III
It's 11:15 AM, and behind the wheel of the Alfa Romeo (I'd been longing for a car like this for a while, and now I have one, as Kevin Spacey says in American Beauty), with AC/DC's "Shoot to Thrill" blasting at full volume (AC/DC must be played loud, or not at all), I take the exit for Reggio. Feeling like Iron Man, I step on the gas to clear out the carburetor. The Alfa leaps forward like a panther, and the sudden speed pins me back in my seat, while the book I had placed on the dashboard (Opus Pistorum by Henry Miller) flies backward, hitting the back of the passenger seat. Wow, these wheels really have some kick!
Obviously, AC/DC's music makes me press down on the accelerator, execute death-defying overtakes, and in general, drive like a damn road pirate as I steer the gritty nose of my car toward the cheerful town.
Speeding along the Via Emilia, I spot a stunning figure on the sidewalk in front of NaturaSì – short skirt, endless legs, and an insane behind.
What a babe!
I glance back at the road and slam my foot on the brake, screeching the Alfa Romeo's tires on the asphalt. An old man, precariously leaning on his walking stick, gives me a look as if he's just seen the Grim Reaper. I nearly ran him over, damn it. On the pedestrian crossing, no less. They would've really made me pay for that.
I steer into the parking lot of Piazza Vallisneri and stop the car in front of the mirrored storefront of a very sleek branch of Banca Mediolanum. Getting out, I admire the aesthetic effect of the combination of the Alfa Romeo's muscular front and my own lean, athletic figure, my face framed by curls and bronzed from two months at the sea, mystically enhanced by the retro charm of Persol sunglasses.
Turning the corner at the Hotel Astoria, I cross the Soviet expanse of Piazza della Vittoria, with its waist-high posts and stadium-style lights. Hold up: sexy ballerinas in front of the Municipal Theatre. Hair tied back, slender and flexible bodies, canvas bags, flat shoes on their feet. Not bad.
It's market day, and there's a lively mix of stunning people. At the Collina stall, my trusted organic farm, I stock up on organic fruits and vegetables – real, flavorful, and tasty lettuce, not the cardboard stuff from supermarkets, and other seasonal delicacies grown according to the sacred principles of biodynamic farming.
"That'll be sixteen euros and fifty cents," says Luca, my trusted vegetable dealer, as he hands me bags full of lettuce, broccoli, tomatoes, walnuts, spring onions, parsley, and pears.
Instead of pulling out my wallet, I quickly hand him a copy of Don Giovanni in Hell that I had been hiding behind my back.
"What do you mean?" he frowns.
"Didn't you say you wanted to read it?"
"Yes, but..." he stammers, caught off guard.
"There you go," I say with a smirk. "It costs seventeen euros. I don't even want the fifty cents change. Tell me I'm not a gentleman!"
"Fine," Luca grumbles as he accepts the book, albeit a bit reluctantly. "This time it's okay, but don't make it a habit!" Then he turns to an elderly woman waiting her turn. "Ma'am, what am I supposed to do with customers like this, huh?"
I wave cheerfully and leave. Occasionally, I pay shopkeepers in books, which I love doing, though not everyone appreciates it as much as I'd like.
Next, I stop at a newsstand. "Public indecency in front of a school: flasher reported," blares the headline from the display of the Gazzetta. It wasn't me, I swear.
YOU ARE READING
THE MALE CHAUVINIST - An Erotic Autobiography
General Fiction"This book is for adult audiences only as it contains sexually explicit scenes, offensive and sexist language which may be considered disturbing and discriminatory of race, gender, sexual orientation and religious faiths. As far as I'm concerned, I'...
