THE MALE CHAUVINIST - An Erotic Autobiography

Part Four - I - II

Part Four

I

Friday morning I wake up in my bed in Pieve de' Salici. Needless to say, I slept wonderfully, undisturbed even by the early morning woodpecker that at seven sharp decided to attack the trunk of the tallest and oldest pine tree in the garden. Moreover, the sun is shining. A true miracle, in this generally gray and gloomy season.

I drink coffee in the kitchen. On Ansa, I read that the new Superman is bisexual and will have a gay relationship in the next issue of the comic. Enough already. Preserving homophobia has now become a duty and a Holy Mission.

Around 9:00 AM, I receive a message from my mother. Come by today, there's Gymnastics! The Gymnastics turns out to be Ginni after autocorrect. You see, my mother, bless her, has kept up with the times and started using WhatsApp. She even uses heart emojis with a nonchalance that leaves me astounded. But autocorrect gives her some trouble. Her messages need to be deciphered carefully. It seems she's babysitting my niece today. Dropping by isn't a bad idea. I've missed that little girl terribly over the past few weeks.

I've just locked the door and am setting the alarm when I hear the furious shouts of Berto and Michelle, who are going at it in the garden, right in front of their house (the villa is shaped like a horseshoe, like a court, and each family member has their own wing). The lovebirds haven't lost their habit of fighting furiously. Moreover, it's sad to say, but the lovely Michelle Blanchard has let herself go after getting married and has ballooned to the point where she now resembles a manatee, leaving poor Berto stuck with a heavyset woman, loaded with frustrations and repressed desires that make him even more irritable than before. Not that we're on speaking terms, since he married practically we barely exchange a casual hello when we cross paths in the garden... probably because I once advised him against marrying Blanchard, but imagine that, I can't recall a single time he hasn't done exactly as he pleases.

There he is, the cousin, bellowing on the stage of his anger, every hair a fury and indeed a scream. As you know if you've read Tromba Daria, Berto is a true artist of the expletive, with a marked talent for creative blasphemy. By pairing the word "God" with epithets and terms plucked from the most varied contexts (for example "diarrhea"), he achieves spectacular results. But now he's overdoing it a bit, to the extent that I fear a thunderbolt from the sky might suddenly incinerate him. Even the patience of the Almighty must have its limits, right?

I reach the porch, dodging Lapo's poops and keeping prudently away from Berto to avoid being accidentally struck by a possible punitive lightning bolt. I get in my car and speed off.

While driving down the narrow country road that connects the hamlet of Pieve de' Salici to Reggio, I encounter someone speeding, the usual idiot in an SUV. Obviously, I flash my lights at him. I flash at all those who drive too fast. Ever since Samuele and Carlotta had Ginni, I've become even less tolerant of all those behaviors by idiots on four wheels who risk others' lives.

Ten minutes later, with INXS's "Devil Inside" blasting on Radiofreccia, I slow down as I turn onto Viale Simonazzi, where I intend to park, but my usual spot – or rather one of my usual spots, in any case the last free one – is occupied, believe it or not, by the scooter that some microcephalic has planted right in the middle of the parking space. I act quickly: I turn on the hazard lights, get out, and move the damn thing (basically, I throw it into a flowerbed), then I get back in the car, park, and walk away without giving a second glance to the parking meter's pill-eating column.

Entering the building where my parents live (they only come to the country in summer), I run into the Zen Concierge – a hefty Colombian woman in her fifties, quite fit for her age.