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Quell’ultima domenica di Ottobre del 2015 era stata molto intensa. Mi ero svegliato con una bella scopata con Ania, una ragazza russa con la quale mi vedevo di tanto in tanto e senza troppe pretese. La cacciai di casa prima di pranzo, il pomeriggio sarebbe arrivata Arika. Arika Lepetit non la conoscevo ancora di persona. Sapevo che era una francesina di 26 anni, magrolina e senza tette ma un culetto duro e compatto a quanto sembrava dalle foto. Mi aveva contattato tramite un gruppo facebook “Italian Friends”. Ci eravamo scambiati qualche messaggio, qualche ammiccatina digitale e, insomma, la chimica era scattata già sulla chat. Le avevo proposto di venirmi a trovare a Roma e lei aveva subito accettato. Riassettai la cameretta, cambiai le lenzuola (l’igiene prima di tutto) e mi misi a leggere l’Idiota di Fëdor Dostoevskij, un libro infinto. Dring dring! Il citofono suonò allegro. – Piacere Marco Magrildi. Finalmente ci conosciamo! E sei più bella che in foto. – Così le dissi ancora prima di farla entrare e per confermarle il mio interesse immediatamente. Mi portò una bottiglia di vino francese, ottimo per rompere il ghiaccio. Ci mettemmo a sedere in camera mia sul divano. Mi raccontò della sua famiglia: figlia di genitori separati (praticamente quando lei era nata), un fratello e due sorelle dal secondo matrimonio del padre. Menzionò qualcosina della sua vita a Bordeaux dove studiava come ballerina, del ragazzo che aveva appena lasciato e del suo interrail in Europa.
Era abbastanza, la volevo. Il vino francese e la passione presero il sopravvento e finimmo a far l’amore per qualche ora.
La sera la portai sotto casa mia - abitavo a Trastevere - il posto più bello di Roma. Ero in affitto in un appartamentino su due livelli proprio dove sorgevano le residenze estive degli imperatori. Mi costava più di mezzo stipendio ma mi piaceva pensare di essere sempre in vacanza come loro. Lavoravo all’ufficio postale di Via delle Sabine, un piccolo ufficio non lontano da Trastevere. Gestivo la contabilità e a inizio mese lavoravo allo sportello pensioni dove avevo conosciuto tutti gli anziani di zona. Mi portavano sempre cioccolatini e caramelle, mi volevano molto bene o forse avevano paura che non gli pagassi la pensione. L’appartamento aveva un piccolo terrazzino da dove si vedeva l’Altare della Patria e dove spesso mi sedevo a bere e a pensare. E più bevevo e più pensavo, e pensavo sempre male. Andammo al Bar San Carlo sotto casa e facemmo un veloce aperitivo, il sesso consuma grassi dopotutto. Eravamo stanchi e risalimmo a casa presto. Le diedi il tempo di fare una doccia, poi la raggiunsi in bagno (dopo aver bussato, si intende, l’educazione prima di tutto). Cominciammo a toccarci, lei si abbassò. Era fantastica, mi leggeva nella mente. I preservativi erano in camera, ero stato proprio un fesso. Porca troia! La presi in braccio e la portai a letto, misi su il condom (la sicurezza prima di tutto) e la penetrai delicatamente prima da un lato poi dall’altro. Lasciavo che il suo respiro scandisse il ritmo del mio movimento. Gemette, tremò, pianse.
La baciai dolcemente e le asciugai le lacrime. La abbracciai e ci addormentammo stretti e contenti. Il giorno successivo la portai in giro per Roma: il Colosseo, la Fontana di Trevi, il Pantheon, i Fori e infine Campo dei Fiori. Ci fermammo lì a bere qualcosa e mangiare un panino dal paninaro ad angolo con via del Biscione, la miglior salamella di Roma.
Il lunedì mattina l’accompagnai alla stazione di Roma Termini a prendere il treno per Napoli. Ero triste. Mi ero divertito con lei, ero stato bene. Non era come con le altre, non volevo una botta e via; non era stato solo il mero piacere di usare il suo corpo per appagare l’istinto animale. Ma allora cos’era? Dovevo preoccuparmi? Ero forse malato?
Le scrissi che volevo rivederla il weekend dopo, dovunque lei fosse. – Firenze – mi rispose.
– Se vuoi, vengo con te. – le scrissi senza pensarci con tono entusiasta - adoro Firenze, le sue chiese, le sue statue, i vicoletti e lo spirito di Dante che la pervade. –
– Marco – mi rispose – il prossimo weekend, io non posso fare sesso 😊.
Il venerdì successivo la raggiunsi a Firenze subito dopo lavoro. Volevo portarla su a Piazza Michelangelo per vedere il tramonto insieme. Ero in ritardo per colpa del soltito traffico tra Prato e Firenze Scandicci. Allora chiesi al sole di attardarsi un attimo nell’andare giù. Ma il sole non aspetta, fottutto egoista. Quando è tempo di andare, non puoi fermarlo. Forse lo fa solo per galanteria: se lui non va giù, la luna non può venire su dopotutto.
Non vedemmo il tramonto, ma in compenso andammo a mangiare una bella bistecca in un ristorantino sull’Arno poco prima di pontevecchio. Adoravo stare con lei, eravamo in simbiosi perfetta. Volevamo le stesse cose: una cenetta, una passeggiata, un bicchiere di vino, e chi se ne importa se la fila per il museo è troppo lunga per entrare. Io la mia Venere l’avevo affianco, Botticelli potevi tenersi la sua. Sul modo di vedere la vita, quello sì, eravamo tuttavia diversi: Arika viveva alla giornata, all’avventura, andava in giro per l’Europa scegliendo la prossima città senza un ordine logico, non pensando al suo futuro; io ero un pianificatore, un uomo legato alla sua terra, un codardo con la paura di restare senza quattrini, un impiegato postale. – Arika, non voglio che tu pensi che mi sono innamorato (anche se potrebe essere)...dove vai settimana prossima? – le sussurrai all’orecchio menre eravamo vicini su un letto traballante in una casetta fatiscente nella periferia di Firenze in zona Scandicci. - Vuoi venire con me anche a Venezia? – mi rispose sogghignando. La baciai.
A Venezia ci perdemmo tra i canaletti, i ponti, la Chiesa di San Marco e qualche spritz. Andammo poi sulle isole di Murano a vedere la lavorazione del vetro soffiato. Che spettacolo! E poi ci sposammo, o almeno così facemmo credere alle nostre famiglie. Mandammo ai nostri rispettivi genitori una foto di noi due davanti a una chiesa con un bouquet di fiori raccolti in un cestino nei giardini. Quante risate. I nostri genitori non ridevano mica tanto; tempo zero mia mamma mi chiamò con voce cupa e incazzata – Ah bravo! Ti sposi e non mi inviti nemmeno -. Il grosso problema non era essermi sposato, ma non averli invitati.
Al crepuscolo, un tango dolce riecheggiava tra le colonne e la chiesa di Piazza San Marco, era “Vuelvo Al Sur” di Astor Piazzola. La presi per mano, tentai di ballare ma ero totalmente incapace (e lei una ballerina esperta!).
La mattina tornammo a Roma dove Arika aveva il volo per Berlino da Roma il giorno successivo. Arrivvammo a casa verso le 23, stanchi ma soddisfatti e pieni di noi. Si pieni perchè stare insieme significa nutrirsi gli uni degli altri, consumarsi come due candele ai lati opposti di una stanza che la illuminano confondendo le loro luci.
Ci facemmo una doccia, ordinai due pizze, una bottiglia di prosecco e facemmo l’amore sul terrazzo per l’ultima volta. Roma era muta, si era fermata ad ascoltarci gemere e godere, sospirare e amare.
Cosa fai non mi raggiungi a Berlino? – mi scrisse con tono provocatorio quando atterrò in Germania.
Il venerdì sera ero a Berlino.
Appena atterratto la chiamai, Arika non mi rispose, non aveva voluto prendere una stanza con me come avevamo fatto gli altri fine settimana. Qualcosa non andava. Mi scrisse con un inglese ubriaco – Sono qui al Sissy. Vieni! -. Dove cazzo è il Sissy a Berlino? – Silenzio. Provai a cercarlo su google, ma mi dava solo siti di incontri di travestiti. Stanco di correrle dietro, ritornai all’ostello Backpackers Berlin non lontano dall’ East Side.
La mattina seguente mi scrisse e ci vedemmo al Centro commerciale in Alexander Platz di fronte al Caffè Italiano. – Scusa per ieri, ero ubriaca 😊 – mi disse appena arrivata senza dare troppo peso all’accaduto. La abbracciai e lei ricambiò in modo strano, quasi distante. Le dissi ironicamente e con un grosso sorriso – Andiamo a prenderci il vero caffè italiano a Berlino. – La toccai delicatamente sul fianco sinistro per guidarla verso il caffè. Ma lei mi spinse via e disse gridando – Non mi toccare! -.
Continua...
--- English Version ---
That last Sunday in October 2015 had been very intense. I woke up with a good fuck with Ania, a Russian girl with whom I meet once a week and without too much feelings. That Saturday I kick her out before lunch, Arika would have arrived in the afternoon. I did not know Arika Lepetit yet in person, I knew she was a 26 year old little girl, skinny and without boobs but a little ass hard and compact as it seemed from the pictures. She had contacted me through a Facebook group "Italian friends". We exchanged a few messages, some digital blinks and, in short, the chemistry was already taken on the chat. I proposed her to come to visit me and she accepted. I rearranged the bedroom, changed the sheets (hygiene first) and I started to read the Idiot of Fyodor Dostoevsky, an endless book. Dring dring! The ringbell sounded cheerful. – Marco Magrildi, nice to meet you. Finally we meet each other! And you're more beautiful than in the picture. – Just to confirm my interest in her before she comes in. He brought me a bottle of French wine, great for breaking the ice. We sit in my room on the sofa. She told me about her family: daughter of separated parents (practically when she was born), a brother and two sisters from the second marriage of the father. She mentioned a little bit of her life in Bordeaux where she studied as a dancer, about the boy she had just left and about her interrail in Europe. The more I heard her talking, the more I felt I like her. It was enough. French wine and passion took over and we ended up making love for a few hours.
In the evening I took her down to my house - I lived in Trastevere - the most beautiful place in Rome. I rented a duplex apartment where the emperors' summer residences stood. It costed most of my salary, but I liked to think to be always on holiday like the emperors. I worked at the post office in Via delle Sabine, a small office not far from Trastevere. I managed the accounting of the office and, at the beginning of the month, I worked at the pension desk where I had met all the elderly in the area. They always brought me chocolates and sweets, they loved me very much or maybe they were afraid I would not pay them the pension.
I had a small terrace where you can see the Altare della Patria and where I often sat down to drink and think. And the more I drunk, the more I thought, and I always thought badly. We went to the San Carlo Bar in my street and we made a quick aperitif, sex consumes a lot of energy after all. We were tired and we went home early. I gave her time to take a shower, then I joined her in the bathroom after knocking (education first). We began to touch, she went down. It was fantastic, she read my mind. The condoms were in the room, I had just been so stupid. Damn! I picked her up and carried her to bed, put the condom on (safety first) and gently penetrated her first on one side and then on the other. I let her breath controls the rhythm of my movement. She groaned, trembled, cried.
I kissed her gently and dried her tears. I hugged her and fell asleep, tight and happy. The next day I took her around Rome: the Colosseum, the Trevi Fountain, the Pantheon, the Fori Imperiali and finally Campo dei Fiori. We stopped there to have a drink and eat a sandwich from a street’s burger on the corner with Via del Biscione, the best salami in Rome.
On Monday morning I brought her to the Roma Termini station to take the train to Naples. I was sad. I had fun with her, I was fine. It was not like the others, I did not want a one-night stand; it was not just the mere pleasure of using her body to satisfy the animal instinct. But then what was it? I was worried it was something bigger.
I wrote to her that I wanted to see her again the weekend after, wherever she was. "Florence" she replied.
- If you want, I will come with you. – I suddenly replied with enthusiastic voice - I love Florence, its churches, its statues, the small streets and the spirit of Dante that pervades it. -
- Marco - she answered - next weekend, I cannot have sex 😊.
The following Friday I joined her in Florence immediately after work. I wanted to take her up to Piazza Michelangelo to see the sunset together. I asked the sun to wait for a moment before going down. But the sun does not wait, selfish bastard. When it's time to go, you cannot stop it. Perhaps he does it only to be a gentleman: if he does not go down, the moon cannot come up.
We did not see the sunset, but we went to eat a delicious steak in a restaurant on the Arno, just before Ponte Vecchio. I loved being with her, we were in perfect symbiosis. We wanted the same simple things: a dinner, a walk, a glass of wine, and who cares if the line for the museum is too long to enter. I had my Venere next to me, Botticelli could keep his. On the way we saw life we were different: Arika lived day by day, she loves adventures, she was going around Europe choosing the next city without a logical order, not thinking about her future; I was a planner, a man tied to his land and his family, a coward with the fear of being without money.
- Arika, I do not want you to think that I'm in love (even if it's probably true …where are you going next week? – I whispered in her ear while we were close on a shaky bed in a derelict house on the suburbans of Florence in the Scandicci area.
- Do you want to come with me to Venice? She asked, grinning. I kissed her. In Venice we lost ourselves among the gutters, bridges, the Church of San Marco and some spritz. Then we went to the islands of Burano to see the Murano’s glass production. What a show! And then we got married, or so we made our families believe. We sent our parents a picture of the two of us in front of a church with a bouquet of flowers in hand, it was so funny. Our parents did not laugh so much; time zero my mother called me with a voice dark and angry - Ah good! You get married and do not even invite me -.
At dusk, a sweet tango echoed between the columns and the church of Piazza San Marco, it was "Vuelvo Al Sur" by Astor Piazzola. I took her by the hand, I tried to dance but I was totally unable (and she was an expert dancer!).
In the morning we returned to Rome, Arika had a flight to Berlin from Rome the next day. We arrived home around 11 pm, tired but satisfied and full of us. Yes, full because being together means eating one another, being consumed like two candles on opposite sides that illuminate the same room, confusing their lights.
We took a shower, ordered two pizzas, a bottle of prosecco and made love on the terrace for the last time. Rome was silent, it stopped to listen to us moaning and enjoying, whispering and loving.
So…what next? Will you reach me in Berlin? - she wrote with provocative tone when she landed in Germany.
On Friday evening I was in Berlin, I had paid that flight 150 euros, normally my budget was 50.
As soon as I landed I called her, Arika did not answer me, she did not want to take a room with me like we did the other weekends. Something was wrong, something was changed. She wrote me with drunken English (worst then general LOL) - I'm here at Sissy. Come! -. Where the fuck is Sissy in Berlin? Silence. I tried to find it on google, it only gave me sites of cross-dresser meetings. Tired of running after her, I returned to the Backpackers Berlin hostel not far from the East Side.
The following morning, she wrote to me and we met at the shopping mall in Alexander Platz in front of the Italian Cafe. - Sorry for yesterday, I was drunk 😊 - she apologised as soon as I arrived without giving too much weight to the previous night incident. I hugged her and she did the same not too enthusiastic. I told her ironically and with a big smile - Let's go getting the real Italian coffee in Berlin. - I gently touched her on the left side to guide her to the coffee. She pushed me away shouting - Do not touch me! -.
To be continued...
In the evening I took her down to my house - I lived in Trastevere - the most beautiful place in Rome. I rented a duplex apartment where the emperors' summer residences stood. It costed most of my salary, but I liked to think to be always on holiday like the emperors. I worked at the post office in Via delle Sabine, a small office not far from Trastevere. I managed the accounting of the office and, at the beginning of the month, I worked at the pension desk where I had met all the elderly in the area. They always brought me chocolates and sweets, they loved me very much or maybe they were afraid I would not pay them the pension.
I had a small terrace where you can see the Altare della Patria and where I often sat down to drink and think. And the more I drunk, the more I thought, and I always thought badly. We went to the San Carlo Bar in my street and we made a quick aperitif, sex consumes a lot of energy after all. We were tired and we went home early. I gave her time to take a shower, then I joined her in the bathroom after knocking (education first). We began to touch, she went down. It was fantastic, she read my mind. The condoms were in the room, I had just been so stupid. Damn! I picked her up and carried her to bed, put the condom on (safety first) and gently penetrated her first on one side and then on the other. I let her breath controls the rhythm of my movement. She groaned, trembled, cried.
I kissed her gently and dried her tears. I hugged her and fell asleep, tight and happy. The next day I took her around Rome: the Colosseum, the Trevi Fountain, the Pantheon, the Fori Imperiali and finally Campo dei Fiori. We stopped there to have a drink and eat a sandwich from a street’s burger on the corner with Via del Biscione, the best salami in Rome.
On Monday morning I brought her to the Roma Termini station to take the train to Naples. I was sad. I had fun with her, I was fine. It was not like the others, I did not want a one-night stand; it was not just the mere pleasure of using her body to satisfy the animal instinct. But then what was it? I was worried it was something bigger.
I wrote to her that I wanted to see her again the weekend after, wherever she was. "Florence" she replied.
- If you want, I will come with you. – I suddenly replied with enthusiastic voice - I love Florence, its churches, its statues, the small streets and the spirit of Dante that pervades it. -
- Marco - she answered - next weekend, I cannot have sex 😊.
The following Friday I joined her in Florence immediately after work. I wanted to take her up to Piazza Michelangelo to see the sunset together. I asked the sun to wait for a moment before going down. But the sun does not wait, selfish bastard. When it's time to go, you cannot stop it. Perhaps he does it only to be a gentleman: if he does not go down, the moon cannot come up.
We did not see the sunset, but we went to eat a delicious steak in a restaurant on the Arno, just before Ponte Vecchio. I loved being with her, we were in perfect symbiosis. We wanted the same simple things: a dinner, a walk, a glass of wine, and who cares if the line for the museum is too long to enter. I had my Venere next to me, Botticelli could keep his. On the way we saw life we were different: Arika lived day by day, she loves adventures, she was going around Europe choosing the next city without a logical order, not thinking about her future; I was a planner, a man tied to his land and his family, a coward with the fear of being without money.
- Arika, I do not want you to think that I'm in love (even if it's probably true …where are you going next week? – I whispered in her ear while we were close on a shaky bed in a derelict house on the suburbans of Florence in the Scandicci area.
- Do you want to come with me to Venice? She asked, grinning. I kissed her. In Venice we lost ourselves among the gutters, bridges, the Church of San Marco and some spritz. Then we went to the islands of Burano to see the Murano’s glass production. What a show! And then we got married, or so we made our families believe. We sent our parents a picture of the two of us in front of a church with a bouquet of flowers in hand, it was so funny. Our parents did not laugh so much; time zero my mother called me with a voice dark and angry - Ah good! You get married and do not even invite me -.
At dusk, a sweet tango echoed between the columns and the church of Piazza San Marco, it was "Vuelvo Al Sur" by Astor Piazzola. I took her by the hand, I tried to dance but I was totally unable (and she was an expert dancer!).
In the morning we returned to Rome, Arika had a flight to Berlin from Rome the next day. We arrived home around 11 pm, tired but satisfied and full of us. Yes, full because being together means eating one another, being consumed like two candles on opposite sides that illuminate the same room, confusing their lights.
We took a shower, ordered two pizzas, a bottle of prosecco and made love on the terrace for the last time. Rome was silent, it stopped to listen to us moaning and enjoying, whispering and loving.
So…what next? Will you reach me in Berlin? - she wrote with provocative tone when she landed in Germany.
On Friday evening I was in Berlin, I had paid that flight 150 euros, normally my budget was 50.
As soon as I landed I called her, Arika did not answer me, she did not want to take a room with me like we did the other weekends. Something was wrong, something was changed. She wrote me with drunken English (worst then general LOL) - I'm here at Sissy. Come! -. Where the fuck is Sissy in Berlin? Silence. I tried to find it on google, it only gave me sites of cross-dresser meetings. Tired of running after her, I returned to the Backpackers Berlin hostel not far from the East Side.
The following morning, she wrote to me and we met at the shopping mall in Alexander Platz in front of the Italian Cafe. - Sorry for yesterday, I was drunk 😊 - she apologised as soon as I arrived without giving too much weight to the previous night incident. I hugged her and she did the same not too enthusiastic. I told her ironically and with a big smile - Let's go getting the real Italian coffee in Berlin. - I gently touched her on the left side to guide her to the coffee. She pushed me away shouting - Do not touch me! -.
To be continued...
You have mistake in the english version - "he brought me a bottle of French wine" instead of "she" and it´s a lot about proving how much money a guy spend over a girl although is it so necessary to mention the money? Aren´t the actions supposed to be enough? Otherwise nice piece...
RispondiEliminaThanks for the feedback and the correction, really appreciated! I will rethink about the the money part...I think he is not spending money over her, he is more doing an exception to his standard life for her... ;) Hope you will comment on the 2nd part if I will manage to finish it! :P
Elimina