INTRODUCTION
This is a story of a "woman in control of her pleasure and passion." The subject, of the story, Diana, is an Italian, a second-year medical student whose attitude is sex-positive. She is aware of the psychology and hormone-driven behavior of men and decides to participate sexually on her terms.
I have always admired women who were willing to take the first step in a sexual relationship. That quality is often found among older women but is far more endearing when found among younger women as it is not frequently expected (18 or older).
In my experience, English women can be very aggressive, French women very sophisticated and romantic, and Italian women very passionate. Swedish and Norwegians can be forward and not at all bashful with sex or nudity. German women can be very aggressive and into S&M. Asian women, ofter delicate and beautiful, may not make the first move, but they will open the door entirely once the game is on.
THE BOCCHINO
A shout-out to my dear buddy Evan, who died this last year of melanoma; we went to school together and parted ways in college. It was no one's fault. He went west, and I stayed east. He got married, and I got lucky, with no regrets. Out of touch for many years, I tried an Internet search and found his OB. Now, I regret not trying sooner.
The two of us used to play pool together under fluorescent lights in a dingy upstairs pool hall in New Rochelle, New York, in the early 60s. Evan was a long-time friend. We'd gone through school together and shared a number of teachers and classes. He was a regular guy, robust, healthy, and now that he is gone, I will add, he was beautiful. He had a cinematic chin like a young Kirk Douglas (if you are curious, Kirk's real name was Issur Danielovitch Demsky).
In my mind's eye, I can still see Evan bending forward, lining up his pool shot, and holding the pool cue like a rifle. His posture was immaculate, back straight, ass high. If I were gay, I would have rushed up to kiss him; he was gorgeous. There was a dimple on his chin and an indented beauty mark on his face, probably a precursor of the melanoma that would kill him many years later.
People were different then. It was a time before cell phones and before the invention of the internet. Young middle-class kids were incredibly cool. They wore their hair in an attractive m
anner, combed or uncombed. Their eyes sparkled when they talked, and their facial expressions were a tipoff to what they were thinking or informed what they were saying. The women didn't walk around half-naked with miles of titty cleavage showing. If a girl took off her blouse, it was in private, and then you knew it was your lucky day; she meant business.
Evan was a late starter; maybe he was shy around women, and we had never focused on the fair sex in our conversations. I was totally into cunt. Neither of us was gay. After the billiard game, we'd leave the smoky pool hall and walk down the steep metal-faced stairs and out into the cold winter air.
We'd go for a late-night snack at 'Luigi's' over on Main Street to eat pizza or lasagna, where the forty-year-old waitress, quite a looker in her own right, would serve beers to those under 21 (we were 20 at the time) provided you ordered the premium brands. One beer each was all we craved, although I often order the ale, crisp and bubbly with a slight metallic taste. Out of gratitude, we always left the waitress a healthy tip. I would have liked to make a pass at her, her tits were so fine, but I knew the age difference put me out of her league. This wasn't a time when female teachers were bedding juveniles.
The last time I saw Evan was in 1963; he was home from college and staying with his parents. He had borrowed a white Austin Healy English sports car with a dead battery and somehow managed to drive all the way from the northwest to southern New York. He had to park the car on a hill to get the motor to turn over.
Evan recruited me to push the Healy through the snowdrift where the snow plow had pushed the damp snow. He had strategically parked so he might start the car as it rolled down the steep hill in front of my house. The car's motor turned over immediately, but Evan stopped the car halfway down the hill, leaving the motor put-putting like a motorboat. He waved to me.
"Come here, you fucker," he said with genuine affection.
Of course, I ran to him. He'd gotten out of the car when I arrived and was leaning over to pull out something.
"I got something for you," he said, holding up a thick volume with a brown cover. There he was with that dimpled chin that suggested that maybe Kirk Douglas had fucked his mom. Evan had told me confidently that his mom was once a chorus girl at some time in her distant past and had known movie people when New York was still more important than Hollywood. I only met her once, and by that time, she was a stout blond with bazooka tits. Who knows who was sucking on them?
"What's that?" I asked. Evan was holding a thick book.
It's a copy of "Being and Nothingness" by J.P. Sarte, the famous French philosopher.
"Is it in English?"
"Yeah, a translation from the French."
"What the fuck is that about?"
"Well," said Evan, he was wearing the spectacles he used for driving. He held up his right hand, finger pointed at the clouds, "It's about Being and," he paused as he handed the heavy volume to me, "And it's about Nothingness," which he punctuated by signing a circle with his left hand.
"Take it down to the village, " said Evan. "It's a chick magnet. Every dopy broad who fancies herself a beatnik will follow you like the pied piper and blow you in the bar's bathroom."
"Ok, sounds good."
I held on to the heavy volume, tucked it under my arm, and headed up the hill. That's when the fun started.
I returned to my home; I took a closer look at the book. The inside of the paper cover said,
Jean-Paul Sartre's "Being and Nothingness" is a philosophical text that explores the nature of human existence as defined by the laws of existentialism.
I tried to read the first chapter but gave up quickly. I prematurely concluded that this existential bullshit was only good for girl gab.
A few weeks later, I purchased a black French chapeau that made me look like Groucho Marx. I also found a black turtleneck in my closet, like the one Sarte wore on the back cover. So, disguised but wearing blue jeans, I set out for Greenwich Village with a few condoms in my pocket.
I went to Ray's Pizza Joint, one of six or more Ray's. There may be more Ray's Pizza places in New York than Christ's disciples. I knew Johnny, the pizzaiolo guy, from years of imbibing. This time, an adorable blond was seated inside. Her hair was the shade of brownish blond that I always preferred. I walked over towards her and opened my volume, making believe I was reading it.
She was watching me. "What is that?" She said, pointing at my book. She had a charming Italian accent.
Seeing me in the middle of a conquest, Johny called me over. I handed the book to the girl and leaned in to hear what he wanted. The radio blasted with the pleasant harmonies of the Mamas and Pappa's 'California Dream'in.'
"Dat's the boss's niece, Diana, eh, Mr. Garibaldi's. Don't try nothing wid her if you wanna walk home in one piece."(Obviously, the owner of Ray's wasn't named Ray.) "Watch yourself. The boss can get nasty. Keep your penis in your pants."
"Ok, Johnny, no problem; thanks for the head's up."
I went back to where Diana sat. She had begun to read the first chapter.
"Do you know much about this book?" she asked.
"It's pretty complicated," I answered. "Existentialist stuff."
Trying to change the subject, I asked, "So what do you do in Italy?"
"My Mom has a small hotel in Arezzo, north of Rome. We get French students who visit, especially when the city sponsors an international opera contest. They are always talking about this guy; she lifted the book, showing off the back page of the slipcover, and pointed at Sarte."
Then she turned and looked at me, "What are you dressed as? Are you trying to be a beatnik?"
"Not really, just fooling around. If I put on this disguise, I'll likely meet someone who could explain the book to me.
"Oh, good luck with that."
"You wanna see a foreign flic at the Pix?"
I asked.
"Sure, If I haven't seen it before."
I asked Johnny for the 'Daily News' copy on the table, and there was a listing of the shows at various movie theaters toward the back of the paper. Here is the film called "Cleopatra," a Liz Taylor-Burton film. It's a long one."
"Yes, it was in all the movie magazines, how Liz was having sex with Burton while still married to that pop singer. Because Liz was always sick, the film took several years to complete."
"Yeah, Eddy Fisher."
"It goes on in about thirty minutes. If you wanna go, we can get there in time?"
