Eat. Pray. F*ck.

How Do You Say “Do Me” In Italian?

First on my must-learn list after meeting a distinguished older gentleman in Rome.

As the door slammed behind me, I could hear the footsteps of the mob running past. I was safe at last.

The corridor was cold and dark, but I could see a patch of sunlight from the outdoor courtyard in the distance, illuminating the mysterious male figure standing in front of me.

“Come inside,” he muttered, placing his hand on my shoulder.

In most scenarios, I probably wouldn’t follow a random stranger further inside an enclosed, unknown location in the middle of a foreign country. But his voice was reassuring. And it was either this or be chewed alive by the wild pack of hungry Romans outside.

And yes, I’ll admit. I was incredibly turned on by that soothing Italian accent.

“My name is Lorenzo,” the man said as we moved together into the garden. It was filled with blooming rose bushes and mulberry trees. A perfect, hidden oasis in the city.

“I’m…Christine,” I stuttered, finally catching a good look at the man as we stood in the light-filled courtyard.

Lorenzo was probably in his mid 50s, with slicked-back salt and pepper hair and a surprisingly handsome face. His eyes hid behind a pair of dark-framed spectacles (he was definitely the kind of guy who would call glasses, “spectacles”).

“Christine,” he repeated, rolling the R and making my name sound a million times sexier than it was. “Would you like to come upstairs for an espresso, Christine?”

I blushed. I knew where this was headed. No Italian man simply invites you up for “espresso”.

“When in Rome!” I sputtered out before realizing how stupid it sounded.

His apartment was magnificent. The 15-foot walls were topped with dark, wooden beams that were probably older than my great-grandmother. And the books. Hundreds and hundreds of leather-bound books lined the shelves around the room.

Now, this. This is a place worth banging in.

Lorenzo came into the living room with a shot of espresso in each hand.

“So, Christine. How long you live in Italy?”

“Oh, not long. I just arrived a few days ago.”

“And how long you stay?” he asked, raising his caterpillar-like eyebrow.

I thought about home. And my dog. And everything else I was running away from. I thought about the boyfriend I had just broken up with. Of course, you’re not really broken up with one guy until you actually make love to another guy. Oh God, if this Lorenzo would only take me in his arms and make my breakup with Aron “official”!

“I don’t know…” I said, bringing the espresso to my lips.

I could feel his eyes on me. The male Italian gaze is not a subtle thing. I don’t know if he was staring at my pursed lips or mentally undressing me, but either way, the tension was starting to be palpable.

“Christine, I want to ask you something.”

Lorenzo sat next to me on the leather couch, barely brushing his leg against mine, sending a shiver up my spine.

“Yes?” I breathed.

He shifted in his seat, and I tried to catch a glimpse of his crotch. A girl’s gotta know what she’s working with. Was that an erection or just a trick of the late-afternoon light? I couldn’t tell.

He took off his glasses and placed them on the coffee table before returning his hand to rest on my knee.

“Christine…”

“Yes?”

“I think you need to learn Italian. You see, I am Italian language teacher. All these Americans come to Rome and think they can just order this and that in English. They no try to speak Italian at all!” he stood up shaking his head in disappointment.

I rolled my eyes. He wasn’t inviting me up here for sex. He was just trying to upsell me on language classes.

What a clit tease!

For a minute I wondered if the whole catcalling mob had been in on the scam and they split my money. “We chase American girl into your house, you seel her Italian lessons, we split fifty-fifty.” But then I figured I was getting paranoid.

“Christine, I give you a very good price on classes. We can do them here, every few days if you like,” he sat back down and brushed his hand against my cheek. He lowered his voice, “They will be private classes.”

Learning Italian was not first on my to-do list of things I wanted to do in Rome. But I suppose it wouldn’t be the worst idea in the world. After all, it could help me order at restaurants or understand hollering catcallers.

Not to mention, it meant I could spend more time with Lorenzo.

“Sure, how much?” I said.

His price was affordable.

I was determined to find out what else that rolling-R tongue could do, so I wrote him a big fat check for ten lessons in advance and signed up for private classes with il professore

“Can we start right now?” I said.

He took the check, licked his lips, and put it in his blazer pocket.

“I’m very sorry,” he said. “I have a student coming. But we can begin tomorrow morning at 9 AM.”

“Great.”

He lead me to the door, and saw me out. I was a bit disappointed.

But back at the pension that night in my imagination there was nothing disappointing about the old professore. In fact, he somehow had the body of a 25 year old boxer and didn’t knock me out until about five ferocious rounds with my trustee Hitachi, now plugged internationally through an adaptor into a weird two-pronged plug and recharging itself after a helluva workout. New plug — same full force vibration. Like a Sherman tank storming into Italy through my vagina.

“Grazi signore Hitachi!” I said.

My Italian lessons were off to a flying start!

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