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Subject: Afternoon In Florence
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          Afternoon In Florence

     Nathalie stepped into the Via Ricasoli from the museum, inhaling
deeply the spicy, smoky odor of Italy in September. She had spent the
last hour in the company of the David. Yes, the sculpture was
overwhelming but she was amused by it too, considering what would be
happening later in the day, back at the pensione some few streets
away. What would this strange boy, this Serge, be like, she wondered?
Like so many men or as wonderful as he had seemed when she had
stumbled against him in the crowd that had gathered to hear the
accordion players outside the Palazzo Veccio. Michaelangelo's David
with his shrunken penis…as if the chill Carrera marble itself had
pulled the scrotum tight between the magnificent thighs. She thought
of her American boyfriends and wondered if the Renaissance Masters
could help them with their pathetic concern about the size of their
cocks. Oh, they were sweet, some of them…the boyfriends, that is, not
necessarily their dicks. This made her smile and in the street, a
lovely Italian boy saw her smile and, thinking that it was for him,
smiled back: 'Ciao, bella…'


      She would meet Serge soon in the park near the Academe. Then,
unless he turned out to be completely inept, she would take him back
to the pensione, draw the billowy curtains closed so that not even the
cats -which seemed to roam the tiled roofs constantly, day and night-
could see them do the wicked things she planned.

     In the park, the men strolled arm in arm, talking. There was
talking everywhere and children, beautiful children that were much
loved and spoiled by the men and women who tended them. Yes, this was
Italy and there was no better place in the world to fuck and fuck and
fuck again. Nathalie sat on a bench in the park, took a jar of cold
cream from her bag, opened it and began to rub the fragrant lotion
into her hands and wrists. What would she do with this boy…he was a
man, really, probably in his forties but boyish and charming
still…what would she do to this boy when the sheets were pulled back
from the sumptuous pillows and their naked bodies began perspiring in
the afternoon heat. She would kiss him, yes…perhaps let him suck
cooled Pinot Griggio from a cup she wold make between her legs…let him
suck noisily from her mons. With this thought the familiar flooding
began to churn through her bowels and into her stomach; the amorphous
thundercloud of lust which only a hard, throbbing penis…the man-boy
Serge's penis…could today define, clarify and make distinct. She
smiled again, her most wicked smile, 'Would it be love,' she wondered,
'Could it be love if it was in the bum?'












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