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We're all back on the bus again, travelling happily to Venice. There's the usual guy with the guitar strumming famous tunes favouring the inevitable loud choruses screaming revenge from the eardrums, and there are the new teenage couples grappling with their first sexual upsets. They carve out their own little bit of intimacy as they can and venture into the world of the senses: they stand on the sidelines and make out.
I'm sitting on top of my stain, the lair hoping it will reabsorb. Professor Rinaldi has started talking obsessively and loudly again to overcome the background roar. It's like a nightmare. I can't wait to get off this damn bus. First the whistles, then the dirty little message, then the voyeur driver, the stain and, finally, the broken eardrums, enough! I'm gonna put on my headphones and crank up the Coldplay spiritual music.
Finally we're in the lagoon, we've abandoned the metal and rubber monster that brought us here and now we're all (I hope) under a scorching sun waiting for the ferry.
We are on board. The brackish smell of the lagoon is vaguely reminiscent of a stable, but what we see makes us forget it. The beauty of this amphibious city has something supernatural, it makes you doubt your senses. Every time I see its palaces mirrored and floating on the water, I imagine a capricious and aesthetic god who one day decided to create the most beautiful city in the world on the most precarious of the emerged lands.
The hotel is sleazy but clean, I just took a revitalizing cold shower and I'm drying out when I hear a knock on the door: "Who is it?" I ask with a vein of irritation in my voice. "I'm Angelo Rinaldi, your colleague, I just wanted to tell you that we're having dinner at the hotel, we'll wait for you at the restaurant." "This hole has a restaurant?" I answer astounded. "No, but he's leaning against the restaurant across the street. I thought you saw him." Angelo answers." Then don't say we're having dinner at the hotel!" I mean between me and me. I hate the lack of precision, especially in language. I cover myself with the robe I prudently brought, and I open the door for him. He is surprised by my courtesy and my confidential outfit and takes a little leap back. "Come in, what are you doing standing in the hallway?" I tell him to turn his back and go back to the bathroom. "Come on in, just give me a minute to finish drying myself off and fix my hair." He doesn't say anything and I lock myself in the bathroom. When I come out of it, he's still sitting in the uncomfortable, wobbly wooden chair I pointed out to him. I'm practically naked under the wet robe, and I have to get dressed. I ask him to look the other way. He obeys without a breath. I put on the first thing I find and I'm ready for dinner at the trattoria.
Our table looks like a circle of hell: everything flies in a crescendo of laughter and shouting. When Angelo and I appear, many people whisper, "Here are the professors!" they whisper. Thank goodness: they respect me a little. We sit close together, him at the head of the table and me at his right. He was gallant to wait for me so I wouldn't go alone into a public place crowded with invaded students. The other two high school girls are there, too, escorted by a couple of professors. I know her, her name is Laura and she's a beautiful woman: she has dark, intense black eyes and a mouth that won't leave your brain alone: why do I want to kiss her? Why do I want to steal her? Because that's the way she is? Why is she perfect on that very face? These are questions that cannot be answered: it is simply the mouth. All you have to do is take note of it. I greet her with a wave of my hand and she returns with a smile that leaves me breathless. Her white teeth framed by her rosy lips and her laughing eyes are true masterpieces of nature. I am attracted to her as I rarely am. I decide to go up close and say hello to her. I apologize to the onlookers and go. You are, as always, cordial and sparkling. After the pleasantries, I tell you that I would like to take a night walk through Venice once the boys have gone to bed. She's thrilled with the idea: "Whenever you're ready, text me, OK?" He says to me with his mouth painted by the god Eros himself. "Okay, see you later." I'll take it.
We meet like two palace conspirators in the semi-dark alley that runs alongside the hotel. Venice is a time machine, when you go into it, time rewinds at the speed of light. Every sign, every object of current time, here fades, loses importance, evaporates in the face of the force of suggestion and magnetism of this city endowed with a soul.
Light attracts us as if we were two moths that have lost their way. We find ourselves in a small square animated by a street artist playing with fire. The flashes of his choreographic flames are reflected in Laura's black eyes, sketching them with red and irregular brushstrokes. She looks like a cat. I can't help but take her hand, she squeezes it right away and slips her fingers between mine. The hands are the most intimate and sensual thing after the mouth. Hands explore, know, wise, caress.
We are convinced that we are invisible, that we are only a feeble apparition for bystanders. Our mouths search and find themselves in an epiphany of soft lips, saliva and desire. Our skirts rise and our hands discover skin and shapes. I smell her feminine scent merging with mine. I look for her small but perfect breasts while she finds my right buttock. We are deaf and blind, our senses are all inside our mouths and our hands.
We haven't noticed that the igneous show is over and that we are practically in the middle of the square clinging to each other like ivy.
We get out of the traffic spell at the same time, we quickly recompose ourselves under the admired and astonished eyes of a group of youngsters who, after the fire-eater, wanted to enjoy our show too. They are excited, I can hear it in the tone of their voices. I can understand them, we are the guilty ones. I'm looking for help in Laura's eyes. She's older, I hope she knows what to do. She knows: "Hi guys, let's go get a drink at the bar in St. Mark's Square? Will you take us? We don't want to go out alone." Exclaim with voice set, as a teacher. He got them right. I breathe a sigh of relief.
St. Mark's Square appears before us unexpectedly, as if someone had opened a giant curtain on a majestic and deep scene. Dizzying the beauty that pervades every single architectural element and portentous the balance and harmony of the whole.
We sit at the table of the most expensive bar in the world and order a bottle of vodka, a bucket of ice and six glasses. The atmosphere is relaxed with a hint of euphoria in the majority male component. They caught two not bad chicks in the most erotic city on the planet. Vodka is starting to make itself felt, while one of the guys has made a grass joint of unthinkable size and is getting ready to light it with evident pride. "It's been six!" He justifies himself.
After half an hour, a waiter shows up with a receipt. None of us make the gesture of taking it: we continue to laugh like demons. He, from his experience, understands the antiphon and disappears after throwing the receipt in the middle of the table. He will surely go for reinforcements.
The same idea of running away without paying goes through our minds, obscured by the concentric effects of alcohol and grass. We look each other in the eye like we're a basketball team before we take the field. And then we do it: we run away like those sexting who just rang all the doorbells in the building where they live. We run wildly through streets and alleys unknown, with the clear and horrible feeling of being chased by a swarm of angry waiters. We slip into the darkest alley we see and try to hide ourselves flattening ourselves against the damp wall of a small arch. We are all out of breath and in line, our bodies touching each other to reassure ourselves, to feel safe.
We are terrified and at the same time excited by the stunt and promiscuity. I feel a hand slip under my skirt and quickly reach my Bermuda Triangle from above my panties. Laura is in front of me, I grab her face in my hands and kiss her, she is also busy on several fronts. One of the guys has kneeled down and is licking her pussy; she holds her skirt up with both hands and kisses me. Meanwhile the investigating hand has lowered my panties down to my knee and then she has been replaced by a less ductile, but more effective and more fucking appropriate. She shoved it in me like it was her house, her case, her holster. Laura's lips are sending me to heaven, but the cock behind and inside me is throwing me back to hell.
I want one in my mouth right now, I want to feel a chapel rip down my throat.
One of the guys reads my mind and comes up to me pulling my dick out with an intoxicating spring effect. I leave Laura's miraculous lips and I take it right in her mouth. It's warm and tastes like urine with a slight aftertaste of socks. I shove it down my throat until I choke and then I pull it out to see it bounce. I have his swollen balls in my right hand and I play with his olives like magic oriental balls. I want to get fucked now. I take my dick out of my pussy and shove it up my ass with my hand. I can feel its hot tip making its way into my pleasure hole, it opens me up, crosses me, smashes me. What I have in my mouth is stretched like a bow, it's about to explode, I swallow it all and I get drowned by its hot and sour cream while I'm getting fucked. I feel like a real slut, a slut who gets fucked in the street by whoever wants it. I enjoy spraying my saving essence all around...
I'm sitting on top of my stain, the lair hoping it will reabsorb. Professor Rinaldi has started talking obsessively and loudly again to overcome the background roar. It's like a nightmare. I can't wait to get off this damn bus. First the whistles, then the dirty little message, then the voyeur driver, the stain and, finally, the broken eardrums, enough! I'm gonna put on my headphones and crank up the Coldplay spiritual music.
Finally we're in the lagoon, we've abandoned the metal and rubber monster that brought us here and now we're all (I hope) under a scorching sun waiting for the ferry.
We are on board. The brackish smell of the lagoon is vaguely reminiscent of a stable, but what we see makes us forget it. The beauty of this amphibious city has something supernatural, it makes you doubt your senses. Every time I see its palaces mirrored and floating on the water, I imagine a capricious and aesthetic god who one day decided to create the most beautiful city in the world on the most precarious of the emerged lands.
The hotel is sleazy but clean, I just took a revitalizing cold shower and I'm drying out when I hear a knock on the door: "Who is it?" I ask with a vein of irritation in my voice. "I'm Angelo Rinaldi, your colleague, I just wanted to tell you that we're having dinner at the hotel, we'll wait for you at the restaurant." "This hole has a restaurant?" I answer astounded. "No, but he's leaning against the restaurant across the street. I thought you saw him." Angelo answers." Then don't say we're having dinner at the hotel!" I mean between me and me. I hate the lack of precision, especially in language. I cover myself with the robe I prudently brought, and I open the door for him. He is surprised by my courtesy and my confidential outfit and takes a little leap back. "Come in, what are you doing standing in the hallway?" I tell him to turn his back and go back to the bathroom. "Come on in, just give me a minute to finish drying myself off and fix my hair." He doesn't say anything and I lock myself in the bathroom. When I come out of it, he's still sitting in the uncomfortable, wobbly wooden chair I pointed out to him. I'm practically naked under the wet robe, and I have to get dressed. I ask him to look the other way. He obeys without a breath. I put on the first thing I find and I'm ready for dinner at the trattoria.
Our table looks like a circle of hell: everything flies in a crescendo of laughter and shouting. When Angelo and I appear, many people whisper, "Here are the professors!" they whisper. Thank goodness: they respect me a little. We sit close together, him at the head of the table and me at his right. He was gallant to wait for me so I wouldn't go alone into a public place crowded with invaded students. The other two high school girls are there, too, escorted by a couple of professors. I know her, her name is Laura and she's a beautiful woman: she has dark, intense black eyes and a mouth that won't leave your brain alone: why do I want to kiss her? Why do I want to steal her? Because that's the way she is? Why is she perfect on that very face? These are questions that cannot be answered: it is simply the mouth. All you have to do is take note of it. I greet her with a wave of my hand and she returns with a smile that leaves me breathless. Her white teeth framed by her rosy lips and her laughing eyes are true masterpieces of nature. I am attracted to her as I rarely am. I decide to go up close and say hello to her. I apologize to the onlookers and go. You are, as always, cordial and sparkling. After the pleasantries, I tell you that I would like to take a night walk through Venice once the boys have gone to bed. She's thrilled with the idea: "Whenever you're ready, text me, OK?" He says to me with his mouth painted by the god Eros himself. "Okay, see you later." I'll take it.
We meet like two palace conspirators in the semi-dark alley that runs alongside the hotel. Venice is a time machine, when you go into it, time rewinds at the speed of light. Every sign, every object of current time, here fades, loses importance, evaporates in the face of the force of suggestion and magnetism of this city endowed with a soul.
Light attracts us as if we were two moths that have lost their way. We find ourselves in a small square animated by a street artist playing with fire. The flashes of his choreographic flames are reflected in Laura's black eyes, sketching them with red and irregular brushstrokes. She looks like a cat. I can't help but take her hand, she squeezes it right away and slips her fingers between mine. The hands are the most intimate and sensual thing after the mouth. Hands explore, know, wise, caress.
We are convinced that we are invisible, that we are only a feeble apparition for bystanders. Our mouths search and find themselves in an epiphany of soft lips, saliva and desire. Our skirts rise and our hands discover skin and shapes. I smell her feminine scent merging with mine. I look for her small but perfect breasts while she finds my right buttock. We are deaf and blind, our senses are all inside our mouths and our hands.
We haven't noticed that the igneous show is over and that we are practically in the middle of the square clinging to each other like ivy.
We get out of the traffic spell at the same time, we quickly recompose ourselves under the admired and astonished eyes of a group of youngsters who, after the fire-eater, wanted to enjoy our show too. They are excited, I can hear it in the tone of their voices. I can understand them, we are the guilty ones. I'm looking for help in Laura's eyes. She's older, I hope she knows what to do. She knows: "Hi guys, let's go get a drink at the bar in St. Mark's Square? Will you take us? We don't want to go out alone." Exclaim with voice set, as a teacher. He got them right. I breathe a sigh of relief.
St. Mark's Square appears before us unexpectedly, as if someone had opened a giant curtain on a majestic and deep scene. Dizzying the beauty that pervades every single architectural element and portentous the balance and harmony of the whole.
We sit at the table of the most expensive bar in the world and order a bottle of vodka, a bucket of ice and six glasses. The atmosphere is relaxed with a hint of euphoria in the majority male component. They caught two not bad chicks in the most erotic city on the planet. Vodka is starting to make itself felt, while one of the guys has made a grass joint of unthinkable size and is getting ready to light it with evident pride. "It's been six!" He justifies himself.
After half an hour, a waiter shows up with a receipt. None of us make the gesture of taking it: we continue to laugh like demons. He, from his experience, understands the antiphon and disappears after throwing the receipt in the middle of the table. He will surely go for reinforcements.
The same idea of running away without paying goes through our minds, obscured by the concentric effects of alcohol and grass. We look each other in the eye like we're a basketball team before we take the field. And then we do it: we run away like those sexting who just rang all the doorbells in the building where they live. We run wildly through streets and alleys unknown, with the clear and horrible feeling of being chased by a swarm of angry waiters. We slip into the darkest alley we see and try to hide ourselves flattening ourselves against the damp wall of a small arch. We are all out of breath and in line, our bodies touching each other to reassure ourselves, to feel safe.
We are terrified and at the same time excited by the stunt and promiscuity. I feel a hand slip under my skirt and quickly reach my Bermuda Triangle from above my panties. Laura is in front of me, I grab her face in my hands and kiss her, she is also busy on several fronts. One of the guys has kneeled down and is licking her pussy; she holds her skirt up with both hands and kisses me. Meanwhile the investigating hand has lowered my panties down to my knee and then she has been replaced by a less ductile, but more effective and more fucking appropriate. She shoved it in me like it was her house, her case, her holster. Laura's lips are sending me to heaven, but the cock behind and inside me is throwing me back to hell.
I want one in my mouth right now, I want to feel a chapel rip down my throat.
One of the guys reads my mind and comes up to me pulling my dick out with an intoxicating spring effect. I leave Laura's miraculous lips and I take it right in her mouth. It's warm and tastes like urine with a slight aftertaste of socks. I shove it down my throat until I choke and then I pull it out to see it bounce. I have his swollen balls in my right hand and I play with his olives like magic oriental balls. I want to get fucked now. I take my dick out of my pussy and shove it up my ass with my hand. I can feel its hot tip making its way into my pleasure hole, it opens me up, crosses me, smashes me. What I have in my mouth is stretched like a bow, it's about to explode, I swallow it all and I get drowned by its hot and sour cream while I'm getting fucked. I feel like a real slut, a slut who gets fucked in the street by whoever wants it. I enjoy spraying my saving essence all around...
