The Sublime Joys Of Fucking An Italian Man

Why it's totally mind-blowing to have sex with a Roman

Written by Stephanie Christopher

Dear Chrissy.

Hi from Rome from your alter ego. I hope you're doing well. This is the story about how I finally had sex with my language teacher. I posted a couple stories about the buildup--did you read those? Probly not, I know you been busy. All you need to know is there had been a lot of sexual tension building up between us but he's old, as I mentioned, so there was that.

Thing is, Chrissy, you have to understand how different existence is here in the old world. I mean, everything is old, not just my language teacher. But it's old in a good way. Like having sex with him was really hot. Like scorching!

I am the worst language student ever, by the way. Even after this super intensive lesson in bedroom Italian from the greatest and sexiest Italian teacher ever, and I swear to God, I can’t remember a fucking thing. Well, I remember the word for fig, which is also their slang for clitoris. I remember how swollen and squooshy my fig got. It swelled up to the size of like two figs. And I remember how nice my fig felt when he touched it. Like he really knew how to handle that particular fruit. Which makes sense, since the Italians have been tending to figs for a couple thousand years, I bet. They really know what they’re doing. Meanwhile, I think the Americans only discovered a woman’s fig like in 1960 or something. They’re just amateurs.

And the fucking I also remember. The word for fucking? Fuck knows. I know he taught me that. Right before he fucked me.

Unfortunately, I need a new language teacher because I can never see Lorenzo again.

Hey, it’s just one of those things. But I totally felt some kind of way for him when we were in bed together. Great, except the guy’s like 65 and already hard of hearing and a little blind.

But he’s so lovely, if I see him for even another minute I will break out crying and hug him and never leave him for as long as I live. No man has ever made me feel like this, honestly, when it comes to sex.

Why is sex different with an Italian man in Rome?

I mean, Lorenzo was so romantic. I’ve never had a guy be ANYTHING near as romantic as that as he led me over to the bedroom.

“This is the camera da letto,” he said to me, which means bedroom. Isn't it strange they call the bedroom a camera? Also, it was weird that he had his shirt open. He was like, "Fa caldo oggi!" That means, "It's hot today." He said, "I needa cool down a bit." And he opened his buttons. I thought that might have been a sign that he wanted to get frisky.

Then he told me the word for bed. And then he told me to sit on the bed in Italian, so I did. I sat there in my shorts. They showed off my legs pretty nicely.

“Do you want to learn the word for kiss?” he said to me.

And I looked up with dreamy eyes at him. Honestly, has there ever been a stupid American girl so smitten just because a guy is elegant and Italian and kind? It doesn’t take much, I swear.

He put his mouth on mine and we had our first kiss. That's when I learned the first reason Italian men are so much fun in bed.

Reason Number One: Italian men are connected to The Golden Age

You feel that when you kiss them. Honestly, that's when the weird shit started happening because of this whole "old world" thing going on over here. It's like it entranced me and when we kissed, and I felt like I was in the medieval times and. I was like in some nunnery in Italy and I was this young novitiate and Lorenzo was the priest and we had been having a real connection, but you know, it was so against the rules, we didn't want to go to hell, but then we were like fuck it, let's go to hell. At least we'll be together! We kissed in this old stone nunnery--it was so romantic, Chrissy. You would have loved it.

See, over there in the New World you are missing out in something called a "depth of experience." You wouldn't believe how sexy it is, all this history in Rome.

I felt the room swaying like there was an earthquake. Then I remembered I wasn’t in LA any more so there probably wasn’t an earthquake. That was my heart.

“You are such a pretty woman,” he said to me then, after our kiss. He was looking at me so kindly. “I thanked God this morning in my prayers that he brought you to me. I thought these feelings were gone for me forever. Feelings I had as a young man. But now I feel them again.”

“What kind of feelings?” I asked, fluttering my eyelashes, hoping to make him positively faint with whatever these feelings were that he was talking about. He surprised me.

“Passion!” he said to me. “Desire. But most of all, intense love and gratitude.”

He then took off the cross that he wore around his neck and he held the thing in his hand devoutly.

“You make me feel the power of Christ’s love. I am overwhelmed with good wishes for you. I want you to know, this room is full of angels, right now. I can feel them all around.”

“Ooh, that makes me feel shy,” I said, in a kind of breathy Marilyn voice I was putting on for whatever fucking reason. From the first moment I entered that little bedroom, I spoke like that. Low toned. Breathy. Sexy.

“Don’t be shy,” he said. “They don’t have those kinds of unwholesome feelings. They only are here to share this powerful moment. When a man and a woman stand together in this place of burning desire.”

“Oh God, I feel that burning desire for you, Lorenzo,” I breathed. “Teach me some more naughty Italian words, please. Teach me all about my body as you undress me, please.”

“Si, bella,” he said. “I will teach you.”

So then he lifted up my tank top to reveal my breasts. He said something in Italian.

“These are your breasts,” I guess he was saying. But I don’t know the words he used. I know, I could Google them, but who knows if that’s right? He probably used some Roman slang for breasts, which I wish I could remember. But I was so distracted as he put his rough hands on my breasts and caressed them gently.