So Much Sex: on International Promiscuity

The following is a sample of what I already have.  Though I have already edited it twice (I’m a nitpicker!), it will undoubtedly change some once I’ve finished off the last few men – ahem, chapters – and had the chance to read the complete work over (and over…and over…and – well, you get it).  Tell me what you think!  Are you interested?  Do you hate me just a little bit more?  Do I have an audience?  Your honesty is appreciated.


After that first night, I couldn’t go a day without seeing Marco. We kept what we had a secret, as was appropriate, but people seemed to pick up on it. I never paid for another cappuccino; I was there every morning and every night after school. Marco let me learn to make espresso and would let me count the coins when he needed to pull them from the slot machine.

The older barista treated me like his daughter and constantly complimented me on my rosebud lips calling me his “piccola ciumaghella” and serenading me with the stornello. I would run to the store for Marco when he was out of milk. I felt so at home.

One evening, a regular character, a very wealthy but strange writer from Milan, wanted to buy me a drink. “Cosa fai, always here,” he asked me.

With a flirtatious smile at Marco I answered, “Maybe I’m trying to find a man.”

“Ah, the constant, unequivocal search for true love, cara mia; we are one in the same. I’ve written many a tale of true love and loss. Let me offer you something, whatever you’d like, and we can talk more.”

“How about I buy all three of us a drink,” interjected Marco with a protective aire. “What shall we have, sambuca?” One hand resting on the bottle, he awaited a response from the heavyset older man in his green velvet suit.

“I do say that would be fine. What about you, piccola mia?” the older man turned his attention to me. Marco sighed and looked to me.

“Whatever you say,” I conceded with a smile. I’d never had sambuca before (and, in all honesty, never would again).

With that Marco fixed each of us a shot of sambuca with three coffee beans.

“Alla salute,” spoke Marco, looking me in the eyes.

“Salute,” we both responded. The smell of sambuca alone is enough to knock you off your feet, but the taste – oh the taste! – it was all I could do to keep it down. I’ve always detested licorice.

“And another?” And so the evening went until, it would seem, the older man had gone past his limit.

“Cara mia, why don’t you come and live with me?” he asked, turning his attention to me. “I live in an attico that overlooks Campo de’ Fiori – just there.” He indicated a beautiful building just outside the window overlooking the piazza. “I ask nothing of you as I am a wealthy man; be with me, be my company, and I will give you all that you desire. Man so does have a need for companionship.” I was taken aback and looked to Marco.

“I…” I began but could not put words together.

“Piccola,” the older gentleman breathed then sort of slumped over, pressing his head into my shoulder. I stumbled backwards but caught myself, unsure on my feet after a few shots of sambuca.

“Allora!” Marco growled, slamming his glass down on the bar counter and making his way around the bancone. “I think you’ve had enough for tonight!” He pulled the older man off me.

“Mi dispiace, Marcoli’.”

“It’s time to go now,” Marco insisted and escorted him to the door. “It’s closing time.” My head was spinning, and, as the man who held my heart slammed the glass door shut, flipping the lock, I fell backwards into the front of the bancone, propping myself up on my elbows.

“Ao, mamma mia come stai!” he gasped, startled, rushing to my aid. He wrapped his left arm under my shoulder and helped me up the step behind the counter to an overturned bucket where he sat me down. “You just sit there a minute while I close up, and I’ll make sure you get home.”

“Marco?” I called out to him, looking up through blinking eyes, wavering. He squatted down in front of me so his face was at my level.

“Dimmi, piccola amore?” he spoke, his demeanor softening. I stared into his eyes, at every line on his face, the stubble that had begun to poke through since the morning. It was so sexual, how primal he was in my defense; even before the other man had touched me, how he acted so territorially. I shook my head; I had nothing to say. Not yet.

With a kiss on the forehead, he stood up and moved past me to put away the glasses he had been washing while we spoke. “Scusami,” he said as tried to pass by me to go into the storeroom. Unfortunately, or, perhaps fortunately, my face was at just the right level to remember that work of perfection beneath his pants. I pressed my head forward into him as he went by.

“Sei matta!” He froze and looked to his right out the glass doors of the bar to make sure I could not be seen where I was. In fact, he could not be seen from the stomach down, thankfully, because I was already busy pulling his unbuttoned pants down. “Ferma! Scema!” he cried out in vain for he was already exposed.

I took his warm member in my hand and planted a wet kiss at its tip. He shivered and reached down, trying to push my hands away. I resisted and continued kissing him. I giggled.

“Dai,” he said forcefully, clutching my hand and pulled me up from the stool into the storeroom, slamming the door shut behind us. He turned to me, slamming me into a rack of supplies and pulling my dress off over my head. Again his body was pressed into mine and, again, it felt so perfect. I closed my eyes, and my head fell back into a bag of espresso beans, causing them to topple over and scatter all over the floor like jacks; my head was still spinning.

“I’m sorry, Marco’, scusami ta-“ He cut me off, ripping my tights off and shoving himself into me in the same, fluid movement. I gasped and fell limp into him, the sambuca having had a greater effect than I had thought. He held my head tight against his chest and kept thrusting, spinning me around and bending me over an ice chest.

I screamed out as he seemed much bigger this way, and I was not prepared for his hard member to tear into me that way. Immediately, he froze, “Scusami, I didn’t know – “

“No, no, vai,” I begged him breathily. With a laugh he thrust into me again and again, pushing his rough hand up my smooth back to the nape of my neck, curling his fingers through my hair. My legs were shaking as they hardly reached the ground and, reaching back to touch him, I could feel that he could not push all the way inside me from this angle. My whole body trembled.

Reaching down on either side of me, he grabbed me by the knees and folded me up, sitting back into a chair and thrusting into me as I sat, perched atop of him, my feet planted shakily on each of his knees. My head rolled back onto his shoulder, and he grunted in my ear. Again, like an explosion, I was taken over by the passion I felt flowing between us; I climaxed with a scream and he with a final grunt.

Gently, he set my feet down on the ground. I still felt wobbly, but he held onto me tightly. He laughed, breathing heavily, and I stared up into the dangling light bulb in the middle of the room. “Grazie.”

“What?” he asked me.

“It’s what I wanted to say to you before: ‘Grazie.’” For the first time in my life, I felt protected by someone. Not overprotected in a familial way, but protected. By a man.

All my love,

Lola June

6 thoughts on “So Much Sex: on International Promiscuity

  1. A couple of questions Lola:
    1) Are you sure the stories are unique and that you’re not repeating the same terms over and over: like “After that first night, I couldn’t go a day without seeing…” It can apply to many of your mates.
    2) The story needs to go somewhere: a realisation at the end, change, emotional growth… Is this the case?

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Yes. Each man was from a different part of the country, walk of life, mindset, and age group from the others. Each man taught me something different about life, love, the world, and myself. I am a much different person for every situation I found myself in.

      Also, in regards to repetition (i.e. “After that first night…”): this was unique to this (married) man. This was the second time in my life that I was ever “in love,” per se – and a more mature (if yet still immature) version of “love” as than was my “first love” during my childhood (which, inconsequently, is a story that has been published – I guess I can’t write unless it’s inspired by a man).

      Also, in regards to “sex scenes” (or erotica, as it were), I also glaze over (or insinuate) situations that are too similar one to the other. I included this excerpt for sensationalism’s sake thinking that many disinterested people can’t help but stop and take a peek when “SEX” is in the title (haha).

      This was, perhaps, the most difficult part of writing this: I wanted to express the importance of these carnal connections without writing, well, pornography. It was difficult to find the right balance (and still I might not have) between what to include and what not too.

      You’re definitely right though. These are some things I should take into consideration. I appreciate your thoughts =]

      Liked by 1 person

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