Lil Johnny should’ve played hard to get.
So Amy and I decided the men in Rome totally win. Holy hotness. I know that you were waiting for that…
Unfortunately, there haven’t been any real run-ins with any Romans (why does that sound weird). Well. Aside from Amy’s Perfect Man that we met this morning on the way to the Coliseum (wow it took me way too long to figure out how to spell that). Seriously. He would be perfect. Aside from the fact that he is studying to be a priest and will return to Iowa. Where he is from.
Anyways. We have, actually, had a few run-ins with Italian men. In my case, it’s made something about me rather obvious (whereas, in Amy’s case, it just proved she would indeed break into that hotel room…).
Basically. If I am interested in you, I know fairly quickly. And so do you. Regardless of whether or not you’re interested in me, I think you know how I feel. Pretty much right away.
And, in this case, by “interested in you” I mean… I would like to have some sex. You know. Now.
Once I have decided this, I really don’t need any further information. We don’t need to have conversation like normal people. In fact, I’ve definitely met people I wish would have kept their mouths shut and avoided conversation. So. In some instances, further information is not helpful. Can we just move on to the sex?
Now. If I am interested in dating you, then I do want to have some conversation. That’s different. I can want to fuck you and not really care (yet) about dating you. Doesn’t necessarily mean I don’t want to date you later, I just know I want to have some sex. With you. And I want it, um oh yeah, now.
The cute Italian boy (I guess age 22 years) from the cute little Italian island would be a perfect example of this. He didn’t even really speak English. I don’t really speak Italian. (My friends were leaving, he said “you go? you go? you go?” repeatedly until his friend whispered “where you going!” and he started repeatedly asking me “where you go? where you go?” when I went to leave.) He turned up at the bar we ended up going to. Backed me against a wall and… it went [downhill] from there (yes the hood of a car was involved, but no clothes were lost – we were in public, people, who do you think I am!).
Regardless. My point is that I didn’t need much time to be ok with this (i.e. being thrown against a wall or the hood of a car). Or much additional evidence about you.
However. If I don’t know how I feel about you? Do not push your luck. I know a lot of other people like being pursued. I do too – sometimes. If I don’t know yet? Do not pursue me. Do not pressure me. In fact, you should probably play hard to get… just a little.
Just give me some goddamn space to make up my own goddamn mind.
Case in point. Meet Gianni (the funny thing here is how Italian his name looks – and how American it sounds…). He worked at the hotel we stayed at in Naples. He called his friend to come hang out with us because he didn’t speak English and his friend did. We hung out and shared a bottle of wine.
Johnny – whoops I mean Gianni – made no effort to conceal the fact that he was interested. He and his friend made quite a show of translating what he wanted to say to me (to Amy’s utter delight and entertainment). He was pretty cute (in a very… Roman way… maybe channeling some Joaquin Phoenix). I think, if I spoke Italian, he would also probably have been charming. He was definitely flirtatious.
But. By the end of the night, and as much pursuing and flattery as he could muster (via translation), I wanted far less to do with Little Johnny than I had originally.
Of course, he ruined any and all last little glimmers of hope by shoving his tongue down my throat.
Sorry – that sounds much worse than it was. I allowed this to happen – because I figured what the hell, and I like making out. So… why not. Whatever.
So the other way to get me to want you to get the hell away from me is to be a very bad kisser. I thought Italian men were supposed to be good at that shit. Your giant tongue in my face is not intriguing. It’s making me gag. And not in a good way.