Lost In Translation

I meet him on the beach outside the Villa Serbelloni. It’s magic hour, that luscious time of day between sunset and dusk. That twilight time that lingers, where a divine light glows with soft edges and misty rapture. The Italian Alps frame the background as he strides out of the azure lake, water skimming off his muscled skin, dripping from the ringlets of his shaggy dark hair.

I know he’s trouble right away.

He drops to his knees in front of me. In a Milanese dialect he says, “Bella regazza. Sono Romeo Cormattini, e sempre sarò infelice se con me Lei non avete pranzo.”

This guy, Romeo, that’s what he says to me.

I sigh.

In English, that roughly translates to: “Pretty lady. My name is Romeo Cormattini, and I’ll be unhappy forever if you won’t have dinner with me.”

And in my American, 30-year-old, single-girl jaded dialect, it translates like this: “Nice tits. Wanna fuck?”

I didn’t come to Italy to get laid. I don’t need to travel to a foreign country when I’ve got a perfectly good Hitachi Magic Wand in my bedroom at home which does the job more efficiently (and reliably) than any man can. I don’t know why I came here. I guess maybe it was to experience “the most beautiful city in Europe.” That’s what this city, Bellagio, is sometimes called. Even in a place as ancient as Italy, modern promotional taglines are now the norm. It has other names too. It’s sometimes called “the pearl of the lake.”

It’s a place that makes you realize that humans don’t fuck up everything. The landscape alone is breathtaking, with the mountains rising beyond the deep lake, an enchanting marriage of Mediterranean sensuality and Alpine splendor. But the gorgeous villas and basilicas done in the creamy peach and butterscotch tones are nestled into the hillside, with cobblestone paths leading to abundantly flowering gardens. It was more than I expected.

And then, just as I thought I’d seen heaven on earth, out of the lake comes this Michelangelo-looking creature. This, this – Romeo. They actually have men here named Romeo, and it’s not ironic. He could be an angel.

But as he looks up at me, he reaches out, wet fingers circling my wrist, skimming and tickling the underside of my palm, sending an unmistakable spark up my spine. And the glint in his eyes tells me he’s closer to a devil.

What the hell, I’ll go to dinner with him. I’ll do more than that with him.

It startles me when he meets me in the lobby and immediately puts his hand on the small of my back. Such a bold and familiar move for someone I’ve just met. I step away and put space between us. But he takes my hand as we walk and though it stiffens me, again that sinful spark keeps me from pulling back.

At the restaurant, instead of sitting across from me, he takes a seat next to mine, presumably so he can enjoy the view of the placid lake at night. Leaning back, he rests his arm on the back of my chair and twists his fingers through the locks of hair that hang down my back, across my shoulder. It’s appalling at first, but as I sip on wine that warms my belly while the evening breva kicks up, cooling the air, I reluctantly relax into it.

It’s presumptuous of him, almost cocky, as though he’s taking it as a given that I’m his for the evening. But I like the confidence, and besides, even though I didn’t come here to get laid, his good looks and sultry demeanor are making me look forward to it.

Later, sitting on the terrace framed by cypress and olive trees, I stick a forkful of ravioli di pesce in my mouth, my toes curling with the buttery richness and Romeo says, “Your face, it bewitches me.” He’s been pouring this impromptu poetry to me since we’ve been here, lacing it with compliments, presumably to weaken my defenses.

This guy, Romeo, is he serious with all this?

Of course not. I decide to cut to the chase.

“Romeo,” I mumble with my full mouth. Chewing, swallowing down a gulp of wine, I say, “Piachere. You sound like a Bocelli song, stop it already.”

“You are angelic,” he says. “You look like a Bocelli song come alive.”

“Okay,” I wipe my mouth with the napkin and lean back from the plate of food. “Listen,” I tell him. “You’re very nice. But this isn’t necessary, you don’t have to sweet talk me. With a few shots of grappa, I’ll sleep with you anyhow. I’d prefer it if we kept it honest like that.”

He frowns and says, “Americana. I say these things not to have sex with you. I say them for they are true.” But he motions with his hand and calls over the waiter. He orders grappa for us.

“I knew it,” I say, smirking.

He leans forward and looks me in the eyes, saying, “Certo, ti voglio.” Of course I want you.

“Then stop trying to make it more,” I tell him. “It’s not nice.”

He looks shocked. Stricken. “Cara mia,” he says, “This was not my intent, to anger you by telling you how beautiful you are.”

“I’m not angry,” I say, feeling guilty for offending him. “It’s just, it’s leading when it’s not true.”

“Ahh,” he nods. “Capisco. It is not that I’m making more, angelica. It is you trying to make less. I should have expected. Come now,” he flops his napkin on the table and stands. Looking down at me, he says, “We go now, and have the sex, then?”

“But,” I stall, slinking in my seat, glancing around to see if anyone heard him. “The grappa hasn’t come yet.”

“So we can finish the meal?” he asks.

“Yes, we can finish our dinner, Romeo.”

“You are sure?”

The waiter arrives with our grappa but hesitates as Romeo still hasn’t taken his seat.

“Yes, I’m sure,” I say and motion for him to sit.

This guy, Romeo, I guess he is serious.

He pulls his chair closer so that his knee brushes against mine as he sits. He raises his glass and says a traditional toast and we both take a deep swig of the grappa. I close my eyes, letting the warmth fill my mouth as the pungent scent hovers. Upon swallowing, a liquid heat courses down to my belly. He nudges my shoulder, leans close and whispers in my ear, “You are not without hope, yet, Americana.”

Tingles ripple across my skin as my face flushes, but my head doesn’t swim from the effects just yet. Whether it’s the effects of the booze or his sultry breath, I’m not sure. “Without hope for what?” I ask him.

“If you can enjoy your food the way you do, if you can enjoy the drink, then all is not lost. You are not in that much of a hurry.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” is all I say.

He laughs and places his arm on the back of my chair, directs me to look out on the night waters of the dark lake. “Why did you come here, Americana?”

“I, I…” I stutter like a fool. “I just wanted to see it, it’s so beautiful.”

He puts his arm around my shoulders, his thumb lightly stroking my naked arm. It’s still disconcerting, all this physical closeness. But I figure it’s a difference in our cultures. Nearly everyone around here is snuggled close, though I assume they’re longtime lovers.

He says, “You come here, looking for beauty. And yet you’d deny me looking at what I find beautiful. Americana, you’re all in such a hurry. You make it about the satisfaction, no the joy in the act itself. Even your women. Even you. Fast food, fast cars, fast phones. Everybody in a rush to finish everything.”

“Yeah, well, we get a lot of stuff accomplished that way,” I tell him.

“Ahh,” he raises his brows. “But it is not all about the finish. We enjoy ourselves.”

His stilted English in tandem with the stroking on my arm starts a subtle vibration in my lower tummy. Maybe it’s not all about the finish to him, but suddenly I wish we’d at least get started. He purrs in my ear, now in Italian, calling me bella regazza again.

I don’t mind if he wants to call me beautiful, but I know he has other motives. I know that because I’m not beautiful. I know I’m not beautiful because other men never bother to tell me that I am. They just get down to business once it’s been established that’s where things are headed.

I put my hand on Romeo’s knee to let him know that I’m with him. He nods but refills our grappa glasses, deliberately clinks his against mine and drinks his slowly. In the soft glow of candlelight, his Adams’ apple bobs as he swallows, the soft scruff of stubble can’t conceal that single, strong vein that runs down the side of his neck.

I lean into him, pressing my body against his side. He’s firm and warm and he dips his head and meets my mouth with his lips. Soft, tinged with the liquor. He moves his hand off my shoulder, places it on my exposed thigh. Kissing me gently, his fingertips trace patterns upward on my leg. Thrumming inside, I kiss him more deeply as his hand snakes up. I uncross my legs to give him easier access.

Romeo moves. Instead of kissing my mouth, he drops feather kisses on my cheek, his fingers rubbing the inside of my upper thigh. The breva kicks up again, and I bite my lip to control a shudder as he his breath tingles in my ear. Instinctively, I slide my hand up his leg, his muscles tensing beneath my touch. Not lingering, I take hold of him and he sighs in my ear again, a heavy breath, hot and moist.

The waiter comes to check on us, I freeze, but Romeo doesn’t. He nuzzles my ear again before turning to him and answering in Italian, “Bring us the dessert list,” while his fingers dance dangerously higher, now brushing against the smooth fabric of my panties.

I blush and tuck my head down. It’s dim, but I’m not sure the waiter is oblivious. He bows, but loiters to refill our wine. As he does, Romeo slides his fingers directly across the crotch of my underwear, firmly.

I reel. I don’t know if it’s from the sensation so much as shame. Shame that it does feel good, shame that I don’t cross my legs or push him away. But he picks up my wineglass and feeds me a sip, a rather large gulp. As I’m swallowing, he kisses my neck and works his hand smoothly up my stomach,
then back down, this time beneath my panties.

I squirm and take hold of him again as the waiter retreats. He sets down the wineglass and moves my hand off of him. Saying, “Ralenta, regazza. Ralenta.” Slow down. Slow down? That’s what this guy with his hand down my underwear in a public restaurant is telling me…slow down.

But before I can protest or take hold of him again, he slides his hand, his strong, sure fingers, back down. Inside my panties, parting my slit, two bold fingers slip down the length of me, then roughly, heavily back up, and again partway down, settling this time on my sweet spot, pressing against the nub of my rapidly sensitizing clit.

My breath catches, my shoulders tense, and my insides quicken. The rush from the grappa taking hold in my brain, warming my body as surely as he’s tuning me up, turning me on.

I’m wet already, it’s slick as he slides up and down, again coming to rest and pressing against my pleasure button. This time, shortening the length of his stroke, moving those two fingers only an inch. Sliding up, waiting, kissing my neck, and then gliding down, sucking on my earlobe. It’s so nasty, so risky, I know I should pull away, or push him away, especially before the waiter comes back. But I’m pulsing and as I allow him to slide a few more times, I’m wired on it.

Shallow breath and rapid pulse, champagne blood rushes through my limbs, concentrating and knotting at the delicious tension he’s creating between my legs, begging for satisfaction. The waiter comes back with the dessert tray. And oh sweet mercy help me, I still can’t pull away. Even as the waiter looks me in the face. I meet his eyes, he’s explaining the desserts, pointing to samples on the tray, and Romeo keeps working his fingers rhythmically over my engorged clit. I tell myself the waiter can’t possibly know what’s going on as long as I keep it cool. Yes, Romeo’s nuzzling my neck, but the waiter can’t see his hands under the table, beneath the tablecloth, especially in this flickering light. I can do this, I can hold it together.

But as he starts reciting the menu, Romeo picks up the pace, moving quick and firm, taking me higher, higher. God, this is awful, I’m close to getting off, I should stop this but I can’t, it’s within reach, it’s just too good. I stay still, dropping my eyes to hide the telltale twitches. And when the waiter finishes his descriptions, just as I’m on the edge, Romeo stops his movements. I can’t stop myself, I just can’t help it, my back arches and pelvis pushes forward, seeking satisfaction, pressing myself, subtly grinding against his hand.

He moves his fingers away, pulling up slightly, rubbing small circles against the base of my stomach as he orders us a chocolate torte to share. It’s horrible, even worse than the tantalizing indiscretion was, my nerves are screaming for release, my whole body in a knot and head swimming. The waiter takes his leave and instead of putting his hand back between my legs and finishing me off, Romeo removes it completely. Languidly, he brings his fingers to his mouth and licks them with a satisfied smile, telling me I’m sweeter than any dessert.

Now I can’t decide if I want to fuck him or claw his eyes out. I slowly come back down as he feeds me the cake. And by the time we walk back to the hotel, I’m melting to him as he holds a strong arm around my waist, leading me up the marble staircase and through the mutedly lit hallway.

Once inside, I nod to the bed, but he wanders out to the balcony and beckons me to join him. We have a panoramic view of the lake with its snow-covered mountains bowing down to meet the tropical lakeside. I slide into his arms and kiss him deeply, full tongue, arms around his neck. He responds, running his hands up and down my naked back.

Releasing his neck, I reach in front of us and unbuckle his belt, unzip his pants. I dive beneath his clothes and take hold of him, hot and hard already, caressing the silky hardness that I’m already burning for. Just moments after I start pumping him, he pulls my hands away and sets them around his neck again. His hands stroke my back, his kisses fall on my throat, my chest. He sucks deliberately on a nipple, sending silvery spikes of pleasure down my spine. I press against him, now shamelessly rubbing myself against his erection, the friction alone amping me up.

I can feel the tension building in him, palpable waves of lust coming from him. He brushes my hair aside, the breeze cools my neck as he warms it, massaging it with those strong, sure fingers. He runs a finger down my spine, his hands caressing the cheeks of my ass. I groan with desire, reach down and take hold of him and stroke demandingly on his erection. But he whispers in my ear, “Piachere, Americana. Ralenta.”

And then he kisses me. Strong and deep, stopping to mumble, “Bella regazza,” into my mouth, and then kissing me some more.

My knees go weak.

No one’s been able to do that to me since I was a teenager. My Hitachi Magic Wand has never done it.

This guy, Romeo, he’s done it.

I bite my lip and finally understand.

Us humans, we haven’t fucked up everything just yet.

So I bend to his touch, letting the insistent buzz between my legs build while concentrating on his touches on my shoulder. His fingers curve, the slightest rake of nail teasing my skin, feeling electric everywhere Romeo touches me, making everywhere else want the same attention. Twining my fingers in his hair, the soft ringlets tickle my palms, and his eyelashes flutter against my cheeks when he kisses my ear. I kiss his sinewy throat and he moans, I trace the lines of muscle on his back with my fingertips, taste the brine of his lips on my tongue. His skin is warm and smooth, the musky smell intensifying as he heats up.

When he picks me up and carries me to the bed, I’m not just pulsing between my legs. My whole body is attuned, my slick skin smells like him, just as he’s tinged with me. Finally, laying on top of him, he puts a hand behind my head and draws me in for an extended kiss. As his tongue thrusts into my mouth I straddle his hips. One hand on my neck, insisting on kissing me, tonguing me, with his other hand he lines himself up and finally, mercifully enters me with a forceful thrust.

Just like the rest, he takes his time. Pushing into me, rubbing against me, until I have to beg him not to stop. He sets a pace that puts all my hyper-sensitive nerves on edge. The orgasm builds, and when I come the shock and shiver isn’t just a release in my cunt, though that’s the epicenter of sensation. Tiny shivers sweep across my body, reverberating through my limbs, shaking through my core and up my spine, radiating outward.

Even after he comes, I can see the devilish glint in his now exhausted eyes as he flips onto his back, one hand reached over, stroking my stomach.

He says to me, “Bellagio. Some call it the most romantic place in the world.”

“I know,” I say. Admitting, “That’s why I came here.”

“We have lived up to that for you?”

Outside, the soft misty light of dawn illuminates the quiet blue of the lake, a diffuse glow rising up to the snow-topped mountains, with creamy villas chiseled into the slopes. Before long, the sun will intensify and warm the day, but the mild breva will keep it in harmony. Then, it will be beautiful. But right now, for a few lingering moments, it’s perfection.

In answer to him, I run my hand along Romeo’s chest, slowly, carefully.

I sigh.