ITALIANS DO IT BETTER
MARY KATE
The only thing colder than a Tuesday in February is the third-floor classroom in Arliss Hall, where the Century College Italian Club meets every week at four-thirty sharp.
I settle into a creaky folding chair at the back, my butt already numb from the commute across campus, thighs shivering as the draft whips in through the half-cracked window behind me.
At the front of the room, the club president is running late—again—so a grad student named Fede is running the slide deck, gesticulating wildly as slides from Rome flicker on the wall.
No one is listening. Most of the club, in fact, is eyeing the folding table by the door, where someone’s nonna has supplied a supermarket sheet cake, a plate of cannoli, and a pile of jewel-toned biscotti that look like they could crack a tooth.
I’m not really here for the food, or the slides frankly.
I’m here because the alternate is home, and the house is empty until Kent gets off work at seven or so.
I could be studying, I could be doing the Italian homework I’m three chapters behind on, but I’m not.
I’m sitting here, in a patch of fake sunlight thrown by the projector, trying to look like a human with a functioning brain and not a hollowed-out sex doll who spent a portion of last night fellating her sexy stepfather.
I grip the edge of my spiral notebook, knuckles pale, and force my attention to the slides: a grainy photo of the Colosseum at dusk, then a street in Trastevere slick with rain, then a tangle of hands raising glasses in some subterranean bar.
I know I’m supposed to feel something, some pang of wanderlust or nostalgia for a study-abroad summer I never even had, but my mind is blank.
Worse than blank. It’s on a ten-second feedback loop of last night’s encounter, which is to say last night’s most wonderful, hideous, perfect mistake.
I see Kent on the massage table, naked, every muscle strung tight as piano wire.
I feel the slide of oil on my fingers, the impossible heat of his skin, the way he looked at me like he was never going to look away.
I taste him in my mouth—salt and fruit and something male, a flavor so adult I almost coughed the first time but instead just let him grab my hair and guide me, gentle at first, then with a force that sent lightning down my spine.
I remember climbing up, straddling his chest, spreading my knees wide as his hands found my ass and pulled me down, his mouth on my pussy, his voice low and filthy in my ear.
“You’re so fucking wet for me,” he’d said, and I’d moaned so loud I thought the neighbors would call the cops.
“Mary Kate?”
I snap back. Emmeline, next to me, is elbowing my ribcage hard enough to leave a bruise.
She’s the kind of Italian major who makes everyone else look like a fraud: black hair always in saucy ringlets, eyeliner done with insane precision, red claws for nails, every essay peppered with obscure references to Italian cinema.
She’s been my designated “class buddy” since the second week of the semester, and my grades improved as a result.
“You okay?” she whispers. “You’re, like, a zombie.”
I blink at her, try to recalibrate. “Yeah, just tired. I was up late with a paper.”
She grins, her lipstick smudged at the corner. “Girl, same. I haven’t slept since Sunday night. You coming to Dante’s after?”
I look at the clock. It’s not even five yet. “I don’t think so,” I mumble. “I have to be up early.”
Emmeline’s smile goes sly. “You seeing someone? You keep missing club meetings.”
I shake my head, too fast. “No. Just work.”
She doesn’t buy it, but lets me off the hook. She fishes a biscotto from her jacket pocket—where did that come from?—and breaks it in half, offering me the bigger piece. I take it, the nuts digging into my palm, and manage a tight smile.
At the front of the room, Fede has lost control of the audience and is now just narrating the slide show. “Questo è il Pantheon—molto bello. You see the dome? It is un miracolo.” His accent gets more pronounced the more the club ignores him.
I bite into the biscotto, shattering it, and think about the last time I actually cared about anything enough to show up early.
Probably the day I moved back in with Kent, when none of this had happened yet.
When I had no idea that he and my mom were divorcing.
When I had no idea that his medical condition would turn into this.
My heart jumps at the thought of our steamy encounters.
I want to see him again, tonight, now. The craving is chemical, raw, and for a second I’m not even sure if I want to have sex with him or if I just want to watch him take off his shirt, stand there at the kitchen counter slicing oranges, laugh at something I say and then kiss my forehead and make me feel like I’m the only person in the world.
But that’s not the real Kent because the real Kent wouldn’t kiss my forehead like a doting father.
He’d grab my jaw and own my mouth. He’d pin my wrists behind my back and tell me I’m his good girl before savaging my pussy with that huge shaft.
Last night, I tasted him and it’s become a hunger for more.
“Anyone have questions about the slideshow?” Fede asks, a touch of desperation in his voice.
Emmeline leans into my ear. “Seriously, MK, you’re off in space. You gonna finish the Purgatorio for Monday?”
I lie without hesitation. “Already read it.” Maybe I’ll fake it with an AI summary and hope there’s no pop quiz. I’m already bombing that class; if I fail one more test, I’m pretty sure the department head is going to call my mom, which is exactly what I don’t need.
At the thought of my mom, my stomach flips.
Jeannine hasn’t texted in a while now, not even a meme or a “you okay, babe?” It’s fine.
I should be grateful. But the silence is its own kind of question mark because what the fuck is going on?
Why did Jeannine disappear so suddenly? Did she know that my stepfather’s medical treatment would entail me massaging his balls on a nightly basis?
Did she agree to it? God, I almost don’t want to know the answer.
My thighs squeeze together under the desk, and I dig my fingernails into the edge of the notebook to keep from fidgeting.
The images of last night refuse to leave: the heat of Kent’s mouth, the sharp, animal pressure of his teeth, the way he licked my clit like he was starving and made me come so hard I had to bite my lip to keep from screaming.
I remember the taste of his semen, thick and sweet on my tongue, and the way he said my name as he came, eyes locked on mine.
I don’t know how I’m supposed to be in this room, this body, this life, when there’s a whole other universe waiting for me behind another door.
The meeting dissolves early, Fede defeated.
There’s a brief flurry as everyone scrambles to the folding table for snacks and drinks.
It’s like the cap being popped on a soda can.
Relief is in the air as people slap each other on the back, laughing and talking without a word of Italian being spoken.
I sidle up to the end of the folding table, snag a cannoli, and try to blend into the wallpaper.
It doesn’t work. Three minutes in, I catch the approach: tall, broad-shouldered, Century College soccer hoodie unzipped to show off a sculpted, t-shirted chest. The kind of guy who never sits alone at lunch, who always has a posse of adoring girls trailing him down the halls, who probably does that low-key head nod to every other jock he passes on the quad.
Clay Newell. I clock him immediately: not just the hotshot athlete, but the hotshot athlete whose Tinder profile gets a hundred likes an hour.
He’s got perfect white teeth that have to be veneers, a jaw that could split concrete, and a forehead you could host a TED talk on.
“Ciao,” he says, and grins like he just discovered the secret to cold fusion. “You’re Mary Kate, right? From Intermediate Italian?”
I nod, caught with a mouthful of cannoli. “Yeah. Section two. Professor Faglioni.”
The jock leans in, close enough that I can smell the sickly-sweet energy drink on his breath, and does the thing where he braces both hands on the table and dips his head like we’re sharing a private joke. “You been to Italian Club before?”
“Yes,” I say. “I’ve been in it since sophomore year.”
He laughs, too loud, and a crumb of biscotti launches from his lips to the tablecloth. “Wow, most people bounce after attending one meeting. Can’t blame them. Other than the food, there’s no reason to be here, right?”
I half-smile, scanning for exits.
He takes a moment to study my face—lingering, not quite predatory, more like he’s trying to memorize the answer to a quiz—and then goes, “I’m only taking Italian because my dad’s family is from Genoa like about a century ago. But honestly, it’s an easy B. Plus, the girls are cute.”
He says this like I should be flattered, like this is a gift he’s bestowing. I feel the urge to laugh or puke, or maybe both. Instead, I just nod and bite my cannoli.
He lingers another second, waiting for something.
I realize too late that I’m supposed to volley the compliment back, tell him I’m taking Italian because the boys are cute, or maybe I should ask if he has a girlfriend.
But I can’t fake interest. Not when the only thing I’m interested in is the memory of a man who would eat this guy for breakfast and then floss with his ego.
Clay glances down the table, grabs a chunk of sheet cake, and is immediately intercepted by one of his teammates dressed in matching sweats and that weird, slightly wet hair look that says “I just showered but didn’t bother drying off.” He leaves without so much as a goodbye.
The second he’s out of earshot, Emmeline swoops in, clutching her phone like a lifeline. “Clay Newell’s into you,” she whispers. “He totally is. Did you see the way he was leaning? He never leans. I swear to god, he’s like a human Eiffel Tower.”
I roll my eyes. “He leans on everyone. I think it’s an athlete thing.”
She giggles, popping a biscotto into her mouth. “You could do worse, MK. Most of the girls on campus would kill to get with Clay Newell. He’s got, like, legendary stamina. You know what I’m saying?”
I blush, but it’s automatic, not real. “I think I’ll pass.”
“Seriously? You’re not even a little bit curious?”
I start to say no, but just then I glance back and see Clay Newell standing with his friends.
He’s got his phone out, typing one-handed, and his other hand is holding a cannoli, which he’s chomping like a cigar.
I catch sight again of a cluster of angry red acne along his neck, just above the hoodie, and the view makes something inside me wither.
He’s objectively attractive, sure. But up close, he looks like every other guy on this campus: a little bit “red pill,” a little bit too self-sure, already aging before his time.
Compared to Kent, he’s a Ken doll left out in the sun. Compared to Kent, every guy here is.
“He’s all yours,” I mutter to Emmeline. “I’m not really looking for a boyfriend right now.”
Emmeline gives me a mock salute, then tucks her phone into her bag and scans the crowd. “You do you, girl. But if you change your mind, Clay’s always at the rec center. And I mean always.” She winks, then turns to flirt with a redheaded sophomore hovering by the coffee.
I let out a slow, steadying breath, trying to exhale the stale classroom air and all the feelings that come with it.
In my head, I run through the comparison test again: Clay’s sweaty grip versus Kent’s huge, surgical hands that could break a walnut but always touch me like I’m made of glass.
Clay’s beer-and-Axe body spray smell versus Kent’s pure, clean warmth—soap, sandalwood, something bitter and expensive.
Clay’s smirk versus the way Kent’s mouth goes hard at the corners when he’s about to come, the way he growls my name with his face buried between my legs.
I snap back when Clay returns, the boy chewing.
He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, then gestures at the door with his chin.
“Hey, Mary Kate, you wanna come to a party on Friday? My fraternity’s throwing a thing.
Sigma Epsilon Chi. It’s gonna be, like, wild. You should bring your friends.”
He says “Sigma Epsilon Chi” like it’s a golden ticket. I can practically hear Emmeline shrieking with delight. I force a smile, trying to look interested. “I’ll see if I can make it.”
He grins, satisfied, and then leans in again. “Just saying, last time we threw a party, the cops came twice. You like to party, right?”
I almost laugh. I want to say, “I’ve done more in a single night than you have in your entire college career, pal,” but I just nod and murmur, “Sure.”
He pats me on the back—a touch too lingering, too familiar—and then drifts off toward the elevators, already talking about supplements and protein intake with his buddies.
I watch him go, then look down at my hands.
They’re sticky with cannoli cream. I wipe them on a napkin and pack up my bag, thinking only of Kent.
Of his hands, his mouth, the look in his eyes when he made me come with a single, brutal lick on my clit.
How he pushed his tongue into my pussy hole, and then pulled out and licked the taut clench of my back button.
Of how deliciously dirty the older man is.
Of what he’s promised me for tonight. My phone buzzes again, and I know it’s him, probably telling me to be on time, to come straight to the basement sauna without passing go.
I toss my empty paper cup and slide out the door, bracing for the cold. All I can think of is him, the only man who’s ever made me feel wanted and needy and feminine at the same time.
Friday night at the Sigma house doesn’t stand a chance.