sit at the opposite end drinking their aperitifs and nibbling on mixed nuts.
“Don’t call me signora. It reminds me of my mother. You can call me Bella. I have heard strangers, in passing, call me that.”
“Certo, of course. Ciao Bella. Your husband has gone for a walk.”
“Screw him and his ridiculous ideas. That old man doesn’t care about me so I don’t care where he has gone.”
The barkeep offers me a bemused look while licking his lips and nodding his head. His detached look changes to probing interest.
“Can I offer you a pre-dinner bitter on the house?”
“God no. Do I look prudish? Let me have a glass of your best local white wine. Something on the sweet side.”
I can see that I am shaking any workday weariness from his mind. I have surprised his mundane thoughts and stimulated his senses. He is attractive and agile. I love his backward view as he searches the shelves of bottles behind the bar.
In the mirror’s reflection, he notices me perched high on my bar stool leaning forward and scrutinizing his behind. Testing expectations amuses me.
I heat up his thermometer, wetting my lips with my tongue. I can see the immediate impact reflected in the mirror. His eyebrows rise, and his chest inflates. He even flexes and tightens his
buttocks, an involuntary reaction no doubt, which begets an equally ‘laiddadida’ reaction in me.
The young man turns to me and presents a bottle of Malvasia Bianca. I am more interested in his unshaven face. It lacks symmetry. It has an eccentricity worth exploring. I stare at his big, brown, bulging eyes.
Brazened, he returns my advances and gazes at my athletic figure. Before coming to the bar, I had changed into an asymmetrical mixed fabric dress. It has a pink flower-patterned print that, on most women, echoes summer casualness. On my svelte body, it broadcasts supermodel. I picked it because it suggests a stroke of scandal. The accentuating thin, mid-waist drawstring gift-wraps my body. The slit along one side is provocative and tempting. My entire expo, notwithstanding my strapped sandals, insinuates a cocktail hour of unbridled passion and unchecked intimacies. I really like to dress this way. It empowers me.
“Bella, this vino is dry, sparkling and has a pleasant aroma of pears and honey. It is mildly sweet. It is our specialty. It’s not very cold unfortunately but an ice cube will chill it perfectly.”
The bartender is pretending an air of civility as he gawks at my legs.
I caress my wine glass with my manicured fingers. I see the bartender is hypnotized by the red sparkle of my fingernails. I draw the crystal stemware slowly to my lips and let it rest there, as I smell the aroma. I drink. My eyes beam. I rest the glass back on the counter, crossing my left hand onto my right bicep as I look about for busybodies. Our
banter is secretive.
The bartender wipes the countertop. He is emboldened enough to ogle at my swollen nipples. Wine has an immediate impact on my hormones. Unlike other modest women, I do not place plaster, what the Brits call bandages, to cover my nipples nor do I wear padded bras. There is nothing shameful in being natural.
I have acted this game so often I can predict the next play and timing. I reach into my glass, take out the added ice cube and use it to touch my tongue and then my lips as if a soothing lip balm. I escalate the maneuver by patting the ice cube on my exposed thigh, spreading my legs, inviting in the cool, water vapors. I let the water drops slide down my naked thigh down to touch the tiny, incomplete heart tattooed on my foot.
The bartender’s nerve strengthens with every come-on I present. I like that. I continue with my brazen flings. He places both his arms on the countertop resting his chin on one extended thumb all the while keeping his gaze on the area of my crotch.
I brush my fingertips stringing the outline of my panties and travel gingerly over my taut tummy, upward toward my breasts, twirling my other fingers on the ends of my hair. His attention is unbroken. His gaze traces my traveling arm.
“This dress really makes my breasts look good. Do you agree?”
I do not expect a response. Brashly, I reach out with wet fingertips and rub the bartender’s brow. He takes my hand and kisses it. How gallant
of him.
“I’m so tired of having to defend myself,” I
lament out loud.
I retract my hand and reach out to taste more wine. I bite my lower lip and cross my legs to refocus the bartender’s attention.
“Do you believe that it’s wrong to flirt?” I ask and add “Controlling bastard.” before the bartender provides an opinion.
“Excuse me?” says my surprised gentleman. “Sorry, it’s my husband. He does not understand me. He thinks social seduction is some sort of sin rather than playfulness. If it were up to him, I would be a nun locked up in a nunnery or be forced to wear a chastity belt over my naughty bits
and my mouth. For him, flirting is sinful.”
“Signora, this is Italia. Everybody flirts. It’s in our tomato sauce.”
The man laughs but then, as I maneuvered and predicted, he leans in and kisses me on the mouth. Wow. What a wonderful taste. With open eyes, I kiss him back adding another bit of tongue teasing. His hot breath flames my inner fires.
I derive immense pleasure from being sensual. This game of erotic desire brings out my beauty and sensuality. I am convinced of it. It gives me a sense of power over men no matter their size or makeup. It gives me dominance over women, particularly jealous women. I do this one thing better than the rest.
I am engrossed in the game and I want more. As if a gambler thrilled by the moment of cashing in, I blurt out.
“Tell me gioia (joy) do you believe in sex at first sight?”
My dear bartender’s jaw drops as his pupils enlarge. Unlike with Renzo, I feel like Geppetto to this Pinocchio.
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