Rome's a dirty city. It smells like any other city would smell, except pronounced. To the point, in fact, that one could think he may differentiate each particular scent individually. The unique essence of hot car exhausts marinating in an Italian summer sun, falafel joints and metro vents, that indescribable stench of heavy tourism and 1 star hotels; it’s like a muggy amalgamation of these and others hug the buildings and the streets, hanging thick in the air.
I’m of the idea that one’s environment has a profound if not altogether encompassing effect on his or her demeanor and inclinations. Under that guise, our uncertain step into the bubble of social interaction known as the pub-crawl is simply a product of our environment. In laymen’s terms, things get messy. But things have to get messy to get your money’s worth, because when the open bar only lasts for an hour, it’s almost a necessity to max yourself out in the misconstrued hope that you won’t have to buy another drink for the rest of the night.
In reality, what happens is that you get wasted at the open bar and find yourself barely able to walk between the remaining rendezvous, happily taking the courtesy shot at each stop. And of course there are girls on the pub-crawl, going through the exact same set of decisions. Except they’re smaller and at the end of it all they’re drunker, but as the night progresses their promiscuity goes up tenfold.
A little timid and short-phrased at the 10:00pm meet in front of the Spanish steps, flirtatious at the open bar, and more flirtatious at the place by the river. When the finality of the whole night settles in around 3:00am at the open-air, flirtatiousness has turned quite unanimously into friskiness, body held tight, almost to the point of dry humping. Lips agape and pressing hard against mine. Her tongue tastes of 5 EUR redbull-vodkas, but then again so does mine I’m assuming.
We’re both slipping in and out of memorable consciousness when we board the bus, and when we get off at the stop after the stop we want. But at this point it doesn’t matter. After stumbling the seven or so blocks to the apartment she’s staying in, we barge into a stark realization. She’s one of three blonde mid-westerners crashing in the living room for the night before flying home the next day, which means one thing. Well… maybe two things. Firstly, she has to be up early in the morning. Secondly, and alas, the root of our rump is that we can't have sex there. Where to then? Why, to the roof of course! It’s an embalming summer night in the old city, it’ll be lovely!
Fantasies are cut short at the top of the stairwell when we come into the knowledge that there isn’t any roof access. In life we learn to play with the cards God deals us. So is this minor misfortune going to bring to a screeching halt all manners of coitus that are running through both our eyes? No, no it isn't.
Our bodies turn the cold stone stairs moist with love-making. I chuckle even at the mention of it because only a callous man can call what happened at the top of that stairwell love-making. It falls most closely under the definition of what I consider drunken sport-fucking. There's no loving embrace, but only a slew of competitive thrusts, and after we re-dress and I bid her goodnight, there's one prominent thing lingering in the back of my mind; I don’t believe I ever caught her name.
