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 sellmyunderwear. 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.
