8:14am. A vinyl record copy of Frederic Chopin’s ’19 Nocturnes’ hums wistfully from the bedside. She is sound asleep. A deep, almost unnaturally deep, sleep. I’m seated cross-legged at the end of the bed. Cigarette idly in hand. I keep all movement minimal. Discrete and soundless; I don’t want to wake her.
I simply listen to the ethereal rendition whilst allowing my mind to ease itself of any complex thoughts. Any stress. Any worries. Any responsibilities. If one could, hypothetically, of course, remove their brain from their head, and simply allow nothing to cross their mind, I would be very close to pulling off this stunt right about now.
But I’m not quite there yet. My ears are still receptive to the vinyl and the gentle, distant sound of the ocean tides drawing in and out. I can taste and smell the cigarette smoke. I can feel the relentless thumping of my heart as my eyes glare possessively at her form. A form of a rare perfection.
Comfortably laid on her back, she breathes benignly. Her skin is pale and well kempt. Cheekbones, jaw, nose; all beautifully chiselled. Her left hand rests entangled in her short, thick, dark-brown hair. A superb pair of breasts lay exposed, subtly rising and subsiding in motion to her easy breathing.
** 1:07am, the night before**
I’m seated at a bar. By myself. Very casual grey cotton shorts and a black Zara polo. Simple flip-flops. For whatever reason, I’m on the Italian island Ischia. I thought I’d spend 3 or 4 days away, book a hotel for one and simply spend some time visiting the beach, reading books, and soaking in some culture. I make it a habit to do so at least once every few months. But anyway.
It’s my last night here. Some folks are out partying on the beach. The great big hotel I’m staying at is not five minutes’ walk from the beach. It has a bar on the 1st floor (rooms start from 3rd floor up). I’ve been sat here alone sipping at some tropical Martinis for the past hour or so and the bar has only increased in vibrancy. The room is dimly lit. Loud festive Italian hip-hop and pop songs blare from the unidentified overhead speakers. It’s full of cheerful groups, couples and individuals all laughing, drinking and dancing.
Alone, she comes to the bar and orders two tropical Martinis. It seems to be the night’s favoured beverage of choice. She wears a black, all-over-see-through-mesh top. If the lighting was a few shades brighter, you’d see her nipples. A loose, intricately designed wrap covers her thighs. Olive-green flip-flops. Round sunglasses propped on her head. She sits at the bar two seats away from me and starts at one of the Martinis with a straw. She catches me staring intensely towards her, and then offers a small wave. The perfect opening.
After 8 or so minutes of phatic verbiage (which is a very long time with a complete stranger), I manage to mentally store away a pretty vague but sufficient profile of her:
She’s 23. Visiting the Italian island from Florida. She likes travelling, theatre, fashion, the ocean, nature in general, and photography. She’s a vegetarian, and is a part-time Project Management lecturer at Florida Institute of Technology College.
And by merely looking at her, you can feel this astonishing aura she carries around her. A strange longing for – and yet – embodiment of aesthetics. She is everything raw but yet trimmed to perfection with an uncommon precision. I feel as though I was being introduced to some wild specie unknown to man, but yet one which articulates a dense civilisation and consciousness that mankind can only dream of attaining.
The music is loud, the atmosphere louder. We’re both feeling merry. And both alone. So I pop the question.
She stares into my eyes wordlessly, lips very faintly apart. My eyes of course tremble before her own intensely brown eyes, and scurry to look at something behind her instead.
“Come back to your hotel room?” she echoes, as if to clarify what I’d said.
1:41am, my hotel room. I’d left the bedside lamp on. It illuminates one corner of the hotel room and sheds an almost imperceptible light around the rest of the room. Thoughtlessly, I lay her down on the bed hurriedly. My lips press against her neck and my hands saunter across every inch of her body as she pants lustfully. My body over hers, she clutches her legs around me and grips my hair firmly.
My lips leave a lasciviously passionate impression on her own lips, her neck, collarbones, and chest. She tussles among the bedsheets and tries to utter something which refuses to come out. She moans and her body moistens with sweat. She gently pushes my head further down her body, passed her chest, passed her stomach, until it’s right between her legs.
We have the most energetic and euphoric sex known to man. When it all finishes, we lay down, smoke a cigarette and let the silence between us speak of how great an act either of us performed on the other.
2:22am. Silence. And we sleep.
I wake up in an Italian hotel room. A delicate sunshine trickles through the Venetian blinds. Lukewarm glass of water by my bedside table, along with a record player and wristwatch. I release a yawn, stretch, then rub my eyes. I place down the pin and start the record. Frederic Chopin’s ’19 Nocturnes’. I start to retrace the happenings of the night before.
Bar. Floridian lady with the short brown hair… Oh yeah – cocktails… Conversating…
Come back to your hotel room? Oh, I’m really sorry, but I think you might be misunderstood – I’m here on this trip with my boyfriend. It wouldn’t be right for me to do that. I’m waiting for him to get back. He told me to wait here while he goes to grab me a top from our hotel room.
Oh yes, of course. That explains the two cocktails. Sorry, ma’am. I had the wrong idea. Enjoy the rest of your stay. Good night.