A Not So Lonely Planet

by Karina Kennedy

  CONS:

  1. No ID or money.

  2. No idea who this guy is.

  3. New friends in Positano.

  PROS:

  1. No ID or money. Can’t go out anyway.

  2. He’s cute.

  3. I can’t resist a man in uniform.

  4. Duty as independent, sexually confident American woman to help cute Italian boy-cop across the finish line to manhood?

  I watch the ferry, now starting to board. Then I remember that I want to “date like a man.” A man would not get on that ferry.

  Chapter 15

  How Not to Sleep With a Virgin

  Rando Apartment, Capri: Wednesday, 8:37 p.m.

  Tango has taken me for a pizza and beer after work. Now we’re ready to party. Apparently a local’s birthday party on a Wednesday in Capri consists of a bunch of young people sitting around an apartment, drinking, eating junk food, and smoking pot. Not so different from a college party back home, minus the frat boys doing keg stands. All of Tango’s friends are nice. Few of them speak English as well as he does. Mostly I sit around and listen to word soup. Tango keeps asking if I’m okay, if I’m having fun. Yes, actually I am. They’re a lively group, laughing and joking. He puts his arm around me as he introduces me to his friends. His palm sweats on my bare shoulder.

  “Maybe something to drink?” I ask. He needs to relax.

  “What do you like?” he says.

  “Something cold,” I smile.

  “Prosecco?”

  “Perfetto.”

  Tango goes to the kitchen. There are so many cute, young girls here, and he seems fairly popular. I have to wonder if Cash was lying. He can’t really be a virgin. I watch him in the kitchen, interacting with a short, well-endowed redhead as he unwraps the foil on a bottle of Prosecco. But when she pulls the neckline of her top down to show him a tattoo on one of her breasts, he’s completely unprepared. The wet Prosecco bottle slips from his hands, lands on her foot, and rolls away as she hops up and down in pain.

  Tango chases the bottle down, apologizes, and offers her ice. As she bends down to ice her foot, he opens the now shaken bottle of Prosecco, spraying the girl down like a victorious racecar driver. Okay, Cash wasn’t lying. Tango is definitely a virgin. I look away. It’s too painful. Bless his little heart. Fear not, adorable-yet-awkward-Italian-boy-cop. Your youthful-yet-experienced-American-sex-goddess (Italian translation: sciattona Americana) is here to liberate you from the torturous prison of your virginity. I congratulate myself for having made the right choice to stay.

  Deciding to practice my Italian, I focus on the conversations around me. It’s fun to try and figure out what they’re saying. The three boys on the sofa discussing European politics impress me with their maturity, until I realize they’re actually talking about Game of Thrones. The young girl next to me is very polite, trying to make conversation with the newcomer. When she tells me she’s taking classes, “Per essere un ambasciatore,” I think she’s learning about basket weaving.

  “That’s great,” I smile. “My mother does quilting.” I mime sewing, and she looks confused. Tango walks up with three glasses of Prosecco.

  “Chiara is going to be ambassador one day,” he says.

  “Oh, wow,” I say, impressed. “And how many ambassadors can also weave baskets?” Tango gives me a confused look, but nods, clearly proud of his friend. She smiles and looks kind of embarrassed. There is a moment between them. It’s fleeting, but I catch it. Chiara takes the Prosecco, thanks him, and goes to sit by the boy with the guitar.

  “This is, Paolo, the brother of Chiara,” Tango tells me. “We grow up together.” Paolo’s been watching us, and if I’m reading him right, he’s pleased to have Tango’s attention now on me instead of his kid sister, Chiara.

  HELPFUL TIPS FOR ITALIAN PARTIES

  1. Sing the AS Roma football song you learned. The Roma fans will be charmed, the Roma haters will love that you’re butchering it.

  2. “Mambo Italiano” is not the Italian equivalent of “Shout.”

  3. Fragolino is NOT for shots. Didn’t you learn this the first time?

  4. Don’t correct them when they sing the wrong words to “Hotel California.”

  5. When you realize the condoms you brought are back in Positano, don’t rifle through the cabinet in the bathroom, knocking the pin out of the shelf and sending everything crashing into the sink and the toilet that you haven’t flushed yet.

  Tango’s Aunt’s House: Thursday, 12:26 a.m.

  Paintings of cats, photos of cats, cat fridge magnets, cat pillows, cat curtains, and actual cats. Black ones, an orange one, two white ones? I can’t be sure. I’m tipsy. There is tangled yarn strung from sofa to floor like a giant yellow spider web. Tango is staying here while his great Zia Claudia is away in Denmark. The cats are a pain, he says, picking up what’s left of his aunt’s knitting, but it’s nice to get away from his house for a while. He has a ten-year-old brother who follows him everywhere.

  A tiny toy bird with hot pink feathers dangles from the end of a stick wedged into the cushions of a floral chair. I’ve had way too much wine and am exhausted from a full day of rescuing octopuses and hitchhiking. Trying to focus my tired eyes, I pull the cat toy from between the chair’s cushions, and cat hair billows up as I plop down. Tango goes to get us water. I swing the bird in tiny circles around the stick. Immediately there is a fat gray cat with two heads in my lap, batting at the toy bird. I put the toy down and stroke the cat. No wonder he’s fat. He’s got two mouths. Just as I’m trying to decide which of the cat’s two heads to scratch, Tango comes back with the water and shoos him away.

  As I drink the water, Tango sits on the sofa, takes off his shoes. He’s not as nervous around me as he was before. It’s either the wine, or the fact that I overflowed his friend’s toilet. I lean my head back against the chair and realize how much I just want to close my eyes and have a short nap. But I’ve got a job to do. I’ve got an Italian virgin to deflower. If not me, who? If not now, when?

  Tango is intently trying to untangle a giant handful of yellow yarn. He is clearly not going to make the first move. I stand up, slowly take the yarn out of his hands, and place it in the knitting basket. I put a knee on the couch and gently straddle him, sitting on his lap.

  “Is this seat taken?” I ask.

  “No,” he laughs awkwardly. I lightly touch the little scar on his cheek with the tip of my index finger.

  “Can you feel that?” I ask.

  “Little,” he nods.

  “What does it feel like?” I ask.

  “Feather on my face.”

  “You like it?” He nods, smiling. I lean over and grab the cat toy with the hot pink feathers. I trail the bird’s tail lightly over Tango’s forehead, cheeks, chin, and then down his neck. He smiles. His young, luminous skin responds to the tickling with a rippling wave of goose bumps. Slowly I unbutton his shirt. Now he looks both aroused and worried. I lean in and kiss his lips gently to reassure him. Then I trail the pink feathers down over his smooth, nicely shaped pecks. I wiggle the feathers across his stomach. He laughs.

  “You’re ticklish?” Delighted, I wiggle them more, zigging and zagging the toy bird across his chest. He laughs harder. I spin the bird in a tight little circle around his navel and Tango—YELLS IN PAIN as the gray cat pounces out of nowhere, onto the toy, sinking his claws into Tango’s stomach.

  “Che cazzo!” Tango leaps up flinging us both off his lap. The cat lands on its feet. I do not. “Testa di cazzo!” Tango throws a pillow at the cat. I watch it bolt from the room from my position on the floor, and I wish I could follow it.

  “Oh my God, I’m so sorry. That was a bad idea. Are you okay?” This seems like a sentence I should practice in Italian. Tango regains his composure, but he’s got scarlet red scratches on his belly. “Let me see,” I reach for him, but he steps back.

  “I’m ok-ay.”

  “I’m sorry.” I feel even worse now.

  “It’s ok-ay.�
� He sits down in the chair. He needs some space. Ok-ay. Mood ruined. Fuck. I hand him his glass of water. Retrieving some ice from the kitchen, I wrap it in a cloth, but he seems to not want me touching him.

  What now? I can’t let his most promising evening end with disappointment. If I have one admirable characteristic, it’s the ability to make a bad situation better. Getting an idea, I reach for my bag, pulling out my phone. There’s a little battery left.

  “Can I put on some music?” I ask.

  “Ok-ay, no problem,” Tango replies.

  “No Johnny Cash, I promise,” I say with a smile. He laughs, relaxing a little. Good. I click around on my phone and find Buena Vista Social Club: “Chan Chan.” Perfetto. If sex was converted into music, this is what it would sound like. Cuban guitar notes drift through the air, punctuated by bongos and the sensual shushing of maracas.

  “You relax. I’ll just be over here, a safe distance away,” I say, and I slowly begin to move my hips back and forth. I raise my arms gracefully into the air, holding my hair up off my neck, as I sway my head back and forth with the melody. I turn in a slow circle as I untie my sundress, letting it fall away from my chest, revealing my breasts in my black bikini. Tango’s eyes are fixed to my breasts—my hands glide around them, squeezing them gently together. I smile and moisten my lips as I continue to dance, slipping my own fingers into my bikini top, teasing my nipples to attention, teasing him as he stares. I turn sideways so he gets the full silhouette of my breasts and ass as I wiggle my dress over my hips, bending to slide it down my legs, to my ankles, and off. I toss it at him with a wicked smile, and he catches it, smiling back.

  His mood has completely changed. I can see his desire. Tango watches my fingers as I trace them up and down the strings of my bikini top. Pausing at the bow tied between my breasts, I give him a raised eyebrow. He swallows in anticipation. I blow him an air kiss and turn my back to him, shimmying my ass in time with the drums. I gyrate my hips in a figure eight, my fingers playing with the strings on the sides of my bikini bottom. Then, fingers spread, I drag my palms over my whole body, my ass, my hips. (Yes, I’ve done this striptease many times before. No, there was nobody actually in the room at the time.)

  It’s working. Tango is entranced. I move closer to him and he reaches out to grab me, but I glide away, teasing him. I smile. He squirms in his seat. Okay, time to throw him a bone. Turning my back to him once again, I slowly untie my bikini top, dropping it to the ground. I arch my back as I run my hands through my hair, flipping it sexily. I then twirl around to face Tango—and a very old Italian man wheeling an oxygen tank.

  “Holy shit!” I yank a blanket from the back of a chair to cover myself, knocking a stack of records onto the floor in the process.

  “Merda! Zio Tomaso! Sei sveglio?” Tango says, really loudly. The old man just stares at me, then smiles.

  “Non volevo perdere lo spettacolo.” His throaty, wheezy laugh is lost in a fit of coughing. Tango helps his uncle put the oxygen mask back on and ushers him slowly down the hallway. I slip my sundress back on. Strike two. I pick up the records. One is broken. Due to unforeseen circumstances, we regret to announce that Signora Renata Tebaldi will not be singing the role of Madam Butterfly this evening. Tango soon returns.

  “Mi dispiace. He is my uncle, Tomaso. I am helping to look him while my aunt is away. I did not know he was awake. He does not hear much.”

  Tango slips the broken record back into the cardboard sleeve and props it up by the record player. “I must try to buy a new one so my aunt will not know.” He retrieves a bottle of grappa from the kitchen.

  “Thanks, I definitely need that,” I say.

  “No, for my uncle. He is not allowed, because he might die. But if I don’t give him—he will tell my aunt I brought a girl here.”

  “Of course,” I say. “Clearly bringing me home is worse than killing your uncle. Anyway, I just remembered, I’m already drunk.” Tango disappears down the hall. I sit back on the sofa, drink some water, yawn, and stretch out to wait. Renata Tebaldi in her geisha wig stares at me dramatically from her black and white album cover. We have a staring contest. She wins.

  Tango’s Aunt’s House: Thursday, 2:18 a.m.

  The cat pillow under my head is soaked with drool. It looks like the cat threw up. I hear my phone beep and realize what woke me. Fumbling around, I find the phone. It’s barely alive at one percent battery.

  YANG: okay DLT?

  ME: stayed on Capri to deflower virgin

  YANG: you wish

  ME: serious

  YANG: fuck yeah? (emoji: big thumbs up)

  I’m about to type a reply when the phone dies. My charger is back at the hotel. I flop back onto the sofa. Now I realize what I’ve just done. Shit. The lesbian sexperts are going to want to hear about it. How am I going to face them having failed? How do you spin cat attack and stripping for a ninety-year-old? I won’t give up so easily. I will not fail.

  I creep down the dark hall and peek into the even darker bedroom. Tango is snoring louder than a lumberjack from under the covers. I tiptoe quietly into the room and slip off my dress. Wearing just my black bikini, I slide gently into the bed and then—Tomaso wraps his bony arm around me. I SCREAM, jumping out of his bed.

  “Ritorna tentatrice sexy!” Tomaso wheezes, then laughs, then coughs, then suddenly falls out of bed, yanking his oxygen mask and pulling over the tank.

  “Sorry! Are you having a heart attack? Fuck! Help!”

  Everything turns to slow motion. Tango runs into the room. Tomaso is on the floor. I’m standing frozen in shock. Tango helps his uncle back up onto the bed, puts the mask on him. Then, Tango turns and scoops me up like I weigh nothing. He carries me out, down the hall, into another room, and tosses me onto a bed. He disappears again.

  “No! Non la convideremo!” I hear him talking to his uncle. As I sit on the edge of his bed, the speed of the world returns to normal. I’m not a youthful-yet-experienced-American-sex-goddess. I’m a senior citizen molester. I’m a sciattona Americana. For real. By the time I get back to Positano, my face will be on the wall at all the nursing homes. I’m such an asshole! I cannot bear it—I start to cry. About ten minutes later, Tango reenters the room. I wait for him to yell at me, but he just puts the sheet around my shoulders and sits down next to me on the bed.

  “Is he dying?”

  “No.”

  “I thought it was you,” I say.

  “Sì, but I am bigger.”

  “He was snoring so loud!”

  “Sì, he has enfisema.”

  “I sexually assaulted a senior with emphysema?” I ask, tears running down my cheeks. Tango nods. My eyes well up again.

  “No, it’s okay. Don’t cry bella. It is the best time of his week, trust me!” He laughs. My heart lifts. Tango isn’t mad. He wraps his arms around me.

  “He’s not having a heart attack?” I ask.

  “No, no. His heart is broken because he thought his dreams were coming true,” Tango smiles, putting his arm around me. I laugh through my tears. “But, at least he now gets to tell all his old friends at the café.”

  “I just wanted you to have a sexy American girl for your first time,” I sniff. Tango looks surprised and embarrassed. “Your partner told me.”

  “He is shit-head.”

  “And I’m a hot mess.”

  “Yes, very hot mess. Very sexy.”

  “I am?”

  “Sì! Only just now you have the snots on your face.” He reaches over, hands me his T-shirt lying on the bed. I start to put it on.

  “No, is for your face,” he says. He takes the T-shirt and wipes my face. “I like you without your clothes.”

  I blink wet eyelashes at him. What? Is this possible? Does he still want to have sex after everything that just happened? Tango smiles, leans in, and kisses me softly. Apparently he does. I kiss him back, a little less softly. His fingers slowly untie the straps of my bikini, and my top falls away, revealing my breasts. Tango cups one in
each hand and stares at them appreciatively.

  “Your breasts are perfect.”

  “Your uncle is right down the hall.”

  “It’s ok-ay. He is almost deaf and I give him more grappa.” Somehow, under the circumstances, this seems fine. Tango leans me back on the bed and kisses my nipples, sucking and tugging gently with his lips as he massages my breasts with his fingers. First one, and then the other. It feels amazing. My muscles instantly relax into the mattress. Wow. He certainly doesn’t seem like a virgin. His shy awkwardness is gone. I run my fingers through his hair—then I sit up.

  “You have a condom?”

  “Sì.”

  “Is the door locked?”

  “Sì.”

  “Are you sure?” Tango doesn’t answer. He leans me back on the bed, puts one hand on my chest, another on my trembling stomach, and slips his head between my legs. I can feel his hot breath on my figa as my heart beats faster and my breathing quickens. But wait, aren’t I supposed to be the one driving this car? “What about you?” I say, with less enthusiasm than I intend. “I want you to—”

  “Ladies first,” Tango says sweetly, as his fingers gently pry me apart, and all at once his warm, wonderful tongue slides inside me. I breathe in sharply. Okay, he can drive for now. I try not to grip his hair too hard as I stare at the ceiling. Warmth radiates through me. Every time his fantastically talented tongue slips in, out, and around my now throbbing, aching figa, I feel jolts of electricity. My head begins to spin. I close my eyes. His fingers dance around the edges of my figa, gently tickling me. Tango opens my legs further, his face pressing into me. I hear myself groan as his hands go to my hips, pulling me into his mouth. I climax and my back arches, my hands gripping the sheets under me, my breath stopped, my heart thumping madly.

  But still, he doesn’t stop. My knees begin to tremble as I feel his fingers slip back inside, and now a second unstoppable wave of intensity washes over me. My heart pounds in my ears. Holy shit. Just when I’m about to yell uncle (but stop myself because there’s an actual uncle in the next room), Tango plants a final kiss and happily yields. I miss his proud expression because my eyes are still rolled back in my head. But I do hear his satisfied, sexy voice as he climbs on top of me. “Ok-ay. Now is my turn. Sì?”