Listen, I’m no saint.
I do crazy shit sometimes, as must we all, but I had always heeded the words of my mother: don’t ride on motorcycles. So, I had successfully managed to live in Rome for three long years without even once gracing the back of a Vespa. A true tragedy, as I have very nice long legs (if I may say so myself) which I always thought would look fabulous straddling the side of a scooter. Besides the point.
Emma and I had just gone on a very interesting double date (details of which deserve, and I promise will have, their own post) and I found myself outside the bar at the end of the night with my half of the date. What shall I call him? To give you some context: he was a 30-something year old Italian lawyer with expertly coifed hair and a pair of skinny jeans so tight that he was in danger of bursting out of them at any given moment. It was a fire hazard. I think the alias ‘Alfonso’ is fitting. So there I was, outside the bar with Alfonso. It was 2:30 in the morning so the buses were no longer running, and I wanted to get a head start on my long walk home. I refuse to take a taxi as a matter of principle. Do you know how much 15 euros can get you in Rome? I’d much rather walk and save my money for a nice bottle of wine or two. “You can’t walk home all by yourself, it’s not safe. Let me take you home” he protested, which I thought was very endearing. Fine, perhaps a car ride home from a handsome lawyer wouldn’t be the worst thing, and would definitely be preferable to the pilgrimage that awaited me otherwise. But then… to both my horror and amusement… he did not motion to the car parked by the curb that I prematurely headed to, but instead to the, you guessed it: Vespa.
I was grateful for the offer, truly, but of course I had to decline. After all, what would my mother think? But in a surprising turn of events: the more that I objected, the more that he insisted. “Why are you doing this?” he begged and he pleaded. I tried to explain that I was fine to walk home, and that I did it all the time, but he really did not like that answer. Every time I turned to leave, he pulled me back- becoming increasingly worked up in the process. “Why do you behave like this? Just let me take you home, it is for your own safety!!! Oh please let me take you home oh please!”. As annoying as this exchange was becoming, a small part of me couldn’t help but to relish in it. My ex had always been very indifferent and passive, and I have to admit that it was a nice change of pace to be with someone so decisive and passionate (albeit with a flair for the dramatics).
It’s not that I liked making him angry per say, I was just thoroughly entertained by all of the theatrics. I could see his face turning red and his hand gestures becoming more and more erratic with each passing minute. The only way I could think to end his moaning and droning was to grab him by his neck and pull his lips to mine. After a few minutes I would attempt to again make my escape, but unfortunately this seemed to only aggravate the Italiano further. We were caught in this vicious cycle of passionate argument and make outs, and I thoroughly enjoyed it. Eventually, all of his bitching and moaning began to wear me down, like a child nagging for a cookie, and I caved. In truth, more so because my shoes were starting to give me a blister, but I would let him believe that his powers of persuasion were simply too great for me to resist. You know what they say about Italian men: expert seducers. Sorry mom.
He handed me a clunky helmet while he got the scooter up and running, and then I had a horrible thought… was this going to fuck up my hair? Dare I risk going au naturale? I was scared to even broach the topic with him, seeing how very worried he was for my safety and all, but before I could even open my mouth he was leaning over and planting the helmet firmly on my head. Well shit. “Hop on” he smirked, rubbing the small amount of seat left unoccupied by his ass. It was then that I realized that I had a massive problem. I was wearing a skirt so short that in some circles it might have been considered a belt.
Well, here goes nothing. I swung my leg up and over the motorcycle, watching as his eyes darted quickly down my body and then up again sheepishly. No sense of decorum or decency in this town… but I was not one to talk. In the process of mounting the scooter, my skirt had hiked up so high that it now barely made an effort to cover my hip bones. I felt my ass cheeks spread out on the seat, and as I went to try and tug down my treacherous garment, I made a shocking discovery. The entirety of my bare ass was out for all of Rome to see, crack and all. “Oh hey scuzi Alfonso…” I tried to get his attention, but was cut off as he quickly pressed on the gas and I had to throw my arms around his waist to stop myself from flying off backwards. That bastard had had enough of my protests, and all I could do now was hold on and enjoy the ride.
My cheeks were clenching the seat, trying in vain to grab hold of the leather, when we came across a particularly bumpy stretch of cobblestones. With each bump, my vagina, which like the rest of my private parts was totally exposed, was thrusted up against his back. Suspiciously, from then on the scooter seemed to be just as bumpy off the cobblestones as it was on them. I was on the never ending nude rollercoaster ride from hell.
All good things must come to an end, and finally we pulled up to my apartment building. He wanted to come inside, obviously, but at this point my vagina was numb from the cold wind that had been assaulting it for the past 15 minutes, and the last thing I wanted was to have to defrost in his presence. He must be a shit lawyer, because he couldn’t even put up a fight anymore. He looked so defeated, it was almost comical. As I watched him ride off, beaten and battered, into the distance, I noticed that there was a full moon out.
Well, I suppose there were two full moons out that night.
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