part Four - III - IV

III

Around mid-morning, I wake up alone in my big bed. Last night, after emptying my ammunition—right into her mouth, to be precise—Cyrano's presence was no longer needed. I still see her in front of me, her nose sandpapered from rubbing against my rough beard (and my equally rough pubic hair), her little mouth smeared with sperm, her pendulous breasts each as large as a ripe melon, batting her eyelashes, her big placid eyes like those of a Japanese Manga, seemingly saying, "Look how you've done me, are you happy?" And yes, I was pleased, even more so if she'd just bugger off, because I was overcome with sleep. Cyrano wanted to stay the night, but I'm not really into that. I don't enjoy having her around until morning—I wouldn't even be able to sleep—so since I like it even less to drive her home, I end up calling a taxi and sending her off without much ceremony.

I head downstairs. After coffee and a cigarette, I dutifully sit at the PC for about an hour, then read an article on Adnkronos.com titled: "Smartphones and Young People's Mental Health Issues: A Worrying Picture." It argues that "the reduction in real social interactions prevents young people from learning the basics of socialization, such as the ability to interpret facial expressions and read body language," which impacts their mental health, leading to "feelings of detachment from reality, difficulties in relating to others," and even "suicidal thoughts."

Then, I head back upstairs, overcome my laziness, and do two sets of twenty bench presses and two lesser sets of ten crunches on the incline bench in the room I've turned into a gym—mind you, my house has rooms to spare. I indulge in a twenty-minute hot bath in my brand-new tub, listening to Eckart Tolle's "The Power of Now" audiobook on YouTube. I dry my hair with a diffuser to get those nice curls that chicks dig, then apply my magic donkey milk cream to my forehead and around the eyes, which I've been using for ages—we aging bachelors have to maintain ourselves, you know—and get dressed up all snazzy in a slightly tacky, frayed sweater with laces at the V-neck, worn skin-tight under my black Michael Knight-style jacket, complete with a whole array of chains, bracelets, and amulets that would make Johnny Depp envious: copper in honor of Venus where Libra resides, gold because it's solar and I was born at noon (like Goethe and Thomas Mann, by the way), red jasper to give a little boost to my slightly weak Mars in Cancer, pyrite because it "attracts heavenly gifts"—and these trinkets absolutely drive the chicks, especially the young ones, wild.

Ready to take on the world... and snag some chick, hopefully. Today's agenda includes a jaunt to Reggio, the second coffee of the day (plus juice and a croissant, typically), a quick hello to my folks, a stop at the bookstore, and other miscellaneous tasks.

Before I leave, I get an email from my agent. Dr. Berselli informs me that Last Cuba Libre, the translation of my first novel, hasn't yet found favor with American publishers. Truth be told, Americans are quite insular when it comes to international pitches. Basically, we gobble up all their crap, but when it's their turn to translate one of ours... what a hassle! The fucking literary lobby of Judea, something unbelievable, always there to inflict holocausts on us in all sauces and Jewish wanking at Roth & co. We can't take it anymore.

At eleven sharp, I get in my car and hit the city, but as I turn onto Viale Monte Grappa, I'm momentarily distracted by the seductive voice of Virgin Radio's announcer (Cecile B) introducing Placebo's "Every You Every Me"—a memorable track because it's from the Cruel Intentions soundtrack. I feel a bit like playboy Ryan Philippe in the movie's opening scene, when suddenly I nearly run over a black guy on a scooter who cuts right in front of me, forcing me to slam on the brakes. Unfortunately, the deadly trend of scooters has also hit Reggio—Bruno calls them "nig-scooters," since apparently only immigrants use them. Mind you, Bruno isn't racist—he's just an idiot.

I park in front of Mister Pizza without bothering to set the parking disc and head toward Caffè Europa in Piazza Prampolini. As I cross Piazza del Monte, I spot a pretty, petite, well-dressed woman—the kind I fancy. One of my greatest achievements in life has undoubtedly been my ability to stop girls on the street, or rather, the removal of the embarrassment (or timidity) that prevented me from doing so. Unfortunately, in the provinces, this skill (practically a superpower) turns out to be quite useless: if you don't already know them, or they aren't exceptionally open (read: easy), the girls run off like frightened deer at the approach of a stranger. So it goes this time too, darn it.