Date: Fri, 30 Jan 2004 15:49:24 +0000
From: BR
Subject: Virgil and Dante: a brief encounter

Every summer lots of young Italians come to the British university town in
which I live.  It defies belief why they come so far north and what they get
out of their stay in these parts.  The contrast between a summer in Italy
and living in a provincial English town must be very stark.  The truth is
they come to learn or improve their English. The reality is they live on the
university campus and spend all their time with their peers talking Italian
with brief trips to local places of interest like Stratford on Avon or
Warwick Castle.  Being Italians they like going to the town market place for
an evening stroll.  The sadness is that because the locals have largely gone
home to the suburbs for their evening meal, the Italians are left to do
their passeggiata without the benefit of an appreciative English audience.

One early evening last summer I was driving home from work.  I was tired and
looking forward to a short siesta before starting on preparing supper.  As I
drove round the corner into the street in which I live my attention was
taken by a young man in his late teens with a sparkle in his eye.  In the
couple of seconds we had contact I thought, "Hmm.  He's nice" and drove on
into my street.  I noticed he was olive skinned, tall, black hair, muscular
legs, and was wearing shorts. I sensed it was one of the many dozens of
young Italians in the town but as my gaydar rarely works accurately when I
am in Italy, or indeed anywhere on the mainland of Europe, I assumed he was
just being friendly.

I parked the car and started walking along the pavement to the house with a
pile of work things -- books mainly. I left the boot of the car open
intending to get what was left in a moment. In what seem like no time at all
there he was walking briskly along the pavement towards me.  He was still
smiling in that generous way I had clocked moments before. My heart missed a
beat or two.  I walked into the house with the books I had been carrying and
went out again to bring in the remainder.  He was standing on pavement with
that same inquisitive look in his eyes again.

It was clear even before he spoke that he was Italian.  He asked in heavily
accented English if I had the time.  He pointed at his watch-less wrist.  I
told him the time in Italian and he grinned then sly corrected my
pronunciation.  He continued to stand there watching as I carried the last
few books from the car into the house.  I left the front door of the house
open.  He walked in after me and pulled his already erect dick out of his
shorts. I almost fainted.  "We have sex?" he asked in broken English. All I
could say was a rather weak, "Si."

He followed me upstairs to the bedroom and, kicking off his sandals, dropped
his shorts and pulled off his top. I lay down on my bed and he joined me.
He was very aroused as late teenage boys can be.  His dick was long, thick,
uncut and parallel with his firm stomach.  I did not have time to wonder why
a young Italian in his late teens should want to have sex with a rather
overweight middle aged person like me.  He started kissing in a passionate
way but soon wanted to push his fingers up my arse.  I did not object.  He
paused for a second and asked in Italian if I was married?  I said no and
said that I was gay.  These seemed to unnerve him.  He asked if could he
fuck me?  I said no, and certainly not without a rubber.  He seemed to
understand. His olive skin smelled elementally of the earth Moments later he
was shooting cum all over his stomach, my face and the wall behind us.

Moments later he had his sandals, shorts and top back on.  I asked him his
name.  He said, "Virgilio".  He asked me mine.  I said, "Dante".  He laughed
and left.  I just lay there wondering had I dreamed it all? No, his cum was
still dribbling down the wall behind the bed.  It surely wasn't my cum. It
had a distinctive flavour to it- a combination of fine olive oil and garlic.
Both are good for the heart.