Mambo!
No Rumba!
And only in Naples could this have happened: dancing into the arms of a hunky Italian guy who first took me for pizza and then shook my body with pleasures galore. Ahh, Naples is Magnifico!
You see, my name is Giuseppe, and I’m from the East Meadows on Long Island, from a very, VERY Italian family. My Mother was pure Italian, her family having lived in the East Meadows Italian Quarter for only twenty years, and my father being half French and half Italian. My mother taught me the language, which I actually speak very well now, and my father taught me to Rumba. He also taught me to waltz and speak French, but I don’t put much by my father’s Fishy Frenchness. When I turned eighteen, my mother told me she’d send me anywhere I wanted, provided it was Naples, Italy, where both my father and mother had relatives who still lived there. Actually, the relatives were married and had kids, the oldest being a boy about my age named Pietro. So I told my mother I wanted to go to Naples and she paid for the plane, hotel, gave me money for food and everything.
I stayed at an old palazzo on the east side of the city, in a neighborhood adjoining my relatives. The first day I walked to the house and introduced myself as Alessandra del Gotti’s son, Giuseppe, (del Gotti is my mother’s maiden name). They ushered me right in and sat me down for some early morning spaghetti. Apparently they really do eat spaghetti day and night in Naples. And when they’re not its deep-dish pizza. Delish. Margareta, my grandfather del Gotti’s sister’s daughter, told me her son had studied at the some art school in France, and she remembered in my mother’s letter that I could speak French because of my dad, so she told me speak French to him. Pietro was a tall guy of about eighteen with green eyes and sun-bronzed skin. His hair was a deep auburn with slight red tins. His eyebrows were finely arched and his French was heavily accented. Then again, so was mine. I asked him what he liked to do. He said he liked being an artist in the most beautiful city in the world. I gave him that one because Naples is stunning. I asked to see some of his work. He pointed to the portrait of our great-grandfather del Gotti. It was a re-creation of an earlier photograph that his mother wanted to be a portrait she could hang. It was astounding. He had captured the image very well. He commented that I looked a lot like him, with his clear green eyes and short, straight nose. I parried with he had the high forehead and strong chin. He defended saying that we both had his hair. My own hair was much lighter and redder, a more coppery color, much closer to red than brown. But he was referring to that both our mops were very thick and shiny. I smiled and asked him if he wanted to show me some more of Naples. He excused us from the table and steered me out of the door before my great-aunt could say anything else.
He said he didn’t have very many friends, and those he did have were all at University either at Rome or Padua, because he was a giant nerd at heart and so were his friends. We were still speaking French, and I was so wrapped up in trying to understand him, that I didn’t notice the dazzling vista ahead of us. When I did notice, my breath was instantly stolen. We were looking at a bay, with two peninsulas framing the bay. Quaint cottages stood on the peninsulas and fluffy white clouds drifted in the distance. “This is the painting hanging in your bedroom, n’est-ce pas?” “How did you know that?” “Because I painted it two years ago and sent it to you as a Christmas gift, one cousin to another.” I started and realized that it was. Even the clouds seemed to be the same. “Do the clouds ever change in Naples?” “Only during a storm.” He was smiling and his eyes were shining like emeralds. I felt something shift at my waist and realized that it was his hands. He’d been holding my waist since he’d brought me here. I blushed and snuggled into his arms. So what if he’s my cousin, the boy is divine.
After we’d finished admiring the bay, he took me to a Greek restaurant that was very different from the ones in East Meadows. Mostly because they were actually Greek! We ordered our food and kept talking. I asked him if he usually held his male cousins by their waists when observing the ocean. He blushed deeply and admitted no, he didn’t. He asked if all his American male cousins were as cute as I was. I admitted no, they weren’t. He asked if they all snuggled into the arms of other men. Again, I had to say no. I asked him straight if he liked guys, and he said yes. “I assume you like guys as well?” “Bien sûr, otherwise I wouldn’t have snuggled up to you.” This time it was my turn to blush, because he took my hand and kissed it. Our food arrived and we wolfed it down, and then quickly ran to my lodgings. We sprinted up the stairs and threw open the door. I ripped off my clothes and sprang into bed. “I win.” We had a bet to see who could get home, take off their clothes and get in bed faster. He had trouble getting his pants off with his raging erection.
He kissed me, over and over again. My head, eyes, ears, mouth, neck. He kissed my chest, stomach, taught from years of swimming. He practically worshiped my penis, large and ready. He sucked me off like he’d been starving in the desert and I had the only food for millions of miles. I swung his legs my way and showed him he wasn’t the only one who could suck cock well. He fingered me, fucked me, soft at first, then hard, very, VERY hard. Every which way, missionary, doggie, on the floor, on the couch, up and down, in and out. I fucked him, much the same as he had me, mostly because he’d used every trick in the book. When we finished, we took a shower and I marveled at his body, which was curved and sculpted as if by Michelangelo himself. His muscles were beautiful and hard, his butt deliciously firm and large. He was amazed at the tightness of my abdominal muscles, and how my legs were so finely crafted by swimming. We got out of the shower and laid in bed for hours.
He telephoned his mom that he was staying at my hotel to get to know me better. His mom fairly jumped for joy and said stay wherever you please. He took me to a club in the Nuovo Quartiere. Then he took me for a late night stroll throughout Naples, and we stopped to grab a bit to eat at a charming little stall. He walked me down to the beach and laid out a blanket that had appeared from no where. We sat down and stared at the stars. Then, he suddenly sprang up. “Do you know how to Mambo?” I shook my head and said I could Rumba, but not Mambo. He pulled me up and started to teach me the intricate steps.
Within an hour he told me I was dancing like a native Neapolitan. But then he changed the dance. “Are we doing the salsa?” “Yes we are. The Spanish may be a doughty, boring people, but the salsa was their most inspired creation.” I laughed at his very Italian scorn of the Spanish, and let him lead me into the swirling salsa, a scorchingly sexual spectacle of hot muscles and passion. He took me back to the hotel and we made love this time, no passionate parade of sexuality, but actual love. Several hours after we’d exhaustedly flopped down for some sleep, that is to say about five AM, he told me that before this he’d been a virgin. I prickled with a delicious sensation that I was the one who introduced this young man to the heady world of sex, and then sat up, astounded. “So earlier today was your first time?” “Sì.” “So where did all those amazing moves come from?” “My imagination.” “Shit, I’d love to see what goes on in there!”
For the next week we danced the mambo every night at the beach. Each night I got better, and each night we made love. And he sketched me. The first night, he dressed up like a European artist from Bohemian Paris and sketched me naked. Another time he sketched me watching the bay in some very bright sunlight. Yet another he sketched me practicing the steps of the mambo. He copied the sketches and put them in a folder for me. And on Friday, when I was set to leave, he gave me the completed works. “Here, so you can remember our times.” I told him I’d be coming back next summer, but he said no, it wouldn’t be the same. Nothing would ever recapture the times we’d had here in sunny Naples. I kissed him, and tears ran down my cheeks. The Neapolitan sun beat down on us, a happy, shining reminder that in twelve hours I’d be thousands of miles away in East Meadows. “I’ll come back. I’ll find a way to move here. I’ll do anything to be with you. I love you.” He kissed me fiercely, and held me tight for a while. He let me go and promised he’d wait for me. I boarded the plane and didn’t look back.
That was five years ago. I went back to East Meadows and went straight to the Italian Embassy in New York. They told me it was fairly simple to get an Educational Visa to Italy, seeing as most kids wanted to come from Italy to America, not vice versa. I got the visa and studied at the University of Naples. After I finished school, I accepted an offer from an Italian architecture firm. But first, I had to settle the little problem with my citizenship. So, after five years in Italy, I formally became a citizen. Pietro and I settled down in a little house in the East section of Naples close to his family, and we’ve been happy ever since. And to think, if I hadn’t have gone to Naples, none of this would’ve happened.
You see, my name is Giuseppe, and I’m from the East Meadows on Long Island, from a very, VERY Italian family. My Mother was pure Italian, her family having lived in the East Meadows Italian Quarter for only twenty years, and my father being half French and half Italian. My mother taught me the language, which I actually speak very well now, and my father taught me to Rumba. He also taught me to waltz and speak French, but I don’t put much by my father’s Fishy Frenchness. When I turned eighteen, my mother told me she’d send me anywhere I wanted, provided it was Naples, Italy, where both my father and mother had relatives who still lived there. Actually, the relatives were married and had kids, the oldest being a boy about my age named Pietro. So I told my mother I wanted to go to Naples and she paid for the plane, hotel, gave me money for food and everything.
I stayed at an old palazzo on the east side of the city, in a neighborhood adjoining my relatives. The first day I walked to the house and introduced myself as Alessandra del Gotti’s son, Giuseppe, (del Gotti is my mother’s maiden name). They ushered me right in and sat me down for some early morning spaghetti. Apparently they really do eat spaghetti day and night in Naples. And when they’re not its deep-dish pizza. Delish. Margareta, my grandfather del Gotti’s sister’s daughter, told me her son had studied at the some art school in France, and she remembered in my mother’s letter that I could speak French because of my dad, so she told me speak French to him. Pietro was a tall guy of about eighteen with green eyes and sun-bronzed skin. His hair was a deep auburn with slight red tins. His eyebrows were finely arched and his French was heavily accented. Then again, so was mine. I asked him what he liked to do. He said he liked being an artist in the most beautiful city in the world. I gave him that one because Naples is stunning. I asked to see some of his work. He pointed to the portrait of our great-grandfather del Gotti. It was a re-creation of an earlier photograph that his mother wanted to be a portrait she could hang. It was astounding. He had captured the image very well. He commented that I looked a lot like him, with his clear green eyes and short, straight nose. I parried with he had the high forehead and strong chin. He defended saying that we both had his hair. My own hair was much lighter and redder, a more coppery color, much closer to red than brown. But he was referring to that both our mops were very thick and shiny. I smiled and asked him if he wanted to show me some more of Naples. He excused us from the table and steered me out of the door before my great-aunt could say anything else.
He said he didn’t have very many friends, and those he did have were all at University either at Rome or Padua, because he was a giant nerd at heart and so were his friends. We were still speaking French, and I was so wrapped up in trying to understand him, that I didn’t notice the dazzling vista ahead of us. When I did notice, my breath was instantly stolen. We were looking at a bay, with two peninsulas framing the bay. Quaint cottages stood on the peninsulas and fluffy white clouds drifted in the distance. “This is the painting hanging in your bedroom, n’est-ce pas?” “How did you know that?” “Because I painted it two years ago and sent it to you as a Christmas gift, one cousin to another.” I started and realized that it was. Even the clouds seemed to be the same. “Do the clouds ever change in Naples?” “Only during a storm.” He was smiling and his eyes were shining like emeralds. I felt something shift at my waist and realized that it was his hands. He’d been holding my waist since he’d brought me here. I blushed and snuggled into his arms. So what if he’s my cousin, the boy is divine.
After we’d finished admiring the bay, he took me to a Greek restaurant that was very different from the ones in East Meadows. Mostly because they were actually Greek! We ordered our food and kept talking. I asked him if he usually held his male cousins by their waists when observing the ocean. He blushed deeply and admitted no, he didn’t. He asked if all his American male cousins were as cute as I was. I admitted no, they weren’t. He asked if they all snuggled into the arms of other men. Again, I had to say no. I asked him straight if he liked guys, and he said yes. “I assume you like guys as well?” “Bien sûr, otherwise I wouldn’t have snuggled up to you.” This time it was my turn to blush, because he took my hand and kissed it. Our food arrived and we wolfed it down, and then quickly ran to my lodgings. We sprinted up the stairs and threw open the door. I ripped off my clothes and sprang into bed. “I win.” We had a bet to see who could get home, take off their clothes and get in bed faster. He had trouble getting his pants off with his raging erection.
He kissed me, over and over again. My head, eyes, ears, mouth, neck. He kissed my chest, stomach, taught from years of swimming. He practically worshiped my penis, large and ready. He sucked me off like he’d been starving in the desert and I had the only food for millions of miles. I swung his legs my way and showed him he wasn’t the only one who could suck cock well. He fingered me, fucked me, soft at first, then hard, very, VERY hard. Every which way, missionary, doggie, on the floor, on the couch, up and down, in and out. I fucked him, much the same as he had me, mostly because he’d used every trick in the book. When we finished, we took a shower and I marveled at his body, which was curved and sculpted as if by Michelangelo himself. His muscles were beautiful and hard, his butt deliciously firm and large. He was amazed at the tightness of my abdominal muscles, and how my legs were so finely crafted by swimming. We got out of the shower and laid in bed for hours.
He telephoned his mom that he was staying at my hotel to get to know me better. His mom fairly jumped for joy and said stay wherever you please. He took me to a club in the Nuovo Quartiere. Then he took me for a late night stroll throughout Naples, and we stopped to grab a bit to eat at a charming little stall. He walked me down to the beach and laid out a blanket that had appeared from no where. We sat down and stared at the stars. Then, he suddenly sprang up. “Do you know how to Mambo?” I shook my head and said I could Rumba, but not Mambo. He pulled me up and started to teach me the intricate steps.
Within an hour he told me I was dancing like a native Neapolitan. But then he changed the dance. “Are we doing the salsa?” “Yes we are. The Spanish may be a doughty, boring people, but the salsa was their most inspired creation.” I laughed at his very Italian scorn of the Spanish, and let him lead me into the swirling salsa, a scorchingly sexual spectacle of hot muscles and passion. He took me back to the hotel and we made love this time, no passionate parade of sexuality, but actual love. Several hours after we’d exhaustedly flopped down for some sleep, that is to say about five AM, he told me that before this he’d been a virgin. I prickled with a delicious sensation that I was the one who introduced this young man to the heady world of sex, and then sat up, astounded. “So earlier today was your first time?” “Sì.” “So where did all those amazing moves come from?” “My imagination.” “Shit, I’d love to see what goes on in there!”
For the next week we danced the mambo every night at the beach. Each night I got better, and each night we made love. And he sketched me. The first night, he dressed up like a European artist from Bohemian Paris and sketched me naked. Another time he sketched me watching the bay in some very bright sunlight. Yet another he sketched me practicing the steps of the mambo. He copied the sketches and put them in a folder for me. And on Friday, when I was set to leave, he gave me the completed works. “Here, so you can remember our times.” I told him I’d be coming back next summer, but he said no, it wouldn’t be the same. Nothing would ever recapture the times we’d had here in sunny Naples. I kissed him, and tears ran down my cheeks. The Neapolitan sun beat down on us, a happy, shining reminder that in twelve hours I’d be thousands of miles away in East Meadows. “I’ll come back. I’ll find a way to move here. I’ll do anything to be with you. I love you.” He kissed me fiercely, and held me tight for a while. He let me go and promised he’d wait for me. I boarded the plane and didn’t look back.
That was five years ago. I went back to East Meadows and went straight to the Italian Embassy in New York. They told me it was fairly simple to get an Educational Visa to Italy, seeing as most kids wanted to come from Italy to America, not vice versa. I got the visa and studied at the University of Naples. After I finished school, I accepted an offer from an Italian architecture firm. But first, I had to settle the little problem with my citizenship. So, after five years in Italy, I formally became a citizen. Pietro and I settled down in a little house in the East section of Naples close to his family, and we’ve been happy ever since. And to think, if I hadn’t have gone to Naples, none of this would’ve happened.