THE MALE CHAUVINIST - An Erotic Autobiography

Part Four IX - X

IX

With Dora, at least, I managed to connect on Facebook. I write to her the next day... "Good morning, Dora. I'm glad we met. Thank you for your company and the chat." She gives me the response reserved for foreigners: "You are welcome." Listen up – last night something almost supernatural happened: Paolino managed to hook up with a girl. It seems he even dunked the biscuit. It's an epochal event, one that marks the centuries, a harbinger of disasters or fortunes, like comets, like planetary alignments, especially since living in Reggio, and moreover at his parents' house, Paolino seems doomed to a life of absolute chastity. Now, we don't know if things went exactly as they told me. Like all legends, Paolino's is largely made up of fantasy, the creative contribution of those who pass it on, so it's often not only difficult but also foolish to separate the wheat of truth from the chaff of invention. In any case, this is how we at Piazza del Cristo like to remember this salacious story, and this is how it reached my august ears from the mouths of eyewitnesses... This cow that Paolino ends up nailing, she struggles a bit to make our friend understand the coded message with which she intends to inform him of her availability. First, she winks at him, but no, Paolino doesn't react. Then, under the table they are sitting at, she makes her interest known by rubbing her foot against his calf, but even so, she can't make our dear friend get the hint. Finally, she encourages him to move forward by giving him a direct, suggestively allusive look, her hand half-closed in a fist moving up and down in front of her mouth while her tongue flicks in and out of her oral cavity, repeatedly beating against the inside of her cheek. Only then does Paolino have an epiphany and considers that perhaps this sophisticated lady is not entirely indifferent to him, that perhaps that evening he might forgo his ritual selfie, provided he plays his cards right. Cautiously, he begins to play along with this so forward girl, who, for her part, wastes no time and drags him into one of the upstairs rooms. I consult with Bruno about Dora. "Maybe I should send her flowers," I muse, on the phone. "Flowers?" exclaims my friend. "Nooo, too cliché!" "Then what?" "Send her, I don't know, a meter of pizza." At first, it seems like a stupid idea, but then I reconsider. Indeed, sending a meter of pizza to someone is quite an original gesture. I find out where she lives. In the evening, I stop by Pizza Express in Scandiano and have a meter of Quattro Stagioni delivered to her home. "Thank you!" she writes on Messenger after receiving my gastronomic gift. "You shouldn't have!" Moments later, I receive a splendid photo of Dora and a guy happily gobbling up the Quattro Stagioni. "Thanks from my boyfriend too!" the caption reads. To console myself, I cook some spaghetti aglio, olio e peperoncino and watch an episode from the second season of The Girlfriend Experience, the TV series inspired by the Soderbergh film, where the Latin escort, an ex-girlfriend of a drug trafficker who intends to denounce him and has been placed in the Witness Protection Program, starts escorting again. Just like that, the police assigned her a new identity, a home, and a factory job, but since she's a whore at heart and also can't stand being without dick, she starts escorting again, and it's clear that sooner or later someone will spot her and tell the drug trafficker, who will have her killed.

X

In the following days, I investigate and find out that Dora's boyfriend is a mechanic. My friends and I keep teasing each other about it. "He won her over doing doughnuts in the DMV parking lot." "He must know how to piston her properly." "He can assemble and disassemble her anytime he wants." And so it goes.

I'm bitter because I genuinely like Dora. She's tough, top of her class, graduated with honors, vying for a PhD, a real smart cookie... what on earth does she talk about with a mechanic? I like her, I repeat, and the extraordinary thing is that she's not even that young. She must be at least twenty-seven, maybe even twenty-eight or twenty-nine.

One morning, I get lucky. Driving my Alfa Romeo, I'm heading towards the cheerful town... and I can't help laughing because on Radio Reggio there's Vasco singing (if you can call it that): "I lost another good chance tonight... She went home with the black guy, the whore!" Songs like I Watussi are only played on provincial radios nowadays, and every time I crack up, thumbing my nose at political correctness. In Colpa d'Alfredo, good old Vasco manages to use the word 'whore' and 'black' in the same sentence, what an idol. Today's wimpy millennials break out in hives hearing something like this, guaranteed. And the digital natives get a stroke, ah ah, take that!

There I am, laughing, speeding along the provincial road, cutting the curves a bit too recklessly, when I see the unmistakable fiery mane of Dora at the bus stop. I slam on the brakes, risking being rear-ended by a Fiat Marea, which reacts with a furious honk. Ever heard of a safe distance, asshole?

"Dora!" I shout, opening the passenger side door. "Get in, I'll give you a ride!" "Where are you headed?" she asks, taken aback. A line of vehicles has already formed behind me. "Anywhere," I cut her off. "Need to go to Amsterdam? I'll take you to Amsterdam. No problem. Get in!" She gets in... Hooray!

She's heading to the Faculty.

"It's very masculine, this car," comments Dora, sitting in the passenger seat.
"Do you like it?" I ask, slamming on the pedal to let her feel the full power of the turbine... and letting the inner hooligan in me run wild with the car.

Along the way, I lay my cards on the table. "Listen, Dora, I like you," I blurt out. "I want to get to know you better." "Are you looking for a wife, by any chance?" she asks, amused. "Who knows," I sigh, playing it up a bit. "After all, I'm over forty, I want to find a girlfriend, and yes, maybe even a wife. It's about time, right?" Then I overdo it: "I challenge you to find a better catch than me." "Oh sure, you're so cool," she teases, laughing. "Speed up, I'm going to need a basin soon." "Come on," I say. "Why won't you give me a chance? Or rather, why won't you give us a chance?" "I told you, I'm seeing someone," Dora replies with the patience of a saint. I don't mind the response, though. By saying "seeing someone," it's as if she's keeping the door open. "Let's grab a drink together!" I insist, stopping the Alfa Romeo in front of the Campus, in San Lazzaro. "Just to get to know each other a bit!" Dora opens the door. "Alright, if I feel like it, I'll text you," she says.

Sure, and I'm the Easter Bunny.