Mr. Rome

I was in Rome for the weekend. I didn’t know his name at first. He offered me a beer. And then he kept buying me drinks. And I kept accepting them.

We walked the streets of Rome, laughing, taking pictures… He was funny, I was charming, and we were both in Rome. Drunk.

And then we had a bonding moment a few hours later by a trashcan.

Classy, I know.

I had been in a relationship for the previous 3 years. I was in a different country, for various reasons, but one of them to run away from my feelings. To forget. To heal.

But that night I felt that I was ready to rebel.

What had love gotten me? Nothing but a broken heart. Why did I keep myself pure for so long to just give it up to someone who broke my heart in the end? I decided then that I was done thinking that love and fairytales and all those other things were actually true. Or that they were at least worth all the effort. I was done trying to be good, trying to find love. I wanted to have fun. I wanted to have a lot of fun.

So I decided I would have my first one nightstand. When in Rome…

On our way to the hotel, he bought me a rose. He invited me in his room and ran us a bubble bath- rose petals, candles and all… I wondered if all one-night stands started this way? This was better than what I had the previous 3 years.

So we fucked. All night. Until eventually one of us passed out.

I woke up and he was still asleep. There was a box of condoms on the bedside table. The sheets were wrapped around half of his body. He was a boxers kinda guy. I didn’t mind.

For the first time I noticed where I really was- this was an incredible room. Spacious with beautiful furniture and big windows with heavy curtains blocking out the sunlight- I pushed them to the side and peeked to see Rome before me. The sun was already up but it was early. The streets were busy, you could see a few vespas zooming by, and in the distance, a sliver of the Coliseum stood out, as if to remind me where I was. That’s right, fucking Rome.

I always imagine I would feel weird after sleeping with someone I barely knew. I used to think sex was something so sacred, so intimate. My theory was that when you had sex with someone, both of your spirits combined and a deeper connection between both people took place.

It’s not that I still didn’t believe that when I woke up that morning in Rome. It’s just that I learned that sex could just be sex- raw and dirty and lustful. That is, if you wanted it to be that way. If you instilled it in your mind that it was all it was. And I could do that. I was great at pretending.

Because certainly that is what you do when you have sex with someone you barely know. You kiss them like you love them, you look into their eyes like you can actually see them, really see them. You hold them, you caress them, you do all the little things you would with someone you love. The only difference is that you don’t actually love them. You don’t even really care about them. You use them for your pleasure, and they use you for theirs.

Still, I had a good time.

Once he woke up, Mr. Rome ordered room service and later walked me out to a taxi. I was going back to Paris that morning.

He kept in touch with me for a long time- calling me long distance when I was still in Paris, texting and emailing me often. We used to talk on the phone, sometimes for a long time. He actually listened to what I had to say. He actually cared.

A few months went by. I had come to see him as a great friend, while he had fallen in love with me. We kept in touch for years after. But he was always trying to whisk me away, to make me his, and I never wanted to belong to him.

One day, not too long ago, actually, I had to tell him that I never thought we could have a relationship.

He disappeared from my life.

Wherever you are, Mr. Rome, I thank you for giving me an experience that I will never forget. You were gentle and kind, too much for your own good, and you treated me like a princess.

I wish I had learned how to love you. I wish it had been that easy. We would have had a good story to tell our kids and grandkids (except for all the drinking we did that night- and we would have to censor the sex part too and maybe change it to a kiss). Someday I still wonder what would’ve happened if I had let you whisk me away… or if I never let you buy me a drink at the bar.

I learned more with you than a lot of other people that have tried to teach me about life. So here’s to you- I hope you find someone with an enormous heart to love and take care of you. You deserve it.

And, of course, thank you for helping me rebel. It was awesome.

Love,

Gia.

Mr. Little White Towel

His name was Marcio.

He was tall, dark, and handsome and had the most beautiful hazel eyes. And as a side note, he was Brazilian and showed up even Madge’s boy toy.

I was three years younger than him then. He was the talk of the town, and I was the preacher’s daughter. There you have it, a recipe for disaster.

And disastrous it was.

He asked me out, and we started dating. I kissed him in front of an abandoned old house when he asked me for a proof that I loved him. He used to walk me home after church and we would sit outside on my porch and plan our lives together- he would become a minister and I would be the perfect housewife. We planned everything it seems, except for how we would manage to stay together as time went by.

One day he walked me home. He hesitated to sit down. And then he never walked me home again.

“I just don’t like you anymore”

It was my first heartbreak. And I, naturally, dealt with it the way any other girl my age would have acted:

I slammed the door on his face. Then I ran upstairs and buried my head on my sister’s lap, and hot tears streamed down my face, until there was no energy left to cry and all I could do was let myself be overtaken by sleep.

The following months, I would cross the street if I saw him coming in my direction and yell to whoever cared to listen that he was gay.

I told you. A very natural reaction.

In my defense, that first heartbreak is always the hardest.

Eventually time came and took with it my bitterness. Soon Marcio stopped walking past my house and going to church, and I started dating someone else. And as these things usually go (well, at least with me), one day I moved away to another country.

But one day I also came back to knock on Marcio’s door.

I am still not sure why I decided to go knocking on his door after years of being away. I guess curiosity got the best of me. I’ve always been a little bit too curious for my own good…

He still had the handsome face I remembered- the beautiful deep caramel skin that set off his bright hazel eyes and a beautiful mouth with pearly white teeth. But the boyish body I remembered had been replaced by a well-defined, fit and toned body that now stood at the door in front of me, wrapped only in a little white towel…

If you’ve ever had a moment when you set your eyes on someone and you both instantly know what’s going to happen between you as if it had already been written and announced to the both of you, you understand the look Marcio and I exchanged to each other when, 6 years after I had last seen him, I stood at his door.

Did I mention he had just come out of the shower and was wearing only a towel, wrapped around his waist… so easy to take off…

These were my thoughts when his girlfriend walked in.

Her name is not important, as I obviously didn’t bother to remember. Marcio had already told me with his eyes everything I needed to know.

Still, I didn’t want to be rude, so I sat down and exchanged some awkward glances with his girlfriend. And very indiscreet ones with Marcio, every time she left the room.

If you knew Marcio, you would not blame me. In fact, you would ask me why I didn’t rip the towel off him and had my way with him the moment he opened the door…

But regardless of what I did or didn’t do, a few days later, Marcio called. He wanted to meet me. At the beach. Surprise? Not at all.

I was still relatively young then. But I could tell, by the way he held and kissed me, he had become very experienced in the years I had been gone.

We talked about life- about my life in a new country, about how things were with him… he mentioned he was now a soccer player and was soon being called to play professionally for the state team in Bahia.

And then he asked me to go live with him. To just get all my things and go with him to Bahia. Six years after he stopped walking me home.

Now, I was young. But I wasn’t stupid.

I turned Marcio down. I laid with him on the sand and pretended we were still in love- I offered him an escape from his life, a glimpse into what could’ve been if he hadn’t changed, if I hadn’t moved, if I was still young and stupid and still fell for his charm… if life hadn't come between us.

I don’t know what happened to Marcio. I don’t know if he became a Brazilian soccer star, if he married his girlfriend and had children, or if he is still answering his door with a little white towel wrapped around himself and giving girls a look that would make any heart melt.

But wherever you are Marcio, I thank you for being the first one to break my heart.

I also thank you for being a scumbag, and teaching me early on, that there are a million guys out there exactly like you. You taught me that you are the kind of guy a girl takes to the beach, plays pretend with, then says her last goodbyes and never looks back.

Not the kind of guy a girl gives up her life for.

No love,

Gia

Mr. Dube

His name was Craig Dube. I mean, his real name, was Craig Dube.

I was eleven and he was two months older than me.

I know what you're thinking.

Of course I fell for him.

And before you start judging him based solely on his name, let me tell you that he had blonde hair and beautiful blue eyes. And that he played baseball and Math was his favorite subject (I always did like the smart ones). But most importantly in the world of sixth graders, he did not have a girlfriend.

I barely spoke English. I was fresh from a plane and my English went as far as introducing myself and naming a variety of fruits. Oh, and also, thanks to a popular song in the 90s, informing anyone that would care to listen that the book was on the table. But I won’t bother you here with my foreignness, or the difficulties I encountered in a new country, in a new school, in what is already the most difficult years of any young girl’s life. I also apologize if this post doesn’t seem as juicy as Mr. Fun Sized. But I like to think it has its own allure.

Regardless of the fact that I thought Mr. Dube was the definition of good looks, he was not the most popular kid in school. For reasons I, obviously, cannot imagine. I adored him and was convinced, after first setting my eyes on him, that we would someday get married.

We never even got close.

Which I'm kind of grateful for now... can you imagine, having Dube as your last name?

But somehow, in those first few months I spent in the US, regardless of my almost non-existent knowledge of the English language, we formed a friendship. He started making me drawings- mainly pictures of Looney Tunes characters, because at that time I was obsessed with them (Tweety Bird, in particular). It sounds so silly now but I loved those drawings. I would go home and hang every single one on my wall, the corner of each proudly displaying Craig’s signature and the date. Work of arts of a young mind, tokens of young infatuation… Innocent love, so simple and easy. Those were the days.

But as we all know, young love is known not to last. And it is often gone as fast as it started.

On the last day of school of sixth grade, I kissed Craig. It happened in front of school, Coral Springs Middle, while other students stood by. And it was followed by cheers. Perhaps one of the few times I had such a good audience! Regardless, at that age, it was a courageous move on my part. But I did it mainly because I wanted Craig to remember me. I was moving to another town and would be switching schools, and I knew I would probably never see him again.

And yes. A kiss from me will make you remember me. Mr. Dube, if reading this, I'm sure is nodding his head vigorously and saying "hell yeah!".

We wrote letters to each other for a while, but eventually I ended up moving again and losing touch with him all together. My 12 year old mind had the right instincts even then: we never did see each other again.

Mr. Dube was a lovely tween. I wonder what he is doing with his life now. Maybe he’s married and drawing his wife cartoons of Looney Tunes characters, or even drawing them for his children…

Regardless, I hope that wherever you are, Mr. Dube, you are happy. And I hope someone loves you enough to make you drawings of things you love. Or at least the equivalent wonderful thing of what that meant for me when I was 12 and what that means for you now.

You welcomed me into this country like a true American gentleman, and for that, I’m forever, 12-yeard-old-giggly-girl kind of grateful.

Lots of love,

Gia

Mr. Fun Sized

We met online.

I know how weird and creepy that might sound, but does it help if I mention that he added me as a friend on facebook since we would, in a few months, be attending law school together?

Ok, fine. It still sounds creepy.

He seemed, at first, to be a good candidate for a potential lover, maybe even something more serious down the long run- an impressive history of prior education and work, good looking (at least from what I could tell from his photos), and witty, as I soon discovered through facebook chat. He initially sent me a message saying he was looking forward to meeting me and attending school together... it had a flirtatious tone, which I was not one to ignore. I flirted back and kept on flirting until we were finally in the same city, about to embark on one crazy journey as 1L's.

I was hesitant to get physical with him because we would be attending school together... but once we spent our first night out with each other, it was hard to deny the chemistry between us. And lust has a funny way of hiding all those first signals you should interpret as dangerous, like his propensity to act like he was the best at everything- almost as if to overcompensate for other things...

Our first kiss, I'm sure, was a lot longer than the usual "good-night-it-was-nice-to-have-finally-met-you" kiss and more along the lines of "please-take-my-clothes-off-now". Needless to say, it didn't take long until I found myself in his apartment, after a night of drinking, with the looming question of where I would be spending the night over our heads... Ok, so it wasn't much of a question at that point. But at least I like to think I played it that way.

After some more middle school make out sessions, things got more heated. I unbuttoned his pants and reached my hand down to get an idea of what I was dealing with, when I heard him say the most inappropriate, horrifying thing I have heard to this day:

"So, what do you think?"

Did he really want to know what I thought? Because I was flabbergasted at how small his magic wand was. I did not even know how to handle it, exactly, because never before had I encountered one that size. Did I just treat it like the others? Or did it need some sort of special handling? But mostly, what I was thinking was: are you kidding me? God makes penises this small?!

Apparently he does.

Mr. Fun Size surprisingly turned out to be great in bed. I guess he had to learn the right moves to compensate for his small size. Although he must not have a clue of how small he is if he is going around asking women what they think of the size of his member. I'd like to think I was the only person he has asked that horrifying question to- but I really doubt it.

Unfortunately, his bedroom skills did not compensate for the fact that he was a jerk, however, and we stopped seeing each other soon after Halloween. Ironically, by that point, too many of his masks had come undone to make him appear even remotely attractive.

So this one goes out to you, Mr. Fun Sized!

I hope that wherever you are, for your sake, and that of your next prey, you've realized how tiny your penis really is.

No love,

Gia