Chapter 21 Michael
Michael
I arrive at the lake, better known as The Puddle, an artificial basin too small to have a real name, mostly used for agriculture and the occasional scenic backdrop for a date, like tonight.
It’s about a twenty-minute walk from the estate, and I can’t say how many times Elisa and I have been here together.
When I arrive, I find Pompilia waiting for me, holding a basket.
“Hi, I’m Pompilia, Lilia to my friends,” she introduces herself. “I’ve prepared a picnic. I hope you’re hungry.”
I don’t see any spare relatives or crucifixes. So far everything seems normal, which in itself seems strange to me.
“I didn’t know what you liked, so I made a bunch of things,” she announces cheerfully. “Kebabs?”
“They look delicious,” I say, taking the plate she hands me.
“So, you went out with that stick-in-the-mud Regina and Intemerata the nun. I bet you’re scared to death now,” she says. “Jacket potato?”
“At Regina’s house, the main topic was Regina herself; with Intemerata, it was God.”
“Whoever marries Regina also marries her mother; whoever marries Intemerata, on the other hand, marries the Vatican,” she comments, having a laugh at her cousins. “But we’re not all crazy here in Belvedere.”
“I’m happy to hear it, they were two somewhat . . . unusual dates.”
“There’s no need for you to be an English gentleman with me. There’s no polite way to say those two should be committed.”
“Committed, yes,” I confirm. “Why did you stay here in Belvedere? It seems like anyone with a chance runs off as soon as they can.”
“I don’t think it’s so bad here. I mean, in the end, I’m not held captive at home by my parents like Regina, nor have I been forced out into the world with only my faith like Intemerata. I can work from home, and I have my financial independence.”
Perfect! I like talking about work. “Right! What do you do?”
“I am a digital entrepreneur. I sell my underwear online.”
This is getting interesting. Maybe Elisa set up a good match for me after all. “Ah, so do you actually make it by hand or are you the designer?”
“No, no, I sell my underwear. Underwear I’ve worn.”
There’s a lag between my ear and my brain. “I mean, so you . . . you sell the underwear you’ve already worn? Dirty or washed?” The question seems stupid, but at this point I can’t help it.
“Dirty, obviously. For example, I wore a pair yesterday, and tomorrow I have to send it to a guy in Lugano. Shipping at his expense, of course.”
Perhaps it’s time to focus on the practical. “So this is a good business, the . . . the . . .”
“Fetishes? Of course! I sell everything: bras, socks, shoes—one guy even asked me for a toothbrush. They tell me how used they want the pieces to be, what color they should be, whether they want a photo of me wearing them—at an added cost, of course—and I send it registered mail from the local post office. My customers are incredibly loyal. Do you have any particular interests? I can give you a good discount,” she asks me with the same ease she might have offered me a coffee.
I was wrong. This date is definitely the most shocking. “No, thanks. I think I’m okay.”
“Suit yourself,” she replies, shrugging. “There’s a waitlist for the thongs anyway. Hey, don’t you like the tomato soup?”
“I’m so full.” In reality, my stomach closed of its own accord.
“No one in all of Belvedere makes it like I do.” She hands me a small bowl. “I’m offended.”
“Okay.” I taste a bite, and for a moment I think I’m going to choke to death. It’s spicy—testing the limits of human consumption.
“Do you like it?”
“Y-yes,” I whisper, my voice struggling to escape my burning throat. “I just need some water,” I say, stretching out my hand toward the cup, tears streaming from my eyes.
“Anyway, know that I’m not here to extort a marriage proposal from you. All I’m after is a little fun. No commitment. You know what I mean . . .” Pompilia’s expression is nothing if not suggestive.
“I’d never dare take advantage of you like that,” I lie. Normally I’d be happy to consider a proposal like this, but her used underwear business is a total turn-off.
“What do you think, that we women don’t want exactly what you men want? That we don’t have the same desires as you?”
If eyes could undress a person, hers would have stripped off my second skin. How do I get out of this now? “I’m honestly quite tired this evening.”
“If it’s a question of energy, I have enough for two. Not to mention, my tomato soup is an aphrodisiac. Aphrodisiacs are my specialty,” she says, dipping her finger into the soup and sliding it into her mouth while she stares me down. “And do you know what else is my specialty?”
“I don’t dare guess.” I admit at this point I’m genuinely scared.
She crawls across the blanket toward me and, without much ceremony, unbuttons my jeans with one ninja move. “I’ll show you.”
I shrink back, but she’s already grabbed the waistline of my boxers. “Pompilia, I was serious . . .”
“So was I.”
“I don’t think that’s true . . . We barely know each other . . .” I try to dissuade her. “We just ate . . .”
“Leave it to me,” she whispers, before leaning down and taking me between her lips.
This is where sexual awareness activists might talk about consent, but although I’ve said no with my lips, my lower half is responding quite enthusiastically to her stimulation. And that, in turn, is influencing my brain.
Lying on the blanket, I abandon myself to Pompilia’s care, who does her best with her lips, tongue, and hands for my well-being. My male nature has prevailed over common sense; I’ll hardly lose sleep over it.
But boy, do I.
Once I have my happy ending, and before Pompilia can request a favor in return, I fake an urgent work call and make a run for it.
My animal instinct won out over reason. I may have been as excited as a macaque in mating season, but I’m also the kind of man who appreciates the discretion of hygiene.
That’s why I had a bidet installed in my London flat.
By the time I get to the villa, a flash of volcanic heat has ignited the front of my underwear and its contents, followed by a persistent burning sensation.
I take a total of three ice-cold showers—for once, the broken boiler isn’t an issue—but once the cold water’s temporary numbing effect wears off, the burning flares up stronger than ever.
The chili pepper. I have a mental flashback in which Pompilia, before launching into her oral performance, sucked a finger dripping with her demonic tomato soup.
Around three o’clock in the morning, my penis turns lobster orange; at four o’clock, it’s red; at five, Pompeian red; and over the following two hours, it reaches shades of cardinal purple and gangrene.
At seven thirty, just before it’s about to turn dark blue, I get dressed and rush to the pharmacy.
I enter with an embarrassing waddle, and with a good dose of stoicism, I await my turn while the pharmacist and the baker chat about this and that, as if I weren’t there.
“I’m so sorry,” I interrupt them. “I have an urgent request.”
“Oh, good morning. Even our English friend here has become a loyal customer!” he exclaims in his usual booming voice.
“Yes, well, you happen to be the only pharmacy for miles,” I say.
“Good, good. Wyddayaneed?” he asks, in a thick Tuscan accent I can hardly make out.
“What?”
“Wyddayaneed?” he shouts again, as if I hadn’t heard.
“I don’t understand. Can you speak more slowly?”
“Wa-d-ya-need? What do you need?”
“I need something for . . . for a burning sensation,” I say, refraining from clutching the crotch of my jeans in desperation.
“A burning throat? I have this spray, just spritz as needed,” he decrees, slapping the package in my hand.
“No, it’s not my throat,” I say, pushing it back to him.
“Ah, so it’s a stomach problem. Then you need Gaviscon. This will take care of it, but you have to eat bland food for the next two days.”
“I think you’ve misunderstood. It’s a burning sensation further . . . further down.”
The pharmacist claps his hands. “Hemorrhoids! Eh, Preparation H,” he announces, waving a yellow box in the air that you could see from the main square.
“I don’t need Preparation H.”
A lady intervenes. “Preparation H is great, you know! I use it for wrinkles. Look how smooth my skin is.”
“Ma’am, would you mind standing back to wait your turn?” I blurt out. “I don’t have hemorrhoids,” I reiterate through clenched teeth.
“So what’s the matter?” ask the pharmacist and the baker in unison.
I lean forward so no one can hear me. “It’s my penis,” I whisper.
“Why didn’t you say so?” asks the pharmacist.
“I tried.”
“What happened? Did you polish it a little too much?” asks the baker.
“I think it got burned.”
“Burned?” the two ask, even more incredulous.
“Someone gave me . . . they gave me some . . . some oral sex. A woman,” I hasten to specify.
“Who was it, then? The Fire Breather’s daughter?” laughs the pharmacist.
“That’s not relevant. This woman, before she . . . well, you know . . . she’d eaten this spicy tomato soup she makes.”
“It’s Pompilia!” exclaim the baker and the pharmacist in unison.
“She’s famous for her tomato soup. Tastes like it was cooked by the devil himself!” adds the baker.
“Excuse me, but can you explain what this has to do with anything?” I ask him, taken aback by his intrusiveness.
“I’ll give you a second opinion.”
“I don’t need a second opinion,” I explode, exhausted. “I need an ointment, something to put on my dick because it’s on fire, and it’s about to fall off!” I can feel all the customers in the queue staring at me. “And I’ll take these fruit chews as well,” I add, sheepishly.
The pharmacist wraps up a tube of ointment for me. “Store this in the fridge and apply it every two hours. Put on some nice, loose cotton underwear and get yourself an ice pack. Tomorrow you’ll be good as new.”