Today Master is occupied with making calls in the study and I’m reading about Epictetus, a Greek stoic philosopher, who argued that one must train themselves to accept and embrace the temporality of all things. I’m trying to prepare myself for Master’s departure, and I find solace in the musings of great thinkers.
During this time, Silvio struts into the room and complains about the heat, then says that he’s bored and asks if we want to go get ice cream.
“Take Giovanni,” Master says and motions to his phone to illustrate that he’s otherwise occupied.
“You like ice cream?” he says to me in English as he sometimes does because he thinks it will encourage me to talk to him more.
“Sì, signore,” I say because I’m not an idiot and bookmark my page.
It’s a bit of a walk to visit the place Silvio has in mind, so he suggests we take his car instead, an Alfa Romeo Stelvio that looks like it has a custom paint job. Not overly fancy but well suited for the hilly terrain. While we’re en route, Silvio says to me in English, “Why you don’t talk to me, Giovanni? You don’t like me too much?”
I smirk at his false assumption while knowing he’s probably only saying it to goad me into a response. I answer him in Italian, “What do you want to talk about, Silvio? The effect that Germany’s austerity measures will have on the price of olive oil imports from Greece?”
Yes, I listen to their talk. Even if it’s not this slave’s role to have an opinion on the conversations between men, I’m intelligent enough to keep up with what’s going on. Silvio shoots me a look, “You are a smart ass, princess. That’s what I like about you. Tell me about yourself. You have hobbies, no? What things do you like?”
“I like music, art, and philosophy.” Then I think to add, “and submission.”
“Ah yes, you like fucking my brother.”
“It’s not only about sex,” I tell him, “though I dolovefucking your brother.”
He grins at that. He truly does seem to enjoy my sassy side. “But you are so young, and he is… not,” Silvio says as if trying to be tactful. Silvio is anything but.
“I love my Master.” But love isn’t a complete enough word for it. I live for my Master. I’d die for my Master. My world revolves around his needs and desires, and I’m grateful to have him as my center.
“You could be fucking many other men. Perhaps not richer men, but certainly younger men.”
Silvio must not know that I’m rich in my own right. Maybe he thinks I submit to Master in exchange for the lavish gifts and the nice ocean views. Those are certainly perks, but I could do without them.
“Fucking is only a fraction of what we do,” I tell him. Surely, he must realize this by now.
Silvio considers it before saying, “You should go out more. Parties, dancing…”
I used to go out every night during my first couple semesters of college, get faded on liquor, pills, and cocaine, and dance the night away before returning home to shoot up, then skipping my classes to sleep it off or get high again.
“I was gang raped at a party once,” I tell him. I don’t mean to burden him with my history, only illustrate why I’m not so eager to party like I used to—been there, done that. I deleted all my social media apps as well, not wanting any reminders of the people I used to know or associate with. I had to eliminate Matthew’s existence altogether—sacrifice him so that I could go on living.
“Oh,” Silvio says, which is followed by an awkward silence.
“I blacked out,” I continue. “Drugs and alcohol. Who the hell knows? I was in bad shape the next morning. They were…”Animals.“Not very gentle. So, that’s why I don’t party anymore. Not without Master.” I need rules and security measures and for Master to help me stay sober and keep me safe.
Silvio is quiet for the rest of the short ride. I suppose I have that effect on people.
We reach the more touristy part of the island where Silvio parks in one of the narrow cobblestone alleyways. Inside thegelateria, he points to one kind of ice cream in particular calledstracciatellaand kisses his fingers to signify its tastiness. I agree to the flavor and he buys us each a cone. We sit in the shade of a striped awning outside and eat ourgelato.He’s right that it’s delicious, a rich vanilla threaded with strings of dark chocolate that are slightly salty and combined with the sweetness of the cream, makes for an excellent pairing. The ice cream is as decadent as our lush surroundings and reminds me of Silvio himself, a man in his prime of life—loud, brash, and enthusiastic in his every pursuit. Arrogant and almost innocent in a way I’ve never been.
Silvio tells me about the first time he visited his brother in New York City, and Master took him to a drag show in Hell’s Kitchen, and Silvio didn’t understand the significance until Master pointed out that the performers were not women but men.
“I didn’t believe him,” Silvio says, “so he asked one of the drag queens to prove it.”
I chuckle at that, imagining both Silvio’s surprise and Master’s ability to persuade people to do things they might not normally.
“They have gay clubs here, don’t they?” I ask.
He makes a gesture with his hand that I take to mean, somewhat. “Milano, Bologna yes, but less so in the south. We are not so open here. Private parties, back rooms, certain men’s clubs. You have to keep up appearances, you know?”
Yes, Silvio, I certainly do know.
“Are you out to your parents?” Master’s mother passed away when he was a teenager, after which their father remarried Silvio’s mother. This accounts for the rather large age gap between them. Their father has since died, but Silvio’s mother is alive and living in Naples.
