An Evening to Remember to Forget

A humorous true story about me and an Italian I’ll never forget, no matter how hard I try.

Let me introduce myself I’m Dana, 25 year old fun loving Lithuanian living in Amsterdam. Having just completed my Masters degree and obtained my first job, I met Mr Right (where have you been all my life), who turns out to be Mr Very Wrong.


1. An Evening to Remember to Forget - A warning, beware of Italians!

I have a story to tell but for an hour I’ve sat with a blank piece of paper, how to begin? Sometimes things happen and you have what my mother would call, a ‘car crash moment’. Everything slows, your heart thumps and you cannot quite decide if what is happening is real or induced by that late night snack, you knew you shouldn’t eat, causing your mind to generate images to deceive and confuse. This salutary story is about just such a moment.

Anyway, let’s start my story. There is this guy that I sat next to for a couple of months at my previous job and he’s writing this for me. He describes himself as witty, intelligent and worldly. To be honest that’s not how I’d describe him but hey, ghost writers are not easy to come by nowadays, so let’s cut him some slack, dear reader, and indulge his delusion for awhile longer. I started letting him write my replies to my sms’s from an ‘interested’ guy – don’t play dumb, you know very well what ‘interested’ is a euphemism for! His sms responses, well I guess to be accurate my sms responses, were quite funny. He enjoyed it and he saved me the hassle of thinking and replying myself. Actually, I’m not accustomed to text flirting, so if I’m honest, it was a relief to be relieved of that task.

The writer is rather pedantic, he chose ‘my words’ with care and note therefore he choose to write “interested’ as opposed to interesting, for the guy, with whom my sms flirtation was with, could not have been less interesting! Eventually however, he plucked up sufficient courage to invite me, via sms, to lunch in Leiden, a small town outside Amsterdam in the Netherlands, and I agreed. I agreed against my better judgment and in part, because of the urging of the writer. The writer’s motives for doing so are not entirely clear to me, perhaps he sought vicarious amusement or sadistic pleasure. Sadly, within 5 minutes of sitting at our table, in a small but pleasant restaurant, I found myself engrossed in a detailed study of the bread stick I held in my left hand, whilst periodically nibbling its end and reducing its length. For some intellectual stimulation, sadly lacking from across the table, I attempted to envision the transformations it had gone through, from wheat harvest, through baking, packaging, delivery to my table and ultimately about to undergo in my stomach. I’m sure every girl has had a date from hell, a date that has lived up to her very worst fears and this was mine! Needless to say, I instructed the writer to kill, via sms of course, any hopes that doe eyed besotted suitor had of progressing our relationship. We need not dwell on that ‘ex’ suitor, I only mention him because he was Italian and perhaps he sparked my interest in his countrymen, for this story is not about him but another Italian - my new boyfriend.

I started dating the second Italian about a month ago, before my trip home to Lithuania, did I mention I’m Lithuanian? The usual sort of thing drinks after work, dinners, movies etc. I knew immediately we kissed goodnight that he rated somewhere between, ‘One night stand (with passable sex)’ and ‘marriage material’ on my “Guyometer”. I think I’m unlucky, for my Guyometer seldom moves beyond ‘One night stand’ and frequently struggles to reach even that. We talked endlessly and he told me that he had just finished a 4 year relationship. At first I liked his honesty; then he rather over-played the honesty card by telling me that his ex girlfriend was living with him and worse still, that they continued to sleep in the same bed. He, of course, assured me it was all quite innocent and platonic but well, you can imagine what I thought – same bed, oh yes, give me a break I wasn’t born yesterday. I know guys, give them 5 beers and a naked girl in their bed and the prefix-‘ex’ would be forgotten in less time than it takes to say ‘yippee, pussy!’ Yes, I was jealous, bloody jealous actually and I counted down the days until she eventually moved out. Finally, we were together, just the two of us, me and my Italian boyfriend, who at last was mine and mine alone without her to warm his bed every night! Happiness flowed through me, a subtle feeling that caused an enigmatic Mona Lisa smile to frequently flicker upon my lips and heightening my senses.

The afternoon flew by in a girly whirl of activity; I showered, washed my hair, shaved my legs and with a lightness of hand also other bits I thought could do with a touch up. I spent far too long selecting just the right underwear, somewhere between ‘sexy demure’ and ‘hello big boy’ (so much for ghost writers, they can’t be trusted, actually they were very expensive ‘special occasion only’ Versace black lace bra and G-sting and they screamed ‘Seduce me!). With the daylight fading fast, the street lamps illuminated my way as I strode through Vondel Park enjoying the crisp autumnal weather. I carelessly kicked the golden leaves that blanketed the paths and masked my way. I thought of the walks I had as a child with my brother in Vinges Park back home in Lithuanian and how we would run around laughing with armfuls of leaves, while our mother kept a watchful eye on us, shouting for us to take care. I arrived at his apartment; my heart fluttering in anticipation, which was rather silly really, for it’s not as if I’ve not been in similar situations before. However, as Madonna sang, “you make me feel like a virgin, touched for the very first time” and just because it isn’t true, doesn’t mean you can’t believe it! My handsome Italian cooked a delicious dinner; pasta naturally (nothing wrong with national stereotyping). The aroma of the herbs filled the apartment and to me it smelled of intimacy, permanency and togetherness, not the familiar whiff of a ‘one night stand’ and the Guyometer lurched to the right, and I smiled that enigmatic smile.

After dinner, which was accompanied by a bottle of red wine, (not Chianti that the national stereotyping would have called for but a very drinkable French St. Emilion) we snuggled up together to watch a movie. A movie that neither of us really wanted to watch but it provided the opportunity to press together on the sofa in preparation for dessert and yes, if you’re curious, I was happy to be on the menu at last! I have no intention of describing myself in detail, for the purposes of this paragraph let’s just say I’m very well endowed and the chosen bra raised my ‘assets’ considerably nearer my collar bone than their usual place of residence. I was now in control, for the slightest movement of my shoulders or a sharp inhalation would cause my bosom to demand my Italian’s attention, which was willingly given. Modesty dictates that I didn’t provide the writer with a detailed account of the next 30 minutes. Suffice to say, I lay breathless, satiated, heart pounding amongst our carelessly discarded clothing. A million thoughts raced through my mind. As my strength returned and my breathing slowed, I turned propping myself up on my elbow and saw my bra dangling incongruously from the arm of the sofa and noticed that a thread from the seam was showing and made a mental note to snip it off later. I watched a bead of perspiration move slowly across the curvature of my breast, join forces with another, gain speed and flow into my cleavage and out of sight. I felt truly happy and the Guyometer took a large leap to the right.

My Italian, for I had claimed him and now he was indisputably mine, kissed me on the forehead, linked his fingers with mine and gently pulled me to my feet. We walked hand in hand and naked into his bedroom - a room I did not know but felt at home in. I moved slowly and thought with pleasure of the nights and mornings we would spend together here, our bodies intertwined and I smiled that enigmatic smile. He stood by the bed and spoke. I heard his voice but the words were strange and I did not immediately understand the meaning of what he said. He repeated: “there are rules”. What I thought. “Rules” he said again. “You must not touch me in bed, I don’t like it and it disturbs my sleep”. Ouch! Surely this was a joke, as no more than 10 minutes earlier we were in an intimate embrace on his living room floor and now I was being told that even innocent ‘naked spoons’ in bed was not allowed! A feeling of disappointment, of being cheated out of the intimacy I had dreamt of for a month overwhelmed me. I stood in disbelief, I felt like an intruder, a peeping tom, watching a scene unfold which I had no right to view. Opening a draw he took out a pair of bright orange woollen socks, sat on the end of his bed and pulled first the left then the right sock on. When he stood naked but for his orange socks, the absurdity of the situation assaulted my senses, he looked quite ridiculous! It looked like a giant had picked him up by the head, dipped him up to his ankles in a pot of orange paint and placed him there to dry! I had to fight hard to stifle a laugh. From under a pillow he pulled his neatly folded dark blue pajamas and put them on. Transfixed I watched the Italian, around whom I had woven numerous sexual fantasies, use the thumb of his left hand to tug at the elasticated waistband of his pajama bottoms and using his right hand carefully tuck his pajama top inside. I said, “Do you mean we can’t even cuddle up together?” “Yes” he replied, “it makes me uncomfortable and please try not to move too much during the night because I’m a light sleeper”. I suddenly became acutely aware of my nakedness; I thought he gave a flirtive glance at my breasts, which had previously been objects of much fascination for him. Although I might have imagined the glance, he did say, “Do you want a T-shirt to cover up?” I felt anger towards him and felt the blood rush to my cheeks. I thought of the Pakistani cooks in the restaurant where I waitress, who blatantly stare at my breasts, even when talking to me, they talk face-to-breast, and how they would dearly love me to remove my T-shirt in their presence and I felt insulted by his offer! 

I lay naked, having refused his offer, and rigid to avoid the slightest bodily contact for fear of transgressing his ‘rules’. I tried not to breathe too loudly so as not to wake him. I found it impossible to sleep, so I started counting sheep but sheep are boring creatures, so my mind transported me to the great African savannahs of the Serengeti. There the buffalo were massed in vast numbers and I counted them as they started their migration south and eventually I fell into a fitful sleep.

Well dear reader that’s my story, now I need your advice!

I know it shouldn’t be like this, especially in the first lustful heady days of a new relationship and it doesn’t look good for the future. I still wonder what caused him to act this way.

The Guyometer swung left, back past ‘one night stand (with passable sex)’, back past ‘only if desperate for a date’ and stuck firmly on ‘dump him’ and I smiled an enigmatic smile!

Post script: The Italian was dispatched and assigned to history, no doubt one day I’ll find this episode amusing but for now I’m just annoyed he wasted my precious time!!!

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