Chapter One
Marcello
Ihate wanking against the clock.
I was an idiot to think I could knock one out before I have to leave for work. Sure, I was hoping it would wake me up, start my day right. But I forgot I'm forty-two not twenty-four and sometimes this shit takes time. Not to mention the havoc that my ADHD meds play with my libido.
Still I haven’t taken them yet, so this is my best chance. I pump my fist a little harder and close my eyes under the shower's spray. I think about bouncing tits, jiggling ass cheeks, and hot, wet pussy. It helps a little and I groan as quietly as I can manage as I feel my dick harden.
I can't wank anywhere else in this house on account of it belonging to my mother. Yep, I'm forty-two and I live at home, with my mother. Could I be any more of an Italian cliche?
But honestly, my living situation is the least of my worries. Right now, I need to either give up or come in the next minute or I'm going to be very late for work. And I don’t need any more reason to be late when my brain is perfectly capable of achieving that on its own.
But I can't think about how my so-called time blindness has ruined friendships and relationships and made it harder than perhaps necessary to run the Mayfair Italian café that my father opened when he first arrived in London forty-eight years ago. I need to think about a pair of breasts pressed up against my chest, a couple of smooth, shapely legs wrapped around my waist or a mouth wrapped around my dick.
Ooh. That just did something.
Yes, a warm, wet mouth. Sucking on me hard, hard, hard. A tongue teasing the underside. The big, red head of my cock being kissed and licked and teased.
I moan again. If only I could just keep quiet while I masturbate but I've lived – and wanked – long enough to know this is one thing that will never change.
But how about other things? Could my life feel more exciting, more interesting? Can I find a purpose in my life? One that's more meaningful than racing against the clock to orgasm in a bathroom I share with my seventy-year-old mother?
My dick softens in my hand. I close my eyes again, but this time it's not to try and visualise a woman bent over in front of me, and I don't moan. Instead, I exhale, deep and ragged and slow. And I let the darkness comfort me somewhat. With my eyes closed I don't need to look down at the curve of my soft belly that I swear came out of nowhere. Nothing to do with my mother's homemade ravioli, lasagna and culurgiones. Nothing to do with the fact that I get out of breath running for the Tube, which I will almost certainly have to do again this morning. Nothing to do with the fact I haven't been naked with a woman in, fuck, nearly two years.
As if to punish myself for this sad, sad state of affairs, I open my eyes and reach for the shower's temperature control and push it back, making the water instantly run cold. Ice cold.
I squeak out a noise that isn't masculine in any shape or form and I count to ten. My erection shrivels. Indeed most of my penis shrinks to a size that has me feeling even worse about my body than I did a moment ago. I close my eyes again.
When the ten seconds are up, I shut off the cold water and curse loudly. “Cazzu diaulu!”
As I dry off, I deliberately avoid the mirror above the sink that will only give me a full view of my beer belly, which is no beer belly, more spaghetti stomach. Because it's not like I even go out for beers all thatoften. I can’t drink more than one at a time or it interferes with my meds. All my friends have partners, wives, children, cats and dogs that keep them busy. Most of my childhood friends left Balham, where we all grew up, and I still live, a long time ago. I still have Kris, my ex-girlfriend from nearly ten years ago who is now as good as my best friend. But I've learnt the hard way that making new friends in your thirties and forties is no easy feat.
So yes, my job as the manager-owner of a small Italian café is the least of my problems. At least it's doing well. I can pay the rent easily every month, cover my mother's living costs, and have enough left over to save for some imaginary future where I'm married, living in the suburbs and maybe got a kid or two driving me up the wall.
I blink away that silly fantasy. If I was going to get married, wouldn't it have happened already? It's much more realistic to think about that money going towards a house in Sardinia where I can retire and not worry about having a bigger tortellini tummy because I won't have a partner nagging me to watch my weight.
Yes, those are thedreams I need to indulge. That is my future.
And yet my chest feels heavy, and my arms and legs feel like they're made of lead as I go to my room and throw on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt. I take my Elvanse with a sip from last night’s water and breathe a sigh of relief that within the hour my brain may be a bit quieter. I don’t take a very high dose these days – it’s half of what I was on twenty years ago – but I still need it. I always notice the days when I forget to take it.
It doesn’t take me long to leave my room and pound down the stairs. Our two-up, two-down terraced house is now more a three-up, four-down thanks to an extension they completed not long before Papa died, but it’s still small and compact. And yet, it’s perfect for Mamma and me. We have enough space to escape each other, but because the house isn’t big by any estimate, we’re always close too.
Downstairs, I find Mamma at the kitchen table reading yesterday’sCorriere della Seraand drinking her morning cappuccino. The kitchen islight and airy, with pine cupboard fronts and terracotta details that remind me of the rooftops in Sardinia. The appliances are old – because my mother will never throw away anything that works or can be fixed – but I’m pleased Mamma let me pay for the floor to be re-tiled and the walls painted a warm cream colour last year.
“Salude, Mamma.” I kiss the top of her head.
“Bona die, amore.” She reaches for my hand like she always does and squeezes my fingers with more force than her small body should have. “Did you sleep well?”
“Yes, thank you,” I lie before releasing myself from her hold and go about making myself an espresso at the hob with the coffee Mamma has already ground this morning. “You?”
“You know me,” she says and then adds with a wink. “I haven’t slept well for forty-two years.”
She says it as a joke, and I used to find it funny, but it’s lost its mirth in recent years.
“Will you be home for dinner?” she asks after a minute of silence, where I shake my leg, urging la machinetta to give me that gurgling noise I love so much.
“Yes,” I say to Mamma. Like I always do.
